Bob-
You're right on with regard to the daily life of the Wyoming settlers...my mom
was born in a one room cabin that my grandmother homesteaded near Landers,
Wyoming. My grandmother taught school in a one room school house (K-8), and
her diary/journal records daily events that would astound today's
homemaker...EVERYTHING took longer, was done from scratch, going to town to
purchase merchandise was an all day trip, and social events took days of
preparation. Methinks modern folks take too much for granted...
-Don
From: [EMAIL PROTECTED]: [EMAIL PROTECTED]: [ENTS] Re: June 29thDate: Tue, 23
Sep 2008 12:15:26 +0000
Don,
Thanks and thanks for the old images. They often tell a story of struggle,
hardship, and perseverance - pioneer qualities.
Wyoming is an unforgiving landscape. Despite my usualt tone, I'm thankful
for modern conveniences and the opportunity to enjoy places that would have
been hell to get through or live in in pioneer times. I just hate to see a
great land compromised by too much western-styled civilization. Fortunately,
most Wyoming towns still pride themselves on their western roots and are pretty
much the real deal.
The next chapter will see us crossing into Idaho, a state that I came to
like far beyond my original expectations. Pocatello is a very friendly place -
just the right size. It will grow and gradually be transformed into what one
encounteres in the greater Salt Lake City region of Utah, but for at least
another couple of decades, Pocatello would be a great place to live. More on
that in due course.
Bob
-------------- Original message -------------- From: DON BERTOLETTE <[EMAIL
PROTECTED]>
Bob-What a grand journey you and Monica took! You're narrative is sufficiently
descriptive, photos are not needed! Nonetheless, I thought I'd attach some
family photos that were taken in Wyoming around the turn of the century, one
taken at the entrance to the Thermopolis Hot Springs, and the other of the Wild
Bill Cody Show...I promise not to mention that I had been one of those thrill
seekers who went down the Snake Rivers on a raft (in my defense it was for
official R & R between 2 two-week stints fighting fires there in the late
80's)...;>} -DonRB
From: [EMAIL PROTECTED]: [EMAIL PROTECTED]: [EMAIL PROTECTED]; [EMAIL
PROTECTED]: [ENTS] June 29thDate: Mon, 22 Sep 2008 23:53:23 +0000
ENTS,
The June 29th episode follows. A lot fewer statistics.
June 29th
Monica and I arose to a gorgeous day, ate a quick breakfast, and
hit the road. By the 29th, we had become adept in our morning routine. We
travel very well together. Monica is the boss, and that is that. Once I came to
appreciate this little bit of reality, we were freed to move quickly as a team,
conserving time for sights on the road.
I suppose we could have sought out the thermal springs, but there
is too much development around them and there is nothing else in or around
Thermopolis that grabs the attention. Besides, visions of snowcapped peaks
danced in my head. I could see it clearly. The day would be a splendid
mountain-fest: high summits, rushing streams, dizzying canyons, and soothing
spruce-fir forests. It would be a soup to nuts menu of landscape delights, and
I would be Monica’s enthusiastic guide, spouting altitudes, river lengths, and
the like until warned off by a menacing stare.
I was looking especially forward to the forests that I knew we
would encounter by midday. Approached from the high plains, the forests would
appear on the mountainsides as wavering bands of mottled green suspended
between an increasingly tilted landscape of sagebrush below and stern rock
above. Once in the interior of a mountain kingdom, the green would be
transformed into a continuous lush carpet, cloaking steep slopes down to
streambeds, but giving way to barren cliffs and alpine vegetation near the high
summits.
The domain ruled by the Wyoming forests is sparse and well-defined.
It stands in sharp contrast to the ubiquitous forests of the East. Scarcity
induces value. To the plains-weary traveler, the western variety of mountain
woodlands adds visually attractive morsels to the scant grasslands that cover
much of Wyoming. But irrespective to one’s tastes in natural scenery, there are
disturbing distractions increasingly evident over the Wyoming landscape. Oil
wells, deep gashes in the Earth to reclaim the black gold that feeds power
plants, even long lines of more be nign windmills, are all ugly intrusions into
a country that was meant to be ruled by sunlight, wind, and storm.
As we headed west, we planned to end the day in the vicinity of
Jackson, Wyoming. Camping was a possibility, but a motel more likely. Besides,
the following day we would be in Pocatello, Idaho where we would be comfortably
ensconced at my daughter’s and son-in-law’s home for two and a half weeks. But
as we left Thermopolis, my attention was on more immediate objectives. I wanted
to reach Riverton as fast as possible, and then turn northwest onto U.S. 287
into what would be new territory for Monica. We would aim for Dubois and the
scenic Togwotee Pass beyond. Near the pass, we would be slicing our way through
the mighty Wind Rivers and those silent volcanic sentinels, the Absorakas. I
would be presented with an opportunity to divulge more juicy statistics for
Monica’s consideration. I was thinking of an acceptable venue to sneak in some
all important numbers, which brings me to a br ief digression on Wyoming’s
spectacular terrain.
Crossing Wyoming by automobile from any direction involves both
passing between and across mountain ranges. Sometimes the distance between
ranges seems so vast, such as in southern Wyoming, that calling the region the
Rockies seems misnamed. In other locations, northwestern Wyoming to name a
place, mountain ranges are set one against the other with the traveler never
sure of when a transition has been made: when one range has been exited and
another entered. However, geologists are still sorting out the history of the
landforms. It can be exciting to study landforms and contemplate the tectonic
forces that dwarf human activity.
In the expanse of Wyoming’s high plains, the snowcapped summits of
a mountain range will first appear on the horizon as ghostly lines of blue
punctuated by spots of white. The significance of the horizon’s undulating form
is clear only to an experienced traveler, but as the wavering blue is
approached and grows dramatically as a land feature, attention is demanded – or
at least it would have been to the pioneers. Driving a team of stout oxen, I
can imagine the dread of the uninitiated. Would the looming form have to be
crossed? Would there be wild canyon with no way through? Would there be
dizzying precipices to fall over?
For today’s traveler, no such apprehension need be felt. The good
side of modern technology frees us to enjoy beckoning landscapes in complete
comfort. One can become lost in the beauty of the landforms without actually
getting lost in those landforms. One can sense the changing forms as an
artistic abstraction. For me, it is the pleasing alternation between high
plains and mountain majesty that so attracts me to the Cowboy State. In
Wyoming, the traveler need never feel trapped by one kind of terrain. One
simply needs to be aware of what lies along a chosen route. But alas, the
wealth of Wyoming landforms is lost to so many travelers – the destination to
destination types with no attention paid to the in-betweens. A traveler may
have heard of the Grand Tetons, but no nothing of the other ranges - lumping
them all under the broad generic of the Rockies. Still others can become conf
used and think that local range names reflect different mountains, i.e.
mountains not part of the Rocky Mountain chain.
A closer examination of Wyoming’s mountains reveals five major
ranges and a dozen or so minor ones – with allowance for disagreement on what
one labels a major versus minor range. By my reckoning, the Grand Tetons, Wind
Rivers, Absorakas, Big Horns, and Laramie are the major ranges. The more
important of the minor ranges include the Medicine Bow, Snake River, Salt
River, Wyoming, Washakie, Gros Ventre, Sierra Madre, Black Hills, and Gallatin.
The Pryor, Bridger, Owl Creek, Seminoe, and Rattlesnake Ranges represent some
of the even lesser known minor ranges that travelers typically bypass on the
way to somewhere else.
On the 29th, our route took us along the Bighorn River and into the
scenic Wind River Canyon, before reaching the small Indian town of Shoshoni and
larger Riverton beyond. Monica had seen the Wind River Canyon a couple of years
ago. It is a feast for the eyes, but unfortunately, it is traveled at high
speed by most motorists. Most truckers I observe speeding through the canyon as
part of a routine would likely be hard pressed to recall a single feature of
the surrounding landscape – a perpetual insult in my way of viewing thing s.
The passage is too easy, but that would not have been true in times past.
In places, Wind River Canyon is 2,500 feet deep and well-designed
geological plaques advise the traveler of their time travel from one geological
era of the Earth’s formation to another. The record is preserved in rock strata
to be read by those with the skills to decode the events.
An interesting fact when traveling into Wind River Canyon is the
point reached which is called the changing of the waters. The Big Horn River
emerges from the Wind River Canyon. While in the canyon, it is still named the
Wind River. It is the only river to undergo a name change in midcourse, a fact
not lost to me. When thinking about a geological feature, I like to know the
origin of its name and what it represented to past human inhabitants. In terms
of Wind River to Big Horn, I’m unsure of the history of the name change – a
research topic for the future.
As we turned northwest out of Riverton, I knew the Wind River would
thread us to between the Wind River Mountains to the south and the Absorakas to
the north and it would be through open country. After Riverton, towns are
scarce, Dubois being the only one and a worthy one at that. Dubois is an
attractive little town with a unique naming history. According to Wikipeda, the
town underwent a name change.
“Dubois, Wyoming was originally known as Never Sweat due to its warm and dry
winds. However, the postal service found the name Never Sweat unacceptable so
Dubois was accepted, named after Fred Dubois, an Idaho senator at the time. In
protest, the citizens of Dubois rejected the French pronunciation, instead
opting for Du with u as in Sue; bois, as oi in voice. The accent is on the
first syllable.”
I find this name change both fascinating and funny. However,
another account ascribes the name Never Sweat to the lazy disposition of the
town’s residents. Regardless, why name a town after a politician from a
different state? I do understand the Postal Service’s reluctance to retain the
name “Never Sweat”, but changing it to an Idaho politician? Well, guess who was
on the Postal Committee at the time of the name change. That is correct,
Senator Dubois from Idaho. Love those politicians.
As for my tastes, I would have preferred a more appropriate name
like Wind River City. The Wind River does flow through Dubois and the town lies
at the foot of the magnificent Wind River Mountains. Oh well, what’s in a name?
As we passed through Dubois, we noticed a museum dedicated to the
bighorn sheep named the National Bighorn Sheep Interpretive Center. We stopped
for a visit and found the little museum to be delightful. It had excellent
displays of the different species of mountain sheep to include a species from
the southern end of Rockies and one from
Alaska. I should also point out that Dubois is located near the nationally
famous Whisky Mountain Bighorn Sheep herd that once numbered over 1,400
individuals. However, the herd was in serious decline around 1991 due to an
unknown factor. After failed attempts to reverse the decline, coyote predation
of the lambs was identified as the main reason for the population crash. It
took a number of years research to establish the cause of the problem. The herd
appears to be on the rebound with the control of the coyote population.
As we headed west from Dubois, I was struck by the beauty of the
Wind Rivers rising just to the south and paralleling our toute. It is ideal
country to me. The basin in which Dubois sets becomes narrower as you travel
westward, becoming walled in by the Absorakas to the north and Wind Rivers to
the south. The landscape is shaped like a huge letter V laid on its side, with
the vertex of the V at the west end. The two mountain ranges form a pincer like
grip and converge at Togwotee Pass. But it was shortly after leaving Dubois
that I came to fully appreciate the nature of the landscape, its exquisite
blend of plains in a broad mountain valley, and of course, the mountains.
Dubois sets at between 6,900 and 7,000 feet altitude. It has a
moderately severe winter climate as my last trip report indicated with an
average annual temperature of 39.7 degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature in
Dubois has been as low as 49 degrees below zero and its all time high of 100 is
not that extreme, especially considering the dryness of the climate. Dubois
averages only 9.5 inches of precipitation annually, which qualifies it
technically for desert status. Little precipitation falls in winter, so the
snow load is light. One could find a far worse place to settle, but actually,
it is more than that.
I struggle to find the right words to convey my affection for the
landforms that are so pleasingly represented around Dubois. The Wind River
Mountains rise fairly gently from the south. A mix of sagebrush and grasses
adorn the lower slopes, slopes that grow ever steeper until sufficient altitude
is attained to support a thin distribution of trees. With more altitude the
tree cover grows thicker and eventually dominates, first in the wetter ravines
and then along the length of the ridge. Trees may cover the summits, but
usually surrender to the rock gods, two-thirds to three-quarters of the way up
the slopes. From a distance, the mountains look accessible, even friendly: one
can discern pathways following the spine of a ridge that retain grassy
coverings and invite the hiker to experience unobstructed views. However, as
seen from the base of the mountains, the country is deceptive. In a horizontal
distance of a few miles into the mountain interior, the terrain becomes
harsher. Beauty to the eye is guaranteed, but the spectacle comes at a price.
The Wind River Mountains are incredibly rugged. Eventually, one must surmount
the Wind River’s 13,000-foot snow-clad summits, home to the largest glaciers in
the entire Rocky Mountain chain south of Canada. Names like Mammoth Glacier
speak volumes. No wonder people who have grown up dreaming of the Wind Rivers
find their high country like no place on Earth.
As Monica and I neared 9,658-foot Togwotee Pass, we spotted a side
road to Brooks Lake and on the spur of the moment decided to take the road. The
lake lies at an altitude of 9,048 feet and is nestled beneath the scenic
Palisades that rise precipitously to wall in the lake. To the northeast, the
Pinnacles abruptly rise to an altitude of 11,516 feet. The summits of both the
Palisades and Pinnacles lie well above timberline in this especially beautiful
area of the Absoraka-Wind River juxtaposition.
As we neared Brooks Lake, we found a likely picnic spot in full
view of the Palisades and the Pinnacles, and stopped in a grassy spot near a
snowfield. Before eating, we took a leisurely stroll around part of the shore
gazing at deep blue water against the remnants of lava formations from the
formation of those most mysterious of Wyoming mountains, the Absorakas. On
return from our walk, I could not resist frolicking in the snowdrift as Monica
understandingly prepared our lunch. Little boys will be little boys and Monica
knew she had one in me.
On leaving Brooks Lake, I think both of us shared the notion of a
return one day to camp and explore this remarkable region. The only negative
from my viewpoint is the return of the Grizzly. Warning signs are everywhere
evident and hikers are cautioned to carry bells or other noise makers. Pepper
spray is also recommended. I do admire that great beast; just not in my
backyard. Nonetheless, I would return to camp at Brooks Lake and maybe climb up
into the realm of the mountain gods on the Pinnacles.
At Togwotee Pass, I struggled to recall the origin of the name.
Subsequent research reminded me that Togwotee was a feared medicine man of the
Sheep Eater tribe of the Northern Shoshone. Togwotee was a sub-chief to the
greatest of all Shoshone chiefs, Washakie. According to my research, the Sheep
Eaters lived in the high country around what is now Yellowstone National Park.
They were true mountain Indians. The following quote from the Shoshone
Reservation archives describes the life style attributed to the tribe.
“They stayed up there in the mountains. They did not go among the Plains Indian
buffalo eaters. They used dogs for packing and watching their packhorses. They
used snowshoes and could run and jump between cliffs with these. It was a hard
life in the mountains. In the fall they would come down to the foot of the
mountains. They did not like to dance or anything like that, they just looked
for their food. They were clean people.”
I find this description of the Sheep Eaters compelling. I am
unaware of any other tribe that mastered mountain living so thoroughly and
lived such isolated lives. Their training from youth must have been rigorous
and singularly focused for them to develop skills like no others. I am anxious
to learn more, if the information exists, about this branch of the Northern
Shoshone. I intend to find a worthy pine in the Elders Grove of Mohawk Trail
State Forest to name the Togowtee Pine.
Passing beyond Togwotee Pass about nine miles, one reaches the
point where the country suddenly opens up to the west and presents the traveler
with a breathtaking view of Jackson Hole and the Tetons beyond. Even for
travelers who do not know a single fact about the Tetons, the view of them is
so striking as to illicit gasps. It is a scene unlike any of the previous
mountain panoramas on that east to west corridor. I will save a full
description of the Tetons for a later chapter of the trip chronicles. Suffice
it to say here that they are incomparable, and from the moment I first saw
them, the image of their long line of rugged, sky-piercing peaks impressed
itself on me. In my prior home in Holyoke, two walls of my bedroom were devoted
to murals of the Tetons. A second mural covered a wall in the upstairs
passageway to the third floor. In addition a large painting of the Grand Teton
hung that the midpoint of the stairs going from the downstairs to the second
floor. In those days, the Tetons were never far from my mind – nor are they
today.
Passing through Jackson Hole and toward the town of Jackson, Monica
and I sensed that the motel prices would be higher than the pinnacles of the
surrounding Tetons. The towns of western Wyoming and Jackson in particular have
entered the era of catering to richer people who expect to pay city prices. At
the south end of Jackson Hole, Jackson is now a shee-shee town, admittedly
attractively constructed, but devoid of any real resemblance to a western town.
Jackson favors international visitors and features lots of touristy attractions
that detract fro m the surrounding mountain glory, but hold the attention of
the spoiled financially well to do. Fortunately, the Tetons are majestic,
almost overpowering. They have such a dominating presence that they have
survived the current level of human encroachment. So, with dollar signs in our
eyes, fearing a royal fleecing, we decided to contin ue on southward toward the
small town of Alpine, Wyoming. I think it was a good decision.
As we drove south, we passed through the Grand Canyon of the Snake
River, not to be confused with Hell’s Canyon on the Idaho-Oregon border that is
also known as the Grand Canyon of the Snake. The former canyon is also called
just the Snake River Canyon. It is highly scenic, but the road through it is
close to the bottom, near the Snake River, so one never gets a feeling for the
verticality of the canyon. I noticed high peaks with areas above timberline and
guessed the mountains to attain elevations over 10,000 feet. That is in fact
the case. Basically, the Snake River cuts through what is called the Snake
River Range to the north and the Salt River Range to the south. It is a name
change without a distinction. It is all the same mountain range.
The big attraction of the Snake River Canyon is white water
rafting. The canyon’s proponents number among those gallant warriors of rapid
waters who have little time to learn about the surrounding landforms, their
names, characteristics, or origins. The rafters’ task is to stay afloat,
drinking as little river water as possible on each crashing journey through the
spray, as their crafts leap and lurch over and around rocks the size of
Volkswagens. It is a sport I respect, but have not been motivated to take up.
One aspect of the sport for which I am thankful is that unlike mountain skiing
at sky resorts, pristine terrain does not have to be trashed for the pleasure
of speed freaks and thrill seekers. I may not make any friends with this
statement, but that is the way I feel.
Once through the Snake River Canyon, we homed in on the little town
of Alpine, which lies in about as idyllic a setting as one could ask. Alpine
has little of the ostentatious development of Jackson. For most, it is a
convenient stopping point on a journey, but the proprietors of nightly
accommodations had been schooled in the art of pricing for the summer months,
riding in on the coattails of Jackson. However, road weariness has a way of
wearing down one’s resolve to sleep cheaply. We paid our $129 for a modest, but
well-decorated room, ate a scrumptious meal at the adjoining restaurant and fo
rked over another bundle. We agreed that we would not splurge often, but would
rather do it in Alpine than Jackson.
After checking in, I asked the proprietor about the mountains just
beyond the motel to the north and west. A dramatic uplift began less than half
a mile away from the motel. It was the Snake River Range, but the woman at the
desk had no statistics to lay on me, nor did she know the name of the range.
Though a long time resident, she had not absorbed even the names of the nearby
landforms, to say nothing of their cultural history, or hidden scenic secrets.
However, she seemed to genuinely appreciate her mountains in some aggregate
context - appreciation at a distance- a kind of nature as a living wallpaper,
but that is far preferable to no appreciation at all. I recognized that I would
have to find my facts about the Sna ke River Range elsewhere. For that point in
time, a soft bed was enough for both Monica and me, enjoyed in the coolness of
a Wyoming summer night.
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