48 Hours in Brookings: The Perfect South Dakota College Town Weekend

My journey through Brookings began where the town's heart beats strongest—on the historic campus of South Dakota State University. As someone who sees the sacred in structures built for community gathering, I found SDSU's Coughlin Campanile bell tower particularly moving. Standing 165 feet tall, this 1929 landmark serves as both a physical and spiritual anchor for the campus. I spent a quiet moment at its base, watching students cross the expansive green, thinking about how bell towers have called communities together for centuries across faiths and cultures.

The nearby South Dakota Art Museum provided unexpected sanctuary. Housing the state's largest collection of Harvey Dunn prairie paintings, the museum offers a visual meditation on the relationship between land, sky, and human presence. Dunn's iconic 'The Prairie Is My Garden' speaks to the spiritual connection between cultivation and creation—a theme that resonates deeply with me as both minister and traveler.

As afternoon settled in, I made my way downtown along shaded streets lined with century-old trees. Brookings' historic district surprised me with its well-preserved architecture and vibrant community energy. I discovered Cottonwood Coffee, a gathering space where students and professors engage in the sacred ritual of conversation over locally-roasted brews. The barista recommended their signature Jackrabbit Blend (named for SDSU's mascot), which fueled my exploration of the nearby shops.

For dinner, I followed a local student's advice to Nick's Hamburger Shop, a Brookings institution since 1929. There's something almost liturgical about their unchanging ritual—small, simple hamburgers served on wax paper, prepared exactly the same way for nearly a century. The line of customers spanning generations reminded me that breaking bread together remains one of our most fundamental community practices.

My second morning in Brookings led me to what might seem an unlikely spiritual destination—the SDSU engineering facilities. As someone who finds the sacred in our built environment, I was drawn to the Lohr College of Engineering, where future builders of our communal infrastructure learn their craft.

The Jackrabbit Engineering Complex houses remarkable laboratories where students design everything from water management systems to renewable energy solutions. I was fortunate to join a student-led tour (available most Friday afternoons during the semester) where I witnessed testing in the materials lab. Watching concrete cylinders being compressed to their breaking point became an unexpected metaphor for strength and vulnerability—how we must understand our limitations to build structures that endure.

The highlight was undoubtedly the Structures Laboratory, where full-scale bridge components undergo stress testing. As someone who has written extensively about the spiritual significance of bridges—those physical manifestations of our desire to connect across divides—watching students calculate load distributions felt like witnessing a form of modern prayer. They were, after all, dedicating themselves to creating safe passages for strangers they would never meet.

Before leaving campus, I visited the recently completed Precision Agriculture facility, where technology and farming traditions merge. The building itself is a marvel of sustainable design, featuring rainwater harvesting systems and solar orientation that reflects the prairie's natural wisdom. I couldn't help but think of ancient agricultural communities who similarly aligned their structures with natural cycles, finding a through-line of human ingenuity across millennia.

For exploring campus and taking notes during my engineering tour, my weatherproof notebook proved invaluable, especially when we ventured outside to examine drainage systems during a surprise autumn shower.

No visit to Brookings would be complete without communion with the prairie landscape that shapes the region's spirit. After lunch at the local Pheasant Restaurant (where I recommend the bison burger with local chokecherry sauce), I headed to McCrory Gardens, a 70-acre horticultural sanctuary on the eastern edge of town.

Autumn transformed the gardens into a tapestry of russet, gold, and deep purple—colors that spoke of transition and the sacred cycle of seasons. The South Dakota Prairie Garden section particularly moved me, showcasing native grasses that have evolved over millennia to thrive in this challenging climate. Standing amid the swaying big bluestem and switchgrass, some reaching heights above my head, I felt a profound connection to this landscape that has nurtured human communities for thousands of years.

The garden's meditation labyrinth provided an unexpected opportunity for walking prayer. Following its circular path inward, I contemplated the journey that brought me to this particular place at this particular moment—the countless decisions, connections, and divine nudges that guide our paths. For fellow travelers seeking contemplative space, I recommend bringing a travel journal to record reflections that emerge in such sacred spaces.

Later that afternoon, I drove just outside town to visit the Dakota Nature Park, reclaimed from former gravel pits and transformed into a 135-acre sanctuary of wetlands, grasslands, and small lakes. The park represents a powerful story of redemption—how extraction can give way to restoration when communities commit to healing the land.

I rented a kayak from the nature center (a bargain at $5/hour for non-residents) and paddled quietly through the interconnected ponds. From this water-level perspective, I observed herons patiently fishing and turtles sunning themselves on fallen logs. The golden hour light filtering through cattails created a cathedral-like atmosphere, reminding me that our most profound sanctuaries often exist beyond human construction.

My final morning in Brookings began with a visit to the vibrant Farmers Market on the downtown plaza (Saturday mornings, May through October). As someone who sees the spiritual dimension in how communities feed themselves, I found deep meaning in watching farmers and artisans offer their harvest directly to neighbors. I purchased fresh chokecherry jam, artisan bread, and locally-produced honey—each exchange accompanied by stories of land stewardship and family tradition.

For travelers seeking to understand a place's soul, I always recommend these direct producer-to-consumer spaces where food becomes a medium for connection rather than mere consumption. I filled my reusable shopping bag with enough local provisions for an impromptu picnic later in the day.

Lunch took me to Craft, a downtown establishment where local ingredients transform into creative dishes that honor both tradition and innovation. Their bison meatloaf with juniper berry glaze exemplifies how regional cuisine can tell a story of place—connecting diners to the prairie ecosystem through thoughtful preparation of indigenous ingredients.

As someone who studies how infrastructure shapes community gathering, I was particularly interested in Brookings' creative approach to public space. The downtown's recent revitalization has created pocket parks and conversation areas where students and long-time residents naturally mingle. At Wooden Legs Brewing Company, I witnessed this community integration firsthand—professors sharing tables with farmers, students engaging with retirees, all connected through locally-crafted beverages and genuine conversation.

The brewery occupies a repurposed building that once housed an auto repair shop, its industrial bones now serving a new communal purpose. This adaptive reuse of infrastructure speaks to the resilience of small communities like Brookings, where limited resources inspire creative reimagining of space. Over a flight of craft beers named for local landmarks, I struck up conversation with SDSU engineering students who shared their visions for sustainable infrastructure in rural communities—a reminder that today's students are tomorrow's community builders.

Before departing Brookings, I made time for one final infrastructure marvel—the Children's Museum of South Dakota. Though designed primarily for younger visitors, this transformed elementary school building offers profound insights into how thoughtfully designed spaces can nurture curiosity and wonder—qualities essential to both scientific and spiritual growth.

As someone who finds the sacred in spaces where discovery happens, I was particularly moved by the museum's Prairie Play area, where children interact with larger-than-life grassland creatures, including animatronic dinosaurs that connect young minds to deep time. The flowing design guides visitors through ecosystems and experiences that tell South Dakota's story from prehistoric eras to agricultural present.

The water feature particularly captivated me—an elaborate system of dams, channels, and pumps that allows children to manipulate flow and understand watershed concepts through play. As I watched young engineers redirect streams and create impromptu reservoirs, I thought about how early exposure to infrastructure concepts shapes future stewards of our built environment.

For capturing these meaningful educational interactions, I relied on my travel camera which allowed me to document the museum's innovative design elements without disturbing the children's engagement.

Before catching my afternoon bus, I made a final stop at the South Dakota Agricultural Heritage Museum on the SDSU campus. Here, the state's infrastructure history comes alive through exhibits on rural electrification, windmill technology, and the development of transportation networks that connected isolated homesteads to larger communities. A 1915 steam tractor stood as testament to how mechanical innovation transformed prairie possibility—a reminder that today's mundane infrastructure was yesterday's miracle.

As I traced South Dakota's technological evolution from horse-drawn plows to GPS-guided precision agriculture, I reflected on how each generation builds upon the foundations laid by those before. The museum's collection of hand tools, each worn smooth by decades of use, spoke to me of the sacred dimension of human labor—how we shape the world through patient, repeated action guided by both necessity and vision.