Throughout the summer , Glen Erin abounds with wildflowers , especially the intricate Rocky Mountain iris in late May and June . Look closely and you may discover the little insects that find themselves at home on their petals .
A few miles south of Custer sits a picturesque little valley called Glen Erin . Pine-covered hills tower above green meadows and a creek zigzags along tall grass and lichen-covered stones . At one point there was a concrete dam and fish hatchery a little farther downstream . Perhaps a mink slinked along the reeds to fish for a meal . Oftentimes a herd of cows meanders and grazes through this open range among wildflowers and buzzing bumblebees .
At one point , the valley must have reminded its first inhabitant of home — Glen Erin means “ Ireland ’ s Valley ,” and that first inhabitant , E . P . “ Pat ” Walsh , named the area after his homeland in the early 1880s . Walsh was a pioneer and prospector who settled to live along Glen Erin Creek , and his descendants resided in Custer for decades to come .
In July 1874 , Gen . George A . Custer came through Custer in his Black Hills Expedition , setting up camp along French Creek , named for the French fur trappers that had come through before . It was in that creek that Horatio N . Ross first discovered gold in the Hills , opening the floodgates for miners and prospectors , and all their associated company to make their way into the Hills . Follow French Creek a way downstream from that first encampment , near present-day Stockade Lake , and it will meet with Glen Erin Creek in that charming little valley .
At midday on Glen Erin , one warm day in June , I zip on my bike over the sun-dried ruts left by bigger tires , snow melt and mud . By the end of June , isn ’ t it a little late for irises ? The brakes of my bike squeal and screech as I hurry to a stop . A bee , then another , then another picks itself off one iris and plops itself onto one nearer to me . Excitedly , I wade farther into the indigo sea of Rocky Mountain irises .
When I stoop down at one faded and drooping iris , I find hidden green insects that shyly wait to be found . They are blister beetles , and their elytra ( wings ) shine like iridescent armor in shades from orange to turquoise and glisten in the unclouded sun .
This iris seems it used to be the queen of Glen Erin , but now she is dying — by late June it is a little late for irises here . She wears the beetle like an emerald ring on a pale and wrinkled hand . Circling the iris , I find a dull tan moth . What are you doing here ? On that same iris , I find a mass of deep green goop — eggs of a blister beetle . The beetle , her eggs , the moth : the orphans of Glen Erin , clinging to a dying and frail iris .
I get back on the bike and ride farther down the road , around a corner , up a small hill and come upon a small pond where then creek has pooled at the site of a former dam , just before continuing in the direction I came from .
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