Wyoming Day

Wyoming was: horses, tobacco products, wind, dusty pickup trucks, trains, trailer-homes, and ravagingly beautiful scenery.  We passed a town called “Ranchester”, which, unfortunately, is not too different from the actual pronunciation of that upstate town, “Rochester.”

This Christmas I chose to fly home, leaving my car in Seattle for later collection, to avoid driving across the country in winter. Well, in Wyoming we had winter anyway. In those high elevations the snow blinded our path, the wind was clawing, ravaging, relentless. There was enough snow to be frustrating. Our car sneezed back and forth from the buffeting winds and we passed workmen bent by it; their florescent vests flapping violently.

I don’t know how people make it here.

For our Wyoming Night I had emailed a stranger from the bicycling-host-network, Mr. Handlebar Moustache, who had a bed and breakfast right at the base of Devil’s Tower (which is a huge monolith of granite extruded from the earth, looming outstanding from the surrounding pines and prairies—the nation’s First national monument). Even though we aren’t bicycle touring I explained my story, and offered that we’d provide a mobile Indian Restaurant. Within a few hours I had a voice-mail with a resounding welcome, come and stay at the bed and breakfast—his treat!—and he would love to be cooked for.

Absolutely low-season in the tourist trade, and Mr. Moustache was the lone soul around his place and just about the only other one near the park. Probably around 60 or 70, he was lean and only a little grizzled, speaking in a languid drawl. A climber, runner, and cyclist, he and I resonated about that near-panic itch of being stuck inside on a sunny day. We were astounded to learn he’d climbed that rock probably 2,000 times. “You just climb it once at a time though baby” he said, and then felt I could do anything: I wanted to run for miles or bicycle across the country.

In addition to Anurag’s luscious curry, and a green salad, I had brought out my pop-corn popper. One of those pots with a lid and a little handle-turner, to whisk around in the bottom to keep everyone from burning. Mr. Moustache stared at it, “Cosmic” he said, impressed, then: “Galactic.”

After Mr. India and I had hiked around the great rock, admiring it’s structure like many organ pipes smushed together, we came in from the cold and made ourselves at home in the kitchen. He made us a wood fire and we ate curry on couches, while gazing out the window at that amazing rock. It was like a 5-star hotel with expensive exclusive views, but all because of hopefully reaching out and being welcomed.  

Mr. Moustache invited me to play the piano—how convenient that I happened to have my music books on this trip (oh, and all of my other possessions too)—and so I eagerly sat down and played gospel and Celtic and jazzy old hymns. I heard his drawling voice, from a reclining type angle from the living room, “THAT is delicious. I wanna put it on a plate and sop it up with a biscuit.” And just like my Dad, he griped when I said, “ok last one!”

What a good trade, with no money necessary. Two travelers received a warm place to sleep with a totally unique view and someone in the quiet season of no visitors had dinner and piano music. 

(please see accompanying photo albums appearing on Facebook)