Going west. Riverdale. Got gas because at this point it wasn't clear when the next opportunity would come.
Shoshone. West. The color ended as though it had simply seeped more deeply into the earth, for the earth to crumble away and expose it for some other epoch.
The color ended and so did the hills. Flat and colorless now. A two-line highway. Only the smell of sage and the occasional car. No houses. Infrequent settlements with populations of 10 or 15.
I thought, "If something goes wrong out here, how long will I have to wait?"
Two dead cows by the side of the road, rotting.
Finally, Hell's Half Acre. This is what I'm out here for. Drove 200 miles out of the way because a co-worker said it was cool. It was just a valley. Frankly, the painted desert out there before the reservation was much more awesome. This was a mini Bryce. A pothole.
I went into the store there to buy postcards and the woman said, "This is about the loneliest spot you could've wandered into, isn't it?"
For Casper. Two lanes, no color, until the road widened and Japanese massage parlors and 24-hour dancing establishments cropped up along the side of the road. Made of corrugated aluminum. No windows. The tiniest doors to humble entrants. Just like Japanese tea rooms. Bigass trucks parked outside.
You live in Wyoming, you deserve a bigass truck, a truck with six wheels and mirrors sticking out into the next lane.
Nobody is camping in or near Casper.
past
index