Wyoming
I left toasty Interior SD and headed towards Southern Montana. I made a stop in Sturgis, SD, home of the annual Harley Davidson Motorcycle Rally, inundating a state of 1 million with 750,000 bikers. Unless you are going to the rally, or you are an aficionado of risqué (read gross) biker t-shirts, don’t go. We hopped back in the van and headed for Southern Montana and the Tongue River Reservoir State Park. While nice, the park was a disappointment. The reservoir was mostly dry, with huge flats of mud. I felt bad for the guy next to me. He was sitting in his camp chair – lucky hat on head, tackle boxes on the picnic table, rod collection leaning in anticipation – looking forlornly at the mud. I yelled you sure are ready for them. “Yeah, but they don’t seem to be ready for me.”
The Park is 10 miles from Decker, MT. On the morning of the second day, I headed towards town for some breakfast and a cell signal. Turns out the Decker is a Post Office and one house … for sale. I didn’t think this was possible, but I got negative bars on my phone. On 18 miles further, across the border to Sheridan, WY. Sheridan is one of those towns out west that was “an authentic cowboy town” that has morphed into a bougee, G Wagony, cowboy wannabe town. But it had a cell signal, and an old cowboy café. I went in – no counter. Worse, still had the Covid partitions. I ate silently.
The next day, I went into Sheridan again and using the cell signal googled scenic drives nearby. Seems the National Forest Service laid out exactly the type of thing I was looking for, and I headed off on RT 14 into the Bighorn National Forest. I stopped in the visitor center for a map. I asked the ranger if Rosie was allowed on the trails. He said sure, on a lead, but if she’s off the lead its no big deal. My kind of place. I drove around a bit, and decided I would go to the lookout tower on Black Mountain. The CCCs in the 30’s built these towers for fire prevention. A couple would live, on their own, at the top of the mountain and watch for forest fires. The tower was down a long gravel then up a 1 mile pitted, rutted dirt road, followed by a 1 mile hike. I decided to not try to drive the “adventure” van up the dirt road and hoof it in. Rosie seemed game. What I did not realize was the dirt road was straight up, and the hike was straighter up – a do it yourself stress test, starting at about 7500 feet ending at 9600 feet. Why do I do these things? As per form, there was no one else around. Half way up Rosie took out her stethoscope and determined I could make it. The view was spectacular.
Next day, off to Story, WY. Why Story? I subscribe to a newspaper called County Highway. While it is a traditional, broadsheet newspaper, it is really a literary and criticism journal with exceptional, offbeat, writing. And, like newspapers of old, it has a classified section, where I found an ad for a place in Story with a lodge, a restaurant and a campground, the Wagon Box Inn. This place is a work in progress, the dream of the owner Paul, a real estate developer. The dream involves the creation of a cultural and intellectual meeting place, in a remarkable natural setting. As it stands right now, the campground looks like a long-shuttered hippie commune, with colorful schoolbuses and vintage trailers all around. My site was on the edge of spring fed creek, a spot of marvelous solitude and peace. The only other campground resident was a man with his dog, who I later learned was a renowned journalist for major magazines and newspapers, and a really interesting guy. The weird and wonderful connections you make on the road. After few days, it was time to head south, through the desert, to Colorado.
Audible, Books on Tape as us old folks call it, is a wonderful companion on long drives. On my way west I listened to 1964 by David Halberstam, a retelling of the baseball season of that year. I remember it well. I was 9 years old, and my beloved Philadelphia Phillies had a 6 and a half game lead with 11 or so games to go … a lock for the world Series. They lost 10 in a row and the surging St. Louis Cardinals took the pennant and the Series. Broke my heart.
Next in the queue was Blue Highways by William Least-Heat Moon. I was aware of the book, but a friend who was familiar with my trips reminded me of the title. The author had taken a pretty good punch … losing his college teaching job and his marriage. He decides to head for the open road in his van to clear his head. As I begin to listen, a sense of guilt comes over me … the overlap between his story and mine is, in a word, embarrassing. The title comes from the way maps were illustrated in his time (late 60’s). Red roads were major highways, to be avoided on his trip, blue roads were the same back roads that I favor. As he’s packing, one of the few books he brings is Whitman’s Leaves of Grass! He visits a Trappist Monastery along the way, and speaks with a monk who knows Thomas Merton. I am reading Seven Storey Mountain by Merton. Yikes, I may get arrested. Please judge, I swear, I never read the book. In my imagined jumpsuit I look like at carrot.
Like me, Moon likes to eat in little cafes and must decide which will have decent food. His method is unusual, cribbed from truckers, I think. When you go in, you look to see how many calendars are on the wall. No calendars, leave, one OK, 2 Better, 3 Average and so on. 7 is the ultimate, only rumored to exist. I had left Story, WY on my way south, with an empty stomach. I spotted a Diner sign in Downtown Buffalo, WY and the van yanked in its direction. (I have set the “D” on the transmission to “Diner”.) As usual I sat at the counter and was treated to some bawdy bumper stickers on the wall. NSFW. And what should be blaring on the sound system but the Talking Heads, this time Burning Down the House. When the Cook/Owner/Fixture came over with my omelet I said it was not the music I expected. He laughed, always classic rock – people boogie in the booths. As I was going to pay, I finally noticed the wall of calendars. As my grandmother would say … Oh my stars – I had stumbled on diner Nirvana. The omelet was good.
Southward.
