Beyond the Corn Palace: A Solo Traveler's Journey Through Mitchell, SD

Let's address the elephant—or rather, the giant corn-covered building—in the room. The Mitchell Corn Palace is exactly what it sounds like: a palace decorated with corn. Each year, local artists create massive murals using twelve shades of corn, grains, and native grasses on the building's exterior. It's simultaneously ridiculous and impressive, like a folk art masterpiece that doesn't take itself too seriously.

Walking up to this agricultural Taj Mahal, I couldn't help but laugh. But that laughter quickly turned to genuine appreciation as I learned about the 130-year history of this prairie landmark. Inside, the building functions as an event center, and I was lucky enough to catch a local basketball game that had the place humming with community energy.

While the gift shop is predictably corny (pun absolutely intended), I did pick up a few unique souvenirs, including a surprisingly comfortable corn-themed neck pillow that's become my go-to for motorcycle road trips. The building is free to visit, and the 15-minute orientation film gives you just enough background to appreciate what you're seeing without boring you to tears.

After the Corn Palace, I was ready for a cold one, and Mitchell surprised me again. Contrary to what you might expect from a town of 15,000, there's a legitimate craft beer scene here. My first stop was Wobbly Bobby Brewing Company, housed in a renovated historic building downtown. The space hits that perfect balance between industrial and cozy that all great brewpubs aspire to.

I settled at the bar with my beer flight board and struck up a conversation with the brewer, Dave, who walked me through their lineup. Their Corn Palace Cream Ale (what else would they call it?) uses local corn in the mash and drinks smooth as silk. But the standout was their South Dakota Strong Ale—a complex, malty brew with notes of toffee and dried fruit that would hold its own against anything I've had in Portland or Denver.

For dinner, I headed to Whiskey Creek Wood Fire Grill, where the smoked prime rib paired perfectly with a local Crow Peak Brewing IPA. The bartender, a lifetime Mitchell resident named Marge, shared stories about the town's evolution over the decades while I savored every bite of that perfectly medium-rare beef.

As a jazz enthusiast, I typically temper my expectations for live music in small towns. But Mitchell taught me yet another lesson about assumptions. After dinner, I followed the sound of a saxophone to Coborn's Bar, an unassuming spot where I discovered a quartet of musicians whose average age had to be north of 70, playing some of the smoothest jazz I've heard outside of New Orleans.

The band—calling themselves the Corn Palace Cats—featured a retired high school music teacher on sax, a former railroad worker on upright bass, a local dentist on drums, and a church organist on piano. They played standards with the kind of loose, comfortable interplay that only comes from decades of making music together.

I nursed a whiskey and let the music wash over me, thinking about Mom back home and how much she would have loved this scene. I recorded a few clips on my portable audio recorder to share with her later. The sound quality was impressively crisp, capturing both the music and the ambient chatter of locals who treated this weekly jazz night as nothing extraordinary—just another Tuesday in Mitchell.

The morning of my second day, I woke early, eager to explore the surrounding countryside on my motorcycle. I'd packed my motorcycle tank bag—which has been a game-changer for keeping my phone, map, and snacks accessible—and plotted a route that would take me through the rolling farmland and glacial lakes that define this region.

I headed north on Highway 37 toward Lake Mitchell, where the morning mist was just lifting off the water. The road hugs the shoreline for several miles, offering the kind of sweeping curves and elevation changes that motorcycle enthusiasts dream about. I stopped at Lake Mitchell Campground for coffee, watching fishermen head out for the day's catch while I planned the rest of my route.

From there, I took the less-traveled County Road 16 west toward Plankinton, cutting through fields of corn, soybeans, and sunflowers that stretched to the horizon. The emptiness of these roads is therapeutic—just me, my bike, and miles of open country. I pulled over at a particularly scenic overlook and used my motorcycle phone mount to set up a few photos of my bike against the landscape. This secure mount has been essential for navigation and quick photo opportunities without fumbling for my phone in pockets or bags.