Wyoming Meanderings

I am sitting at the chess table that Michael’s grandfather made, an exquisite piece of woodwork; perfectly square with precise detail, like the card suits embossed into its four corners. It is a thing of beauty. The table sits in the large front window in our living room. We never eat on it because it seems wrong, but we’ve never played chess either. We started a puzzle on it once, which we pecked away at for weeks until we had company over one night and swept all our hard, unfinished work off the table back into the box. We have a little office, but I prefer working out here at this table, with all its history, in the chair that our new puppy Penny chewed one corner of, beside the wood burning stove and the big window with lots of natural light. This is where I will write in Wyoming.

Today’s light is muted grey, and the cold wind is whipping in that harsh way it does in Wyoming. An empty birdfeeder sways violently to and fro on a barren tree out front. The ground is covered in a mixture of muddy, frozen leaves and a smattering of light snow from last night. It is an earthy, stark palette of color outside the big window. All is deafeningly silent until a torrent of wind picks up and rattles the house, plucking the remaining leaves from trees and sending them flying in every direction. A dirty vehicle will roll down the street every now and then, these days often filled with scruffy hunters in camouflage looking for a place to belly up to the bar and get a warm meal.

There are a couple of diners for them to choose from in our little town of Saratoga – J.W Hugus or Del Rio down by the river, or the Historic Wolf Hotel and Restaurant, which is a local favorite and popular with tourists. There’s the Rustic, with the sparring full sized mountain lions behind the bar, or Duke’s where Michael and I met, or the Legion if you’re feeling particularly adventurous. The Saratoga Inn is a good spot to watch football, but the service has something to be desired. The Whistle Pig Saloon is on the outskirts of town right beside the taxidermy place and don’t forget to swing by the Beaver Liquor drive-thru if you need a six-pack to go.  Bella’s is the fancy Italian restaurant for special occasions and Platte River Pizza has the best crust and the friendliest staff in town. For ice cream, it’s definitely Lollipops and for mouthwatering cinnamon rolls and a good cup of coffee, Sweet Marie’s is your answer. And with that, I have exhausted every dining option in Saratoga.

There’s a couple gas stations, a medical clinic, a post office, a hardware store, a community center and all the basic businesses needed to sustain a town. There’s one grocery store with taxidermy lining every inch of space on the walls. After a while you hardly notice the gigantic bear in the glass case when you enter the store. There’s a lovely art gallery, and for a small town, more than enough kitschy Wyoming tourist shops with knick knacks. I’ve been told a million people come through Saratoga every year, which I’m not sure I believe, but the natural hot springs, and guest ranches are a big draw, as are the fishing, hunting, and snowmobiling in the winter.

This little town of 1,700 people has grown on me over the last year and a half, and I am always pleasantly surprised when I discover something new that somehow I missed until now. In the summer, there is a nostalgic sense of old America, when nobody locked their doors, and kids play past sundown. The whole town comes out for the 4^th of July parade down Bridge Street and the feeling of a tight knit community is strong. There are rodeos and beer fests, and a farmer’s market every Monday. There is a quiet, thriving artistic community here too and nothing beats a summer evening listening to live country or blue grass at The Yard, a quaint music venue on the river. The winters become quiet after the tourists leave and people enter hibernation mode, hunkering down in their warm homes out of the freezing temperatures.

I have met some of the kindest people in my life here, and also the rudest rednecks, including the one who slapped me hard on the ass while I picked out music on the jukebox at a local bar. I should have turned around and decked him, but I didn’t because I was new in town, and frankly, in shock. For the record, I have toughened up during my time in the country and from this day forward will punch any son of a bitch square in the jaw who dare lay a hand on me.

Wyoming is a place that toughens you up. It is the Wild West after all, and might be the farthest cry from modern America that still exists today. It is where the real cowboys work, and truly where the deer and antelope play. Traffic doesn’t exist. Dogs don’t need leashes. The landscapes and seasons are harsh and unforgiving and it can be a lonely place if you want it to be. Or maybe that’s what you came for. There’s nobody around after all, it’s the least populated state in the U.S and the high desert plains and sagebrush country roll on for miles and miles, though mountain ranges are visible from just about anywhere. The wide open space is freeing and therapeutic. Long winding dirt roads that go as far as the eye can see become a meaningful obsession. “It looks like possibility,” said my friend Sheila when she saw a photo of one such road.

I would be hard pressed to use the word ‘beautiful’ to describe Wyoming, which to me denotes lushness in the context of landscape. Indeed, there are stunning mountain ranges, rivers, sunsets and wildlife but somehow it’s just not the right word. The distinct beauty of Wyoming lies in its starkness, its extremes, its ability in all that barren wide open space to strip you down to your core, without all the external distractions, to find out what is left, what you are made of, what moves your soul and makes your heart beat.

I am not entirely sure what brought me to Wyoming, other than a “silent strange pull” but here I am, walking amidst the sagebrush, the wind at my face, madly in love with my man in flannel, and exploring all this wide open space with a sense of peace and contentment like I have never felt before.