20. Dubois Night 2 - “3 Station Town...”

Mile:  1,948

Riding up on my road bike I immediately knew I was going to stand out like a sore thumb. There stood a line of twenty some-odd half, three quarter, and one ton pickup trucks on a dirt road lined up to get into the Dubois Friday night rodeo. Ohh yeah, and me, on my Italian framed Bianchi road bike that I call Liliana. And it didn’t get any better as the night went on. I was laughing out loud as I rode past all these dust covered pickup trucks into the entrance gates on my streamline lightweight road bike. I’ve learned that when you venture out you’re going to find yourself in situations that you did not and could not have planned for. Well, on second thought, I probably could have thought through the fact that your average joe attending a small Wyoming town rodeo on a Friday night would not be wearing 8” inseam hiking shorts, a turquoise ocean blue polyester stretchy hooded long sleeve fishing shirt, chacos, baseball cap, and come in riding a road bike. Yeah, that’s pretty obvious to me hindsight. I was as likely to fit in with that crowd wearing my attire as I would if I were wearing the full body Arkansas Razorback blowup mascot uniform. But, in moments like that, you just gotta own it. So I did. I rode Liliana into that gravel parking lot like I owned it. When my chacos hit the dust covered ground they found as strong a stride as any boot totin’, wrangler wearin’, plaid rockin’, belt buckle flashin’, son of a gun in there. And that goes for the girls too. 

I walked my bike right up to the side of the stands, threw a lock on it, and with every step up those bleachers cowboy dust flew off my open toed sandals. I chose a seat on one of the open benches and settled in. It was about this time that I realized that no one, and I mean NO ONE rides a bike to a rodeo. Well, that’s not completely true. Mason does. But, he’s the only the one that did that night. My steed weighed a little less than the others that came through the gate that night. She wasn’t quite as tall or robust either. But, she was the only Italian girl there and man...did she get some looks! 

The rodeo was a blast. I think God was giving me a break when he plopped my butt down next to a couple from Tennessee. We hit it off immediately and the good ole southern boy even grabbed an extra beer for me when he made a run for him and his lady. Tommy was his name. It took him a while to warm up and say much but a couple beers in and his low deep voice would muster out a one liner every few minutes that had me rolling. His girlfriend was much more a talker than he was and we chatted for most of the evening with Tommy throwing in one liners every so often bringing more belly laughs into the conversation. It’s always nice meeting other southerners while way out west. The southern draw comes in like a heavy quilted blanket on a cold camping night or like grabbing a hold of a hot cup of joe on a brisk morning. It’s just a good thing. 

We laughed and carried on until the rodeo came to a close with the final event being three people against one half grown steer. The steer had a ribbon tied to it’s tail and a rope tied to it’s horns. The goal was to run the steer down, one person would be drug around by the rope while the other two tried to get the ribbon off without being kicked or stepped on too much. I hadn’t laughed that hard since sitting around the fire with the old men on the Platte River. One guy would get ahold of the tail and be pulled right out of his boots when that steer would take off. Only half the groups were successful in getting the ribbon off then the rope off and crossing back over the finish line before the 3 minute mark. And get this, the winning group was made up of three gals. And I say gals not girls because girls can be soft and delicate where as these gals, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to fight any of them. Don’t get me wrong, they were petite and cute! But dang were they tough! 

I jumped back on my steed when Rodeo came to a close and found my place in line with the trucks making dust on the ride out. I decided to ride back to the van and put on jeans, a plaid shirt, and closed toed shoes before I went out on the town. I figured I might fit in a little more that way. Pulling out of the RV campground was unique considering it was 10pm and that’s when most people are getting settled, but, I hadn’t been in the majority of the crowd the last few hours so why start now? I pulled up to the Rustic Pine Tavern which is where Austin said he’d be after the rodeo. Austin worked at the fly shop and I talked with him earlier that day for an hour or so shooting the bull with him. He said in his Wyoming cowboy accent, “Everybody always goes to the Rustic and then jumps over to Whiskey Creek to end the night. Come on out if you wanna.” So I did. I walked into the Rustic and was looking forward to fitting in a little more than I did the rodeo but I ohhh was I wrong. You see, in the crowds of the stands, I was amongst other tourists who also had on ball caps and I even saw two others with shorts on. But here, I had stepped right into a John Wayne movie and all those cowboys and cowgirls knew it. If you didn’t have on wranglers, you weren’t from there. I bet more than half (including a girl or two) had the worn circle of a Skoal can in the back pocket. You either had a cowboy hat on or nothing over top your noggin. Belt buckles all the way around and either a T-shirt of a past rodeo event or a button down that had more starch on it than a bag of potatoes. I don’t think I saw one other person in the whole bar who didn’t have boots on and more than half had spurs strapped on the back of them. These weren’t “for looks” spurs either, these were “workin’” spurs. “Well, I’m here, so, let’s do this thing,” I said to myself as I caught some looks walking in with my trail running shoes on. I walked up to the bar to order the one thing I was about to have in common with the rest of them, holding a cold one. “Cash only tonight hun,” This young girl behind the bar said with a true cowgirl accent. I was thrown off because she was the only one who wasn’t dressed like a cowgirl in the bar. She was wearing a black sleeveless jumpsuit with short purple hair and a handful of tattoos down her arms and even one crawling up the back of her head. “Wait, what?” I was confused on how a country accent could come out of a girl that looked like that. “The card machines are down along the whole strip, so it’s cash only tonight babe.” She repeated in her cowgirl accent. “Well, dang,” I said out loud. I had just learned earlier that day that Chase Credit cards have the worst cash out program of all time so I had no way of getting cash. I went back out to my van and scrounged up $3.30 in bills and coins and headed back in. I was determined. I was going to hang out that night. Some nights it’s nice to be alone, others, I want to hang out. And dad gum it, that night was a hang out night. 

I walked back in and put my $3.30 on the counter and asked what a PBR cost. “A tall boy or regular?” She asked. “Tall” I said, I figured I had earned it by this point. “That’s $2.80,” she piped back. “Great, you got yourself a 50 cent tip.” I grabbed my beer and headed to the back. I saw Austin playing a game of pool and when I walked up he acted like his best friend had just walked in the bar. We started chatting and I learned that it was the one or two or six drinks he already had in him that gave me such a grand welcome, but I didn’t care. I was there, surrounded by cowboys and cowgirls having a good time. After Austin walked to the other end of the pool table to take a shot, I figured I better make some more friends. I saw a guy sitting next to the pool table and walked over to introduce myself. I figured, I wouldn’t make friends in a place like that unless I started talkin’. It seemed like everybody in that bar knew each other and if I made one friend I’d be likely to make them all. “Hey man, what’s your name? Most who like me call me Mason.” I said with a little bit of extra Arkansas draw than normal. Hey, you do what you gotta do sometimes. “Dillon” He said with an accent that couldv’e covered two biscuits it had so much molasses in it. As he reached out his hand to shake mine he stood up to his full height of 6’5”. “You’re a tall drink of water aren’t ya?” I mentioned. I figured throwing in some of my Arkansas sayings wouldn’t hurt either. “Ha! Yeah...” He responded. I realized real quick that I’d be driving this conversation. So, I put it in gear and kept going. We chatted about fishin’, huntin’, bull ridin’, and even van life. I found out that Dillon works in Landry and comes in to Dubois for the Friday night rodeo. Apparently, the rodeo in Wyoming is like a football game in the south. It’s just what you do on Friday nights. “How big is Landry?” I ask him. “Ohh, you know, it’s a bit bigger than Dubois. I think Dubois is a three station town where Landry is a four station town. I think Dubois is three...yeah...yeah...Dubois is a three station town.” This sentence took him nearly a full minute to get out. Dillon wasn’t in a race when he began spitting words out. He took his sweet time to let his cowboy accent take hold. I look at him with an inquisitive side glance that he sees and starts in... “Ohh I mean, in terms of gas stations. Dubois got three and Landry is a little bigger cause it got four. And plus Dubois stations don’t count as much since they have more tourists. So yeah, Landry’s bigger.” He cracks a little grin and I realize he was serious but he knew that it was funny to size up a town based on the number of gas stations it had. We both laughed. We chatted for a while longer about this and that. Everybody in the whole place was having a good time. Most were either playing pool or running up throwing their arms around a buddy talking about how if he was tougher he would’ve stayed on the bull another two seconds to make time. Most of them had come directly from the rodeo. The only change in this scene was when a line dancing song would come on over the juke box and three or four girls would drop their pool cues and start line dancing. 

I met a few others and had some more laughs throughout the evening. When I left for the night it was nearly 1:30am. It’s amazing how long you can nurse a PBR when you don’t have any more cash. I was headed on. No more $25 piece of grass rental for me. As I drove out of Dubois and into the National Forest to find my home for the night I laughed at how different the tourists from the locals were in the small town of Dubois. “Yep, cowboys don’t come from Texas, they come from Wyoming...” I muttered to myself as I began to wind up into the mountains. 

19. Dubois Night 1 - Observe

Mile: 1,948

Rolling into Dubois, WY gives you a warm feeling. It’s a small town where you can tell real quick that if something is going to be happening on a Friday night, it’ll happen on that main strip. “This has a cowboy feel to it” I thought as I slowed down to the 25 mph speed limit. Little did I know just how right I was with that thought and how 24 hours later I’d be in the thick of it. 

I passed the main drag and the two banks in town. The Dollar General came and went on my right along with gas stations sitting directly across the road from each other like two farmers who had a property line dispute forty years ago and come out to sit on their front porches just to glare across the road at one another. A few other little buildings which made you question whether they were an old house that was turned into a little shop or if the old man inside just refused to move after they widened the road twenty years ago. And that was it. I was on the other side of town. Pulling over I got my phone out and started looking at a couple of the apps I use to help me decide where to park Pearl and call home each night. I found a well reviewed RV camp ground right up the road a bit and decided that’d be my backup if I couldn’t find a free place close. Turning around I headed back into town. 

The sun had set on the town but there were still some rays igniting the mountainside on the south side of town. Pulling the van over I hopped out still barefoot from taking my wet Chacos off courtesy of the “Public Access” sign a few miles before town. How can you pass up a chance a throw the van in park and wade into God’s country while tempting a trout or two? Impossible, at least for me. So I put socks and shoes on to appease whatever stores I found my way into. I needed to buy bear spray. I was entering grizzly country and that meant time to get serious about safety in the woods. Although, I wouldn’t have hated having a can on me when I ran face to face into that big bull moose near Telephone Lake a week earlier. And black bears can be dangerous but they are mostly scaredy cats. Grizzlies on the other hand, just the name “grizzly” brings a serious tone to a conversation. So, bear spray and I wanted a map with public access points along the Wind River that flows along the highway for miles before and after town. 

Every shop I passed had the “Closed” sign hanging in the window. “Apparently this is a ‘get it before 5pm’ town” I said to myself strolling down the main drag. “Oooooo...hot pizza and a cold beer...” I said out loud like someone had just asked me what I would choose if I could eat anything in the world right then. But the sign “Noon Rock Pizza” hanging out front of the building one block up had brought forth such a response. I don’t know what it is about hot pizza and a cold beer that makes it the perfect meal after being out in the woods or traipsin’ through river water for a few days, but it just is. There’s nothing better than crunching down on golden brown crust with a bubbling layer of cheese and pepperoni grease that slightly burns the roof of your mouth when you bite into it. The sweetness of the warm pineapple juice offset by the kick in the mouth jalapeño slice that just made contact with your tongue, mmmmmm....yes please. Then to wash it down with a cold soothing brew...yeah...that’s where it’s at after a few days of roughing it. 

I’m realizing many of the simple pleasures in life while on this adventure that in the past have gone unnoticed in the past. One such realization smacked me in the face the moment I sat down at the bar in this pizza joint in Dubois, WY. A smile crept over my face as I sat there resting my tired back, sore shoulder, and feet that were in pretty bad shape having waded in water in my chacos for so many days the last few weeks that the wet straps were rubbing my feet raw. I was about to sit there, tell this nice lady what I wanted to eat and drink, and without moving a muscle, it would be set down for me to consume. Yes, I realize I am paying money for this but, when you go a while where if you want to eat, you have to make it. If you want something tasty and hot then you have to cook it. If you’re thirsty, you have to pour it. If you’re cold, you have to add another log to the fire or go get your own jacket. After doing this for a few weeks the simple pleasure of someone else making a hot meal and setting it down in front of you is quite sublime. 

So as I smile like a goober I bite into this piping hot slice of heaven. “You ok?” I look up to see the waitress standing there looking at me with her head cocked to the side slightly. “Haha, yes, thank you. Just enjoying the simple things in life.” I say between chews. I eat all I can and sit back happily holding onto my beer just observing all that was going on in this little pizza joint. You had the locals, which were all in uniforms taking orders, bussing tables, filling glasses, working as fast as they could move. Then you had the tourists, reaching for another hot slice, raising their hand to make another order of cold ones for the table, laughing with their kids while dad told a joke. It’s unique to sit back and observe the performance on the stage happening in front of you. Too often people desire to be the main act themselves always pushing to be at the front of the stage never realizing that there are other acts going on around them. It is not only a benefit to the observer to understand that they are not the main character of the play but also to the other actors. When you sit back and observe you can focus in on the youngest boys face at the table of six and see the longing in his eyes for the table to listen to his comment or to laugh at his joke. You can focus in on the frantic movements of a waitress and read the stress on her face that says, “I’m new, I’ve messed up two orders tonight, I have five people waiting on something from me, I forgot to put in an order for a pizza to go and they just got here to pick it up, and I still don’t know how to work the computer check out system.” You can focus in on the joy in the eyes of the couple holding hands on either side of their pizza softly laughing at something said as they forget that they are in a crowded restaurant. Observing allows you see things you can’t notice if you are wrestling to be the lead role on a stage you think proceeds your every step so that you are always front and center. It gives you the power to give the floor to a little boy to tell his story, or to say an encouraging word to the scrambling waitress, or to smile and share the joy of others as they find joy in the little things. It’s a blessing to all involved to observe. 

Before paying my tab I ask my waitress where I can buy a can of bear spray at that hour. She draws the corners of her mouth out wide in a less than hopeful expression. “Everything closes around five or six here...ummmm...let me think on it.” as she fills a glass from the tap and disappears into one of the sitting areas. A few moments later she comes back behind the bar, “Ok, so I texted my friend who manages the fly shop and he might be able to get you one since he has a key to the place.” “Wow, ok thanks!” I pipe back as she darts back into the kitchen. I guess that’s a great thing about small towns is that if you know the right people you can still get what you need even after closing hours. I finish my beer and slide my card across the bar so I can pay for this hot meal and cold beer appearing in front of me effortlessly. A few moments later she resurfaces, runs my card, and hands me the receipt to sign, “I’m sorry, he said they are out of bear spray at the shop. But he said to try the outdoor store right next to them tomorrow.” “Hey, I appreciate you trying.” I say as I turn to go. 

I drive a few miles out of town and turn down what is labeled as an old forest road. Following it’s dips and twists for a mile I come to a ranch entrance. “Crap.” I say above Eddie Vedder streaming my Spotify over the left speaker. Looking back at the map I see where the road continues to national forest land if I can go around the left side, so I continue on past some cabins and stables. I turn down the hill to the left on the old dirt road and pass a little log cabin. It was dark out there and I was wanting to get away from this ranch sooner rather than later. “SSSSSSSSSSSSHHHhhhhhh” I come to a sliding stop on the gravel. The road just disappeared into a river standing before me. “Come on!” I say looking back at my phone to make sure I hadn’t missed a turn. Nope. That was the way to the National Forest land. I sat there looking for a road bed under the water, but it’s not there. Or at least it’s not in the first twelve inches of water and despite Pearl being named after a ship I’m not ready to take her into the deep water just yet. I turn around and head back out to the main highway. Letting go a sigh of defeat I roll back towards town and towards the RV campsite. I needed to go into town anyway tomorrow for bear spray, the map, and probably my standard stop in to the local fly shop. It was late and dark so I decided the RV park would be the easiest route. Pulling in I made a lap and on my second lap a lady approached me. “Hey, can I help you?” She asked. “Yeah I’m trying to find a spot for my van,” I responded.  “Go right over there to the back and you can pull in those trees anywhere. There’s a river back there as well, feel free to go as far as that. Ohh and that will be $25.” She informed me. Everything she said up until that last part sounded great. “Ok thanks,” I said getting some cash out. Hey, at least I was in for the night and in the back corner away from the rest of the people. Getting settled in I found where a couple others had built a fire in a fire pit and had yet to put it out. I pulled out my ukulele and let it sing as I looked up at the fiery bright milky way. What a way to end a day. And to wake up on a river with mountains in the background wasn’t bad either. Taking it easy the next morning I made some breakfast tacos that would’ve  made Madison Gardner proud, a maker legend of the breakfast taco. 

18. Ships Don’t Fly, They Cruise

Mile: 1,905

As many of my days begin on this leg of the trip, I’m headed west. On cloud nine from catching my two biggest rainbows to date on my 5 wt fly rod, I pull out of Boysen State Park and get Pearl humming down the asphalt again. Thinking about the $9 day use fee that I paid to fish the state park and smiling because even though I only stayed at the park for maybe a half a day I took from it memories that were worth an amount that made the cost laughable. 

Half an hour later I was headed into higher countryside entering into the Wind River Reservation just west of Shoshoni, WY. Passing fields of cattle and sheep my mind drifted off imagining what it would be like to live the life of these Wyoming farmers. Cruising through the rolling plains of central Wyoming before you hit the foothills that welcome you to the Bridger-Teton National Forest, there is some truly beautiful farm land. It is so far removed from what I’ve known growing up outside of Little Rock somewhere between a city boy and country bumpkin. That of course is from an Arkansan’s perspective and I’m sure that anyone from Chicago or New York or the like would laugh at the thought of me calling myself a city boy. But when I consider growing up in Mabelvale, moving from Little Rock, then to Dallas and back again, I have such a fraction of an idea of what the life of a Wyoming rancher would be. The next twenty or so miles my thoughts are moving in and out of imaging what that would entail. 

Those thoughts are interrupted when I realize that Pearl is seriously struggling. I’m not use to her slow goin’ way of getting me places quite yet, ‘tis the way of a 4-cylinder front wheel drive loaded down work van made for European roadways. But this was worse than normal. I was pushing the pedal down something serious and she would jump from cruising in 3rd gear down to 2nd and humming at 6,000 RPM to try and break the 55 mph threshold. I toy with the gas pedal a few times to make sure she was responding correctly and everything seemed to be checking out, she just couldn’t cruise up and over 55 mph. I came to a stop on the side of the road and as I put it in park I realize I have an audience. Three pairs of eyes are watching me as they eat their lunch. I smile and they stand there, straight faced, not changing their expressions in the slightest. They don’t even stop chewing. I frown at them. Nothing. I make a crazy face trying to get anything out of them. Nothing. These three sheep are not amused as they stand right on the other side of the fence watching me. Behind them was a several thousand acre meadow but they were there waiting for a show. I open the door and immediately understand why Pearl is having such a hard time. A 30 mph Wyoming prairie wind is trying to shove me back down the road from the way I came. I laugh at how strong it is, and it’s not gusts of 30 mph it’s a solid consistent 30 mph wall of wind. I look over and think that I see a smile creep up the side of the sheep’s faces as if they are taking joy from me getting a taste of their every day wind. I get back in Pearl and start my slow climb back to 50 mph and accept that in her mind, she’s going 80, which would be cooking. So I accept this pace and remind myself that she is the Black Pearl, and sailing ships don’t fly, they cruise. So, as the occasional car would come up and pass me, I happily cruised my way on to Dubois. 

17. Double Rainbow

Mile: 1,881

The cars kept waking me up as they cruised by at 70 miles an hour. “Well, it is what it is.” I mumbled as I rolled out of bed finally at 6:15am. I had cruised up to the camp site that I found on google maps on my way out of Casper but once I got there I saw on the sign that they were charging $20 to park in a gravel rectangle to sleep in my van. Yeaaaahhh riiiight! I’m not paying $20 for a 10’x16’ rectangle of gravel. So I parked and slept in an 18-wheeler pull off right off Hwy 20. Not my favorite night of sleep, but it got the job done. 

Back in the drivers seat, but not before coffee, I really value my morning coffee. So after getting my coffee in hand I was on the blacktop. It wasn’t long until I saw her, deep blue with clashes of white as she forced herself around big boulders lying in her way as if God didn’t want to make it easy for her to travel through the canyon. The Bighorn. She’s a beaut. My eyes are drawn to every eddy and deep hole almost anticipating a giant trout to leap out of the water just to affirm my belief of what is lurking there. But I did not stop, remembering back to what Joel at the Ugly Bug Fly Shop in Casper had told me, “ohh man, the Indian Refuge, yeah I wouldn’t go there, it’s sketch.” He replied after I had told him where I was thinking of going next. “But why?” I asked with my curiosity peaking. “It’s sketch.” He replied. “Ok, but why is it sketch.” I was going to get the answer out of him. I was not about to forgo a place that I had read online holds massive rainbow trout just because a 25 year old guy says ‘it’s sketch’. “Well...” he started, “...I’ve heard of stories where people have had their fishing gear taken from them, their side arm taken from them if they’re carrying, and all kinds of weird stuff where they just do what they want and take what they want depending on their mood and if they catch you on their land, permit or not.” My head sat back on my shoulders as I took in this information. “Ummm...well...I might have a change of plans then” I replied thinking about continuing this trip having to buy all new fishing gear and my 9mm being taken off my hip while I’m entering bear country. “But...” he started back up, “you can fish right above it in Boysen State Park or below it at Wedding of the Waters and you’re not in the refuge. “Show me.” I replied getting my phone out to look at the map. 

I pull up to Boysen State Park and drive the gravel road that parallels the Bighorn from one end to the other looking for the spot I wanted to first approach the water. Waving to campers as they are just getting their water hot for their morning coffee I stroll through the campground. Their responses were much like someone who lives in a country neighborhood with one way in and one way out, seeing a car they don’t recognize driving down their street. A cautious wave here, a head nod followed by an inquisitive watchful stare. I take it in stride and keep rolling, I have bigger and more important things to be focused on than letting campers know that I’m not there to steal their firewood or encroach on their personal camping space. 

“There you are...” I whisper to myself as I round the far northern end of the park closest to the reservation. This was the place. Rapids were created by the narrowing of the banks and then turned into a swift moving flat body of water that looked like the top of a hot tub with the jets turned on low. The top of the water to turning over and back in on itself. I throw my waders on over my shorts, it was going to be a hot day today and no time to stop and take a layer off when it got too hot. It was better to start cold and put up with it till the sun warmed things up. “Click, click.” My fly fishing vest was on and ready to roll. My rod is alway ready to go to work. Sitting, patiently waiting for his time to shine he rests on the cedar wall of Pearl, just waiting. Now, he had been called upon. Assessing if he was ready for war I noticed a weird little knot in my tippet. I replace the old tippet with new and start down the embankment. Getting close to the water I notice a fisherman that I hadn’t seen earlier behind the tall grass already fishing the spot I had decided upon. I simultaneously internally applaud him and curse him for his ability to assess the best spot and get there before me. So I back off and walked down stream a couple hundred yards below him on the river. 

I find a deep pool and begin fishing it moving upstream a foot or two each cast. Throwing high up stream I’m allowing the double nymph set up I have tied on to sink down to the strike zone which I’m guessing is 5-6 feet below the surface with as deep as this pool is. I continue working my way up the river assessing each curvature of the current looking for any sign of a hideaway spot a monster rainbow might be resting, waiting for his unsuspecting prey to swim or float by. I see an eddy coming around the bank where it deepens as the water comes off the shallower shoal. I cast into the shallow water imagining how my nymphs are sinking as they enter the deeper water. “THHHHHMMB!” My strike indicator had sunk down and not come back up so, “when in doubt give it to em” is my motto. My hook set had been strong, correct, timed right. I see a flash of silver deep in the blue hole. He was huge! For sure a 20” plus fish! Making a lurching effort forward, he takes off to the deep water. “Pop” my line goes slack. “no no No NO NO NOO!” I yell! Whipping my rod back and forth as if I feel the need to show the monster how mad I am. He had just broken me off and had gotten away. As if I was having a bout of bipolar syndrome I sit down in a quiet slump just as quickly as I had erupted in shouting. I sit their just looking at the fly-less end of my tippet, back at the water, and back at my broken tippet like I somehow wasn’t ready to accept that I had done everything right and had a little bit of luck but yet, I was fish-less. I’m not finding the drive or the want to pick up my rod and I sit there for fifteen or twenty minutes. I sit for a while, realizing the fish is not going to swim up to the bank and jump in my lap, I began to tie back on. 

I stand up. Brushing my butt off I start painting the sky with my rod tip again. The fly line flows through the eyelets and leads my nymphs back to the water. Landing in the shallow, the flies sink, they cross over the shoal into the deep hole. Eight or ten casts later working across the deep hole, my strike indicator sinks once again. “THHHHHMMB!” I can’t believe it! Another fish in the same hole has given me another chance. And this guy is every bit the size of the last one. Big head shakes! I might as well be trying to bring in a washing machine that is being taken away by a tornado. We both give it our best. He takes me into the deep water and I have no choice but let him have his run, but then I bring him back. He makes another two long runs into the deep currents of the Bighorn and three and each time I hold on and eventually turn his head and bring him back. His tiredness begins to show more than mine and I pull him into the shallows. My net laughs at me when it try to hold the entirety of this fish. Even though this beauty is doubled over his tail still hangs out of the net showing that he is something to be marveled at. I notice that I’m shaking. In hunting you call it buck fever. I guess you can call it trophy fish fever? Whatever you want to call it, I have it. Hands shaking I hit the capture button on my phone and back away...10...9...8 I now have proof and a memory sealed forever. 21.5” of rainbow glory, my personal record. I am on cloud nine dealing with a bad case of tremors. That’s what I call happiness. 

Five minutes later I hook up with a 20” rainbow, coming out of the same hole at that. I land him. I can’t believe it. I had just lost a huge fish and now landed my two biggest rainbows of my life out of the same discrete little eddy filled hole that I had hopingly thrown into. What a day. What. A. Day.

16. On to Casper

Mile: 1,734

I rolled out of Grey Reef Access Area just outside of Alcova, WY after some breakfast tacos consisting of fried squash, bacon, jalapeños, onion, egg, and salsa. Brian, a guy I had met the day before, and I sat on the bank of the Platt watching an eighteen plus inch brown trout sip stoneflies off the top of the water as they drifted over him. Choosing this one and not that one, it was fascinating so see this brown pick and choose. It was as if the two seconds from seeing the fly to it floating overhead he analyzed it, read the ingredients on the label, checked to see if that specific stonefly fit his diet or not. If it did, he’d rise up effortlessly and Jonah it. If it did not meet his diet restrictions, he would let it drift on by disappearing downstream. Brian and I were touching on the high points of our conversation the night before which encompassed politics, religion, relationship with family and the relationships that make us who we are, passions, fears, and more. It’s truly amazing what a fire and a late night with an open sky of a million nightlights can bring out. We were strangers earlier the day before and now we knew more about each other than some of our relatives and we definitely did not shy away from the “taboo” topics. It was a great conversation where we challenged each other and allowed ourselves to be challenged. A true deep conversation. The best kind in my opinion. The kinds of conversations that truly matter. 

Once breakfast was down I was on the road again. I cranked up my stereo on ole Pearl, which means the left speaker because for some reason the right speaker has a mind of it’s own and decided it was tired of blasting tunes. The sound of the up beat cruise music hit my ears. The song was no accident. It is the song I often crank up when I leave my short term homes and hit the road again. The Night Game was singing their sound Back In The Van, so appropriate, I know. And ole Pearl started to have her breakfast, she was eating the open road and wanting more. On to Casper. I had been told to hit up HQ BBQ just outside of Casper and that I did. A sandwich taller than my beer stood proud and at attention in front of me. Almost like a man who has small-man syndrome would stand in front of a 6’5” football player - chest out, shoulders back, trying to look bigger than he actually was. I grabbed him smashing his shoulders down into his feet and maxed the size of my mouth in order to get my teeth over the outer edges of this monster. So good. Twenty minutes later I was leaning back apologizing to my gut and high-fiving my tastebuds. 

I headed into Casper needed to take care of some essentials. I needed to buy a couple bike tire tubes, do some laundry, have a stripped bolt on my door loosened so I could get in and fix the “KAAAAWWWAAANNNNKKK” sound my unlocking actuator was still making, pick up some more duct tape for my window, and get a massage. Yes, a massage. If you haven’t had a full body massage, you are missing out. My back had some knots in it that must have tied by an Eagle Scout because they were painfully tight and not going away. I think it had something to do with flyfishing nine out of the last fourteen days. I’m not sure that being turned up to the highest setting of tenseness ready to set the hook at any second for hours on end, day after day, is good for relaxing your muscles. After going to the most sketchy massage place I’ve ever been to, I mean, it is Casper, WY, during a global pandemic, and I’m trying to get a “day-of” appointment...I’ll take what I can get. I took care of my loud unlocking noise. Hey, did you know that doors are hollow so the window can roll down inside of them? Ha! Yeah, that makes total sense. Especially after you cram the old actuator inside that empty space to problem solve thinking that you are a genius but later realize your window will only roll half way down. Crazy sound fixed. Window rolling down issue created. Geez, freaking ridiculous. I’ll fix it later, just add it to the list. 

During my time in Casper I came upon a farmers market and picked up my groceries while meeting some really cool people. They told me where I should park the van that night on the edge of town and also told me of some places I needed to fish when I made it up to Yellowstone. Such nice people. It’s amazing how excited people get when they hear that you’re living your dream and fishing through the west. I’ve found most people want to make your trip a little bit better by telling you which hole in the wall place to go, stream to fish, or path to take. 

One lady I met while at Hobby Lobby mentioned something that made me think she was a believer. So I asked. Sure enough, she loved Jesus and had moved to Casper because she felt God was leading her there to serve him in some way. We spoke for an hour in the fabric section after I had found my bug netting I was going to use for the back of the van. I had been killing caddis flies for the last 96 hours as they kept popping up out of nowhere. They were courtesy of my first night camping along the Platte and cooking with my back doors open after dark. It’s amazing how many caddis flies can hide in the corners of your vehicle. I still have one surface every four or five hours up onto the dash from his hiding place. But anyway, it was such a blessing to run into another Christ follower and talk about how good our God is and that He is faithful even when we fall short. 

The next morning I took care of some more to-dos, which of course is to go into the fly shop and talk fishing, what’s hot, where I should head to next, you know, the typical lies of fishermen. But on a serious note, it’s been amazing how helpful fly shop workers and just random fishermen along the way have been when it comes to pointing out where I should go and what they recommend throwing when I get there. I’m not saying they are giving me their top producing deep hole they take their kiddos to but they at least get me going in the right direction. 

Back on the road again headed for the Bighorn! I rolled out as the sun was setting, not quite sure of where I was going to call home that night. But that’s part of the beauty of it. In life, you don’t have to have an exact itinerary and keep to that itinerary. You can leave some things up to a suggestion of a stranger or overhearing some bar talk. Life’s an adventure, let your hair down and go live it from time to time. So off I went, “Thanks Casper...stay golden Ponyboy.” I say as I roll my driver window halfway down and cruise out of town. 

15. Choice of Joy

Mile: 1,694

Rolling into the Grey Reef Access Area on the North Platte River laughter flooded through my open window. Looking across the passenger seat and moving my head to see around my cardboard window I witness the spring from which this river of laughter is coming. Three men are sitting in a half circle around a campfire laughing hysterically. I’m impressed that one is still in his camp chair with the amount of rocking back and forth that his laughter is producing. 

Laughter draws us in. Think about it, when someone around you laughs a true belly laugh, from the gut, you turn to look. You look intently trying to understand the source of the laughter so that we too can join in. Our joy is ready to be expressed, we’re just looking for the reason to let it out. I was searching for the reason of their laughter but realizing that it’s within a conversation that I was not privy to, I do not laugh. But I do let a big smile come forth and right then I make the decision. I will be a part of their belly laughing campfire semicircle before the night is over. 

 Before I slide over a a couple of camping spaces I hollar our the window, “Hey! This is a camping area, no laughing allowed!” Turning my way all three of them look to see who is scolding them their eyes land on Pearl, her cardboard and duck tape window, my full beard, and big goofy grin. Their abrupt silence is broken by Gene, the oldest of the bunch pushing his mid 70’s, “who died and put a fun-hating young whipper-snapper like you in charge?” The other two let out another laugh as if they had held it in long enough to be silent for the last two comments and couldn’t keep the steady stream of laughter back anymore. These guys had chosen laughter for the evening and nothing was going to keep them from it. I loved it. I could already picture my chair right there beside them by that fire laughing late into the evening. The professy was set, now it just needed to come true. “Would y’all have room for a young whipper-snapper red neck from Arkansas in that circle would ya?” “Red neck?!” Jim, the youngest of the bunch, despite the white beard and looking the oldest, hollared back “I’ve always wanted to meet one of those, we’ll put up with you I reckon.” I smiled and laughed and was met by three other smiles. I was in. Pulling around I put Pearl in park and started to get my fishing stuff out. I was going to join in the laughter but first as the afternoon light was waining into evening I had to get a fly wet while I could still see 10’ in front of me. After a two minute walk from where I parked in my camping spot for the evening I waded out into the cold fast moving water of the Platte. It was moving fast. Very fast. After two attempts to cross to the slower moving water on the far side I yielded to the fact I wouldn’t make it. Three feet of river current will try to take you away and I wasn’t ready to be taken, not with it being close to dark and a little chilly outside. I tried throwing my biggest gnarliest top water hopper I had into the eddies behind the biggest river rocks protruding out of the water. Forty five minutes later the pitch black darkness engulfed me. The sound of the river was still rushing just as loud as it did when I walked up. It was time to call it. It was easier to hook my fly to an eyelet and reel up the slack because of knowing the party of old man laughter I was about to join in on.  

I hung my rod up against the cedar paneling inside Pearl and my flyfishing vest next to it. Taking my wet Chacos and shorts off, I traded them for dry shorts and my comfortable “dad” slip on shoes. Time to let loose and cut up. I pulled my chair up and with my cold beer in hand and joined the half circle of old codgers. Their words not mine. Laughter began with the first word and didn’t stop till the wee hours of the morning. My abs were hurting, face was tired, and joy was overflowing. That was the most I had laughed in a long long time. Gene stood up, “Well ladies, I guess it’s time for the best looking and the smartest of the brothers to go to sleep.” “Ha! I won’t be headed to bed for another ten or fifteen minutes...” piped up Tom the middle brother, “...besides, you won’t be going to bed for another hour with all the futzin around you do as you try to get to sleep.” I couldn’t stop laughing as they began arguing about which brother futzes around the most. I was just trying to discern what “futzin” actually meant this whole time. As the laughter died down I said goodnight and headed back to Pearl for the evening.

I camped at the Grey Reef Campground next to the brothers for another two days and soaked up some more rich moments of laughter. On the last night while laughing around a fire Gene brought up the purpose of this camping trip for the brothers. “Hey Mason, I don’t believe we told you the purpose of our camping trip yet and I think that you should know. Our oldest brother died earlier this year at the age of 78 and we decided to take this camping trip out here where we all use to run around together to spread his ashes and laugh about past memories.” I didn’t know exactly how to respond because it was such a shock from the amount of laughter that had come from that camp ground over the last few days. I then realized the beauty of it. They had chosen joy. They had chosen laughter. There used to be four brothers for over 70 years they had each other and now one of the pillars was gone. But they had chosen joy. Joy, it’s a choice not a situational result. I want to be like these brothers as I live my life. I choose joy. 

A cheers to Gene, Tom, Jim, and the brother I was not blessed enough to have to the chance to laugh with, it’s men like you who I want to invest my time with and learn from. So I raise my glass say, thank you for choosing joy. 

14. Miracle Mile and Beyond

Mile: 1,685

 “zzzZZZZzzzZZZZZZZzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZ...” my drag was being stripped out as if someone was letting a kite out in the middle of a hurricane. I knew it was a big fish. I hadn’t even laid eyes on the golden brown beauty but I knew. I knew. He had to be the biggest I had ever hooked into. Had to be. That first run you’re always just along for the ride. Hold on and pray. You don’t know how long the ride will be or what underwater stump or rock the monster will try to use to break free. The only thing you can do is hold on and pray. “...ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz....zzzzzzzz...zzzz...zz” I had survived the first run. He was still on. He had given the run everything he had to try and break free but...I still felt his weight. I turned his head gently, I didn’t have a choice fighting him with 4 lb test line on my ultralight spin-cast in some of the fastest current the Platte River holds. To some, that will tell you everything you need to know, if that doesn’t mean much to you think of it like this; you’re taking a 100 lb Labrador Retriever for a walk through a chicken pen and the leash is made of yarn. Think on that for a second. You’re job is play the tension just forcefully enough that you slow the labs thrusts forward down just enough so that the chickens can escape but too much force holding him back, the yarn will easily break and you have dead chickens on your hands. It’s a dance. Give and take. Give and take. Keep him on long enough so that he tires and he can be led out of the fast water. I applied the max amount of force I was willing to put on the yarn, I mean 4 lb test line, his head turned and he started my way. Now it’s my turn. Reeling as fast as I can I’m keeping the tension steady while he bends his will to mine and comes out of the fast current. He’s like a boxer surviving the last few punches before the bell rings and he’s able to take a quick rest, ready to come out swinging the next round. Forty feet out, thirty five feet, thirty, twenty-five, twenty, “Come on big boy, that’s it!” I see him rising up out of the deep current, I was reeling fast now. “Ding ding” the bell of the next round of the bout apparently sounded underwater and I realized quickly I was not quite in the drivers seat just yet. “ZZZZZZZzzzzzZZZZZZzzzzzZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz” the second run was not as long as the first but he made it back into the fast moving waves of the Platte. When they reach the fast water, the ball is in their court. They have the upper hand. The judges don’t have to score the bout, it’s clear who’s winning. But I know, as long as I don’t get knocked out, I will win the fight. The run ends and I’m able to turn his head again back towards me. Now he’s really coming in fast. He’s given it his all on two long runs and I still have him on the other end of the line. It’s now my fight to lose. 

Clients and guides in drift boats were now rounding the bend from their morning put in. I never took my eyes off the fish but I could feel the fingers pointing, the exclamations of the clients from the front and back of the boats, and the curses from the clients in the rowers seats. I soaked it all in. I knew I was in a good spot. I woke up at 6am that morning, made pour over coffee, changed a flat inner tube on my mountain bike and hit the trail. I had ridden two to three miles down river from the camp ground into state land. I was on a mission. Find a spot on the river that holds the big boy. The spot that your everyday average joe would not put forth the effort to get to. To find the Mac daddy trout that saw the least number of artificial baits per day so that when I put something in front of him, he would be willing to give it a try. I had found it. There is a shoal in the middle of a bend that proceeds a deep hole of fast moving water. Off to the side there was a tornado of water that would make any trout fisherman salivate. He would be down there. The one everyone wanted. The most hunted and the most wise. Knowing that since guides weren’t casting, my chances were higher. Clients might get close but probably not to the spot you need to be. And there, I began fishing before any of the guided boat even set out at 8am. 

Now at 8:30am the clients and guides were watching me fight this brown. Much like a tiring team of tug-a-war contestants the effort against me was waining quickly. He came closer and closer, now only ten feet out. Five feet. I grab my net and quickly assess that it’s too small. Laughing to myself how amazing this whole experience is. He saw my six foot stature towering above and started one last short run but exhausted, he couldn’t maintain it. I now easily controlled the direction of his course with the end of my ultralight rod and guided him into the net. Even though his body bent down in the net, his tail still protruded five to six to inches out of the net on the back side. Twenty-two inches. Twenty-two inches of brown trout beauty. After a couple of pictures I let him return back to the water to accept his defeat, learn a little more, and become bigger, smarter, and harder to catch. 

It was a rich moment. The biggest brown trout of my life so far. And I hate to say this, but I have to. If you know any fly fisherman you know that fly fishing for trout is king. It is a game chess and I had caught this monster in a game of checkers. Don’t misunderstand, I was ecstatic that I had just landed the largest brown trout of my life on an ultra light using 4 lb test line. But in the mind of any serious fly fisherman, that catch comes with an asterisk. I will never turn my nose up at someone else telling a story of catching a fish, especially a fish of this size, no matter how they catch it. However, when it comes to me, this is a catch I will tell for the rest of my life, but when speaking with another fly fisherman, I know that it will need to be clarified. It comes with an asterisk. Regardless, I had caught a big boy and was overjoyed. But now, it was time to do so on the fly! 

I had caught this big brown in the fast moving deep water below the shoals and below the tornado or eddy of deep water. I knew that if I wanted to catch the grandfather, that’s where he would be. I waded out into the mossy still water of the eddy and felt my feet slowly sinking into the muck. Every minute they were another quarter inch deeper. Soon it was up to the tongue on my wading boots making my feet feel like someone had tied a fifty pound dumbbell to each one. I was double nymphing (fishing two flies below an indicator) roughly six feet deep. After strategically working the drift so that my flies swirled in the eddy in “free drift” as it’s called, it happened. My indicator swirled under by the pull of the current, but it did not pop back up. “ffffFFFFTTT” I set the hook and I was hung. My 3 wt fly rod was doubled over. The log that I was hung on began to move. Down. Down. Down into the depths it started. I felt a head shake like a horse whips it’s tail at a pestering horsefly. “I have him” I say somewhere in between disbelief and excitement. I had done it. I made the effort to mountain bike miles away from other shore fisherman. I had chosen the right eddy to fish, fly to use, correct depth, I had been patient casting in the same location for the last twenty minutes knowing that the water looked too good not to hold a monster. I had kept the persistence and confidence that he was there and it was a matter of time. The presentation was right. He had fallen for the bead headed prince nymph and hook set was right. Another head shake, this one was more serious as if a younger brother scores a basket on his older brother and the older brother kicks it into the next gear propelled realizing the severity of the situation. Another head shake and “NO!....NO! NO! NO!” I shout out loud sickened to my core. I wanted to throw up. I had just been shook off by a fish of a lifetime on my fly rod. And just like that monsters of the deep grow old, fat, and wise never to be seen again. 

Ohh and on my way back I blew my spare inner tube and walked my bike the three miles back to camp. Tis is life. And it goes on. One monster (asterisk*) brought in and the grandfather sinks lower and grows older getting the best of yet another angler. 

13. Soul Food

 Mile: 1,592

Leaving Brooklyn Lake Campground was for some reason difficult. I had it in my head that I would pull out as soon as I taped up my window. Places to go, things to see, fish to catch, the open road calling me. “I should be leaving” I thought as I walked over to Doug’s camp site to see his Honda Element and listen to why he likes to use it as his adventure vehicle. We talked for another hour about this and that, he’s getting new windows put in his house, my last adventure to Alaska, his wild mountaineering experience and close brush with death in Scotland years back, the stories just kept coming. The conversation was refreshing. The fact that I was standing next to someone who knew a little bit about me was refreshing. We could laugh about how I was too timid with the hammer to break the window, or talk about the John Grisham book he flew through the day before, or other little oddities that we now shared having been neighbors for 24 hours. I didn’t know Doug’s spiritual beliefs, family values, or the things that really make him who he is, but I knew he has a daughter in Sweden and that he likes to drink wine and read insightful books while looking over the mountains. This is the first big surprise for me this trip. The longing to stay a little longer where I had met a friend. Not wanting to leave and hit the next amazing spot that had trout waiting to be caught, but to stay another thirty minutes, hour, two hours...talking to a friend. 

I have only been traveling away from everyone I know for fifteen days now and I recognize that I value these interactions. Interactions with someone who sees your face and knows that you are good. That you can recall something of the past together and laugh or share some kind of emotion. That is rich. I have met a handful of people along the way that when it comes time to leave, to venture on, it’s not easy. Saying goodbye just isn’t easy I guess when it’s a good thing. There lies the dichotomy of staying put and adventuring on. To stay, is to have deeper relationships with the people you meet. You get to know their sense of humor, their idiosyncrasies, what they like and don’t like. And they get to know those things about you, how you respond in times of crisis, like when you lock your keys in your car far from civilization, time of happiness, sadness, and the like. There comes a beauty in being known. I guess that is why some people choose to live in the same town they were raised in and never leave, or move away for a short time and come back to “settle down”. There’s something innately special when you can swing by a house and know that you’ll be greeted by a familiar goofy grin, or that smart aleck remark, or even an annoying repetitive thing they do that gets on your nerves. There’s something about that consistency, that being “known” aspect of life that is truly comforting. It’s the same feeling when your phone rings and you see the name of an old friend pop up on the screen. A smile inherently creeps across your face thinking about what what accent you will use to answer the phone with. Or when you walk into your parents house and you smell fresh French bread about to come out of the oven reminding you of fond childhood memories. To be known is a good thing. It’s a desire in us all, that I believe God put there, and it needs to be fed. Soul food is what it is. Not like your grandma’s ham, black eyed peas, greens, corn bread, and milk, however, that is also soul food and should not be discredited on how important it is for the betterment of your soul...and stomach. But soul food. The things that breathe life into us and touch us in ways that other things in this world just can’t. To be known is to be blessed. Soul food.

On the other hand, adventure is an indispensable hunger inside of me that must be fed if I am to live. It’s not this hippy go and be, live free and love, ridiculous mindset of flowers and dancing in a field listening to Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix. Although, to be at Woodstock in 1969 would have been crazy and definitely would’ve yielded some hilarious stories I’m sure. But that’s not what this is. It’s a need to adventure. A need to see what’s around the bend, or over that mountain, or hiding in that deep river swirl behind that rock. A need to explore. I think of Meriweather Lewis and William Clark. I think of a handful of John Muir quotes; “Going into the woods is like going home”, “Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt”, “Between every two pines is a doorway into a new world”, “Few places in this world are more dangerous than home. Fear not, therefore, to try the mountain passes. They will kill care, save you from deadly apathy, set you free, and call forth every faculty into vigorous, enthusiastic action.” I wonder how anyone could get inside their car for their commute to work, spend their whole day inside of an office building, then to get inside their car for their commute home, to walk inside their home to go to sleep and start the process over hitting the repeat button for a lifetime, and feel alive. How can someone feel alive when “inside” describes their life. I understand how someone gets to that point, I’ve been there. For years on end I’ve been there. I guess that is why we have so many weekend warrior explorers. Shoot, I mean, that has described my life up until this point. I understand that to afford the necessities of life is something that you can’t go without, obviously. And it is foolish to not save “6 months of life expenses in an emergency fund” thank you Dave Ramsey. But then you add the wants in life such as a boat, fishing gear, other toys or fun things that are expensive. And the fact that most jobs in our society are done from inside an office building behind a computer screen. So I get it. But...that doesn’t diminish that hunger inside of me for adventure. Maybe most people make their work, their vocation, their “adventure” and they are fine with that. Or maybe others bottle up their need for adventure to fully release it for seven to fourteen days out of every three hundred and sixty-five and call it good. I find that I relate much more to John Muir that adventure does not come from between four walls, and it needs to consume more than the yearly 4% vacation time of my life. Adventure comes along a hike to a mountain peak. It comes from wading through frigid water balancing on river rocks. It comes through meeting face to face with a moose in an evergreen thicket. It comes through rounding a bend and seeing a field of wildflowers edging up to a mountain top lake. It comes from hearing the ripple of a trout stream trying to shape the earth bending and winding through rocks rounded smooth. It comes from watching a sunset shower it’s last rays on mule deer making their way into the fields. That’s where adventure comes from. Not knowing what’s around the bend and using your God given feet to go find out. That is soul food. 

And so I ponder, how does one consume both the soul food of being known and the soul food of adventure simultaneously? For me, I cannot survive without both, but how to live without starving one or the other does not seem evident and clear for me just yet. Or is it a seesaw of consumption? Does the weekend warrior have the best and worst of both worlds? Feeding one hunger during the week while starving the other, waiting for the weekend to quench the thirst of adventure? I do not know. And here lies the dichotomy of quenching my hunger for soul food. 

12. Wyoming - The Wild West

 Mile: 1,558

Cowboy land. I used to think of Texas when I thought of cowboy land, and I don’t discredit parts of Texas still being cowboy strong but I have learned that you can’t find yourself in truer cowboy land than when you enter Wyoming. It is indeed, The Wild West. 

Turning off on Hwy 504 my tires found gravel beneath them. The grin crept over my face as I felt the slight forgo of steering control that is lost when tires find gravel in contrast to asphalt. When you reach the perfect gravel driving speed your steering begins to feel a little more like driving a boat than car. Your tires drift over the gravel taking a little more time to respond to your turns allowing you to glide through turns and dips. There’s no other driving like it. Makes me think that rally car racing could possibly be hearts great hidden desire. I think back to drifting through turns out in the Ouachita National Forest On those gravel backwoods roads in my Tacoma. Pure happiness. Finding that line between total control at grampa speeds and no control at reckless speeds, that line is the line that gravel roads are meant to be driven at. To glide is to drive a gravel road correctly. But I’m in Pearl, not my Tacoma. She’s loaded down with food, water, flyfishing gear, climbing gear, hiking / backpacking gear, a refrigerator, stove, laminate flooring, cedar walls, secondary battery, bikes, shower water storage, and contact solution. She is my lively hood for the next 3 months. So she goes more grampa speeds. I’ll put up with it. For now. 

As I drove the 504 leaving Hwy 130 from Centennial to Saratoga I saw true Wild West. They say the antelope outnumber the people in Wyoming. I submit they are correct. When you pass someone on the 504 it’s exciting. It’s another person! I could talk to that person and they could talk back! It’s a strange thing to be so alone on a road, see so far, and be the only person you see. There’s a sense of freedom. A sense of peace. A sense of the need of survival that does not come when you are constantly passing gas stations, Auto Zones, Chipotles, Walmarts. Don’t screw things up out here because you can’t walk next door to use a phone or flag down the person behind you on the road. It’s you. It’s you and Pearl. Ohh and the free range cows and antelope of course. They could always relay a message for you. Maybe this feeling was magnified for me because having Cricket as my service provider I hadn’t had cell service for the last 4 days I was in Wyoming. But I believe that feeling is a good one to have. So many people have never experienced this empowering feeling of being out in the woods with no communication to the outside world where you can’t call and talk to someone in .3 seconds. Or where you can’t google maps your way home. Or where you can’t send a text saying where you are at that moment. You’re truly alone and it’s up to you to get where you’re going, take care of problems, and improvise if need be. It’s empowering. It’s crucial for a man to be in that situation. Whether in the middle of the Ozarks or in over 75% of the state of Wyoming. It’s important. 

Two days later I was driving up Hwy 351 from Rawlins to Alcova. I let off the gas and moved my foot over to the break. I looked in the rear view mirror, empty highway. Looking ahead as far as I could see, empty highway. Coming to a stop Pearl sat still in the desert quiet of Southeastern Wyoming. This was a paved highway, no backroads of desolation. A paved highway. The only life I saw as far as the horizon is a antelope buck standing at 250 yards watching me sit still in the middle of this road seemingly entertained by the sight me. It reminded me of the old man sitting on his front porch shelling and eating peanuts watching. Waiting. Not sure of what would he was waiting for but maybe something would happen that would be entertaining and so he sat and looked on. I turned the key and Pearl stopped purring. Wind was the only sound that greeted my ears. I pulled the key out of the ignition and the “KAWAAAANK!“ of my door unlock gears skipping broke the peaceful silence as I pulled my handle and my door unlocked. “Agh! I still need to fix that.” I thought with frustration. The antelope seemed to be entertained enough to remain standing, watching on. I walked forty steps away from Pearl standing in the middle of the highway. Sitting down I felt the warmth of the asphalt having been warmed by the morning sun. It was a dream. Surreal. No cars. No sounds. No movement. The wind, the road, Pearl, and me, all the while the antelope watching from afar. Wyoming. The Wild West. 

11. 3am and New Friends

Mile: 1,468

The Beartree Tavern and Cafe in Centennial, WY will forever hold a special place in my heart. After being in Medicine Bow-Routt National Forest for somewhere between 48 and 72 hours, cooking for myself, hiking, fishing, and being in the wilderness I was ready for a cold beer and a hot pizza. And to be brought to me at that. There’s something special about having a hot meal brought to you when you’ve been cooking/making everything you eat for 2-3 days straight breakfast, lunch and dinner. I left Medicine Bow-Routt National Forest and headed back south to Centennial. When I passed through the town a few days before at 10:00pm there was one bar with an, “OPEN” sign out front. It had two signs. One said, “OPEN” and the other said, “BAR”. But I passed by it and didn’t stop since I didn’t know where I was going to be sleeping that night I figured I should probably press on. But on this night I was not going to pass it. In fact, that was my one destination. Hot pizza and a cold beer. Little did I know that was going to lead me to a 3am morning. Which frankly, is outrageous. I haven’t seen 3am in years. I mean, years. 

This good ole boy from Kansas sits down next to me, Josh is his name. “Hey my name is Mason, are you from these parts?” I start out. “No sir, I’m from Kansas, and tonight I don’t have kid duty.” He said back. I started to wonder why he mentioned kid duty in the first sentence of conversation but I soon found out why. “Tonight is my one night of freedom on this trip. My wife and I have five kids, and my best friend is with us and they have four kids. That’s NINE kids under the age of eleven. Tonight the ladies are watching them, tomorrow, I have all nine.” He took a sip of his beer. Ahhh it made sense now. I have watched four kids by myself before and the oldest was ten years old and was already taking care of smoke of the mom duties of her siblings. I can’t imagine nine kiddos. Geez. But Josh is a buck farmer. I find out he is responsible for raising big bucks for a few farms in southern Kansas. In fact, I learnEd more about Kansas that night than I’ve ever known. It seems he was pretty proud of his state. Hey, I don’t blame him. Anytime you’re from a state that catches some flack for one reason or another you have to be the one that brags about it. 

Then next to Josh was Bill. Bill is what you may call, a character. He has four teeth, hair like Doc Brown from Back To The Future, and keeps talking about his years living on Venice Beach in California. My first take of Bill is that he used to play in a band that made it to the mid levels but not big enough to not sleep in your van when you go on tour. Hey trust me, I’m not judging, I’m living in a van for goodness sake. So his band played around the US and took him all over but never made the big times. But that said, Bill kept mentioning his paintings. Yes, his paintings. “You’ll like my portraits I’ve done, you should come check them out.” He kept saying. The bar tending giving us side glances motioning, “no, don’t do it.” So Josh and I kept changing the subject anytime it came it. I think if you had the time, Bill could share some stories that would make you think you had entered an alternate universe. He was something else. 

Then we had Alma. Alma Russ. When I walked into the bar / restaraunt she was up on stage playing her guitar and singing. Then she was playing her banjo and singing. And at some point even the fiddle came out. After her set she came and sat down next to us. A true southern bell. She was from North Carolina and drove out to Oregon playing music and to find adventure. 

It wasn’t long till Bill said something unsavory towards Alma and the way she responded I just knew that she knew Jesus. I didn’t say anything for a while but it was just one of those things that you can tell. We laughed and told stories until we closed the bar down. Maybe better said, Josh closed the car down and we were along for the ride. Josh was running the show and at times it seemed like he was the only one in the show. He was the opening act, the main show, and the closing act. One of a kind he was. After a while the Beartree closed up and we headed to the “local” place called the Trading Post. There a couple musicians were taking their turns grabbing the guitar and playing a few songs. Alma was cheered to the stage by all eight of us and she took her turn as well. Nights like that will not be long forgotten. Such a memorable night in a podunk mountain bar in Wyoming with some live music. Good times. 

Somehow before long it was 3am and WELL past my bedtime. Alma was traveling in her Prius. Impressive with all the storage space those are! She had her instruments and belongings for two months in that thing. Blew my mind. She pulled up behind me in the parking lot in the back of a bed and breakfast there in Centennial and we were car camping neighbors for the evening. After we made coffee and breakfast the next morning she headed south and I headed north. And there the end of Centennial came to be.

Hang out with some of the local musicians and I feel you’ll get to know a town much deeper than you would just passing through.