Wyoming

About one minute after I crossed the border from Colorado to Wyoming, I saw this and knew I had definitely left the urban sprawl of Denver far behind.

I drove through the outskirts of Cheyenne to my overnight destination, a way station on my way to the Grand Tetons. I wasn’t sure what to expect other than it was a state park and it was named after Curt Gowdy, the sportscaster. Sure, I thought when I made the reservation, it might be a fun place. Well, the entrance did NOT disappoint!

When I checked in at the registration kiosk, the woman said, “Oh, you picked the nicest campground here” and I thought to myself, it’s all pretty good so far. I drove past a couple of fields with trailers and RVs scattered around and wondered if that was it. It wasn’t so I kept going. Onto a gravel road. For three miles. Rutted and washboarded after recent rains, it was slow going and I debated whether this campsite would really be worth it. 

It was. This was the view of the lake, and my little campsite was right on the lake. Score!

In the morning, I took a walk around, enjoying the explosion of wildflowers on the trail. 

And I spotted my tiny trailer from across the lake. Pretty cool spot, right? Of course, you can’t actually see the other three RVs sharing that spot with me, which is kind of the whole art of taking campground photos: crop or compose it so people think it’s just you and nature and they don’t see the RVs behind the bush or around the bend!

The trail wound around to this view of the rock-covered hills. I’m not sure what created these things but they looked rugged as Wyoming should be and I walked back to my trailer and hitched up thinking that woman at the kiosk was right: this was the best spot. I’ll be back, even though it was one of the few places in my three-plus years that had absolutely zero cell signal (Verizon or ATT). Worth it, though. 

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Folks, this is perfect weather for today’s game. Not a breath of air.

Curt Gowdy

Before heading up to the Grand Tetons and a five-day stint of boondocking (camping without any electric or water connections), I spent two nights at a KOA in Dubois, Wyoming, doing errands, using their wifi to finish some work, and stocking up on groceries and gas.

First off, the town’s name is pronounced DO-boys, with the accent on “DO”. Of all the ways I thought you could pronounce it, this wasn’t one I’d thought of, but the three ladies at the P.O. all said it that way and they are the local authorities on such things.

The KOA has tepees you can camp in, should your trailer or their cabins not made you feel authentic enough. I have no ideas if these tepee designs are actually ones the local natives long ago might have used but they were fully booked during my stay so I didn’t get a chance to peek inside and see if the families were sleeping on the ground or if the KOA had upgraded them to comfy American-style beds.

I was a bit disappointed that the KOA had their own laundry because I didn’t have an excuse to hang out at this place, which also boasted a car wash and a truck wash. There might have been a dog wash in there somewhere, too.

This old building used to be a day car, closed now, but you could start your own little business if you just sign a lease. Right on Main Street, steps from everything.

I couldn’t resist checking out this place. Good selection of tourist stuff and some nice Wyoming Jade as well. The owner is retiring the end of this year, so I wonder if it will sell or close its doors.

And, like most small towns in Wyoming that I’ve passed through on this trip, there is a motel, locally owned and run. This one, unlike some of the others, was hopping, although they still had a few rooms if you came into town without a plan.

Dubois also has restaurants, a few bars, a drive-up liquor store (!), and three gas stations. It clearly makes its living being the gateway to the Tetons if you’re coming from the east. And it’s also home to the Wyoming jackalope.

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If a girl wants to be a legend, she should go ahead and just be one.

Calamity Jane

The long, straight roads in eastern and central Wyoming are perfect places to do some trainspotting while driving. The last few weeks, I’ve seen a lot of long, long trains going by me as I drove on back roads. 

I was driving so I couldn’t count the cars but some went on for 5-7 minutes, me heading north while they headed south. 

A few engineers noticed my Subaru and Alto slowing down and snapping pics out the window and gave me a whistle. I waved back and sometimes got a second whistle, as if to acknowlege we were both lonesome travelers in this country.

There was no one on the road but me for miles at a time, so no one to notice that I slowed to enjoy the brief exchange with the train team.

One train was double-stacked cargo, full or empty I couldn’t tell. Heading for LA or Galveston or some other big shipping port, I imagine.

And then there were the grain trains, long and slow, off to destinations unknown. 

Most of the engines had American flags on them, faded as the rest of the paint, but still flying. These workhorses of the railroad have many, many miles on them but they still chug along, crisscrossing the country with goods of all kinds. 

I grew up watching long, slow trains across the California/Arizona desert as my family drove from LA to Phoenix and back to visit relatives. Seeing a long line of boxcars takes me back in time, and I always smile at the memories unearthed by the sound of steel wheels and train whistles. 

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There’s something about the sound of a train
that’s very romantic and nostalgic and hopeful. 

Paul Simon