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The county road to Devils Nest snakes west along the Missouri River from Gavins Point Dam , past Weigand, Bloomfield and Miller Creek recreation areas on Lewis and Clark Lake . After Miller Creek, the pavement crumbles to gravel, with occasional patches of asphalt – remnants of more hopeful days. The road begins to climb.

Atop the crest, the gravel veers south toward Lindy. To the north a vast panorama opens – a well-kept vineyard in the foreground, and behind that, wooded hills rolling between Birdsell and Devils Nest creeks to the sparkling waters of the lake. The distant horizon is South Dakota bluffs and farms.

A cluster of spires, what might be a giant's quill of arrows, pierces the sky. At their base, a sign announces Devils Nest. William Clark Road rides the ridge north. On a sunny Saturday morning we turned up the lane to explore the Devil's domain.

Two miles across the tamed Missouri is the Bon Homme Hutterite Colony, its original chalkstone building standing strong after 140 years. The German Russian farmers built their enclave for religious reasons, but perhaps the region's oldest planned society was some inspiration to those who planned a community of a different sort on the Nebraska side.

Enchanted by this grand vista of hills and ravines, it is hard to imagine this as a place of evil. Yet, for longer than anybody alive can remember, what lies at one's feet has born the moniker, Devil's Nest.

Through recent decades of benign neglect, bur oaks, western red cedars and brush have claimed the valleys and some of the slopes, and much of the broad expanse is covered by woods. But that wasn't always the case. In early photographs, taken when the hills were clothed in native grass, the wooded ravines of one long ridge seem to spell the Devil's name.

A wild and lonely place it is. Some date the apprehension associated with this forlorn landscape to its native inhabitants, the Ponca, or to their successors, the Santee Sioux, whose reservation borders Devil's Nest on the west. Given native reverence for the land, it is more likely the name grew from early settlers' fear of outlaws. Frank and Jesse James and other bandits are said to have holed up on the rugged side of what became Highway 12, now celebrated as the Outlaw Trail. In one story, the Yankton, S.D., sheriff chased the gang across the river, but wouldn't risk losing deputies by further pursuit. “Let the devils stay in their nest,” he reportedly said. “I'm not going to send my men in there to be shot.”

Deputy Knox County assessor Judy Carlson grew up with the lore of Devil's Nest. Her Swedish great great-grandparents once ran a store at their home in the hills. Carlson heard stories of early days, including the James gang's visits to her grandparents' store. “They were always polite, and they paid well,” Carlson said. “Sometimes chickens disappeared, replaced by gold left on the doorstep.”

Evidence that the notorious – but of course generous – James brothers hid out in these rolling hills might be scant, but that has not cooled ardor for the tales. In 1939, a Santee Sioux man named Joe Jesse Chase claimed to be the son of Jesse James. Legends persist that French blacksmith and trader Anthony Jaenecque buried bags of outlaw gold in a long-lost hole.

A hundred years after the James Gang's fabled foray, entrepreneurs of another sort bought a thousand acres of ridges and ravines. The Devils Nest Development Corporation, perhaps wishing to retain the aura of mystery but to dissociate their planned mecca from the incarnation of evil, dropped the apostrophe from “Devil,” and announced that they would build “the most complete recreational facility in the entire Midwest .” Upscale homes would elevate residents with magnificent views; perpetual entertainment would be found at the marina and yacht club, the ski lift and lodge, the equestrian center and riding trails, the golf course and swimming pool. On grand opening day, August 30, 1970, thousands came.

While promoters hustled money to turn dreams to reality, development of the Nest progressed. The sprawling Yacht Club rose on a central ridge. Promoters staged a horse race in 1971. The ski lift and lodge opened in the dry winter of 1972. Now obscured by trees and brush, the longest run is a mile from lift to lake. Some remember one run as The Widow Maker, another as It'll Never Work.

Chuck Schmidt, whose father, Pete, was site superintendent, was a teenager on grand opening day. The Schmidts were part of a saddle club in Randolph , Neb. , and Pete persuaded a dozen other equestrians to join him and three sons to direct traffic and park cars on horseback. “They even had helicopters in the air,” Chuck said. “They put watermelons in the water and had Mount Marty College girls swimming out to retrieve them for the guests.” Festus came from “Gunsmoke” to promote the development. The future looked bright. ''

Thirty-six years later, parts of Devils Nest are as wild as in the days of Jesse James. Many building lots were sold, but one could count on his fingers and toes the homes that have been built. The yacht club, the centerpiece of a faded dream, still looms above the water, long since vandalized and boarded shut. Two bald eagles sailed past the deck, riding an updraft from the lake. In a slough along Devils Nest Creek, a great blue heron fished.

High on the western summit, the ski lift that hasn't lifted for 34 years still waits for skiers and money to come. It must have seemed to disappointed developers that the place was bedeviled after all; snow-making machines labored all through that first winter, turning water from Lewis and Clark to snow, but snow produced at night melted in the afternoon sun. A giant hilltop pulley anchors rusting cables, linking crest to lake. Dipping between faded blue poles, dangling chairs creak and sway in the breeze. The lodge, built like a barn with a big stone fireplace, has nobody to stare into flames.