Wyoming

On the map, Kirsten saw a scenic detour, possibly unpaved, that we approached around sundown in our traversal across Wyoming. The Pine Creek Ski Area was marked with a tent sign indicating a campground and we thought it a possible route through mountains to get to the Flaming Gorge in Utah. We took the turn and the pavement soon ended while our path made a quick ascent over a wild range, surely populated with unsavory creatures such as grizzly, wolves and ornery moose. We kept on as the road got worse and worse. The dirt red brown mud sprayed all over Tommy Three Reds, covering even his high roof. We stopped to let Lu and Mar visit some bushes, a task distracted by a high-speed chase along a tall ridge. Fortunately, it was just a deer and not one of the aforementioned creatures. We came to a fork in the road. A sign indicated potentially long and grueling paths over old snowmobile paths. We turned around not seeing any indication of the highway that we sought after. We made our way back to the flats, where a large camper was parked, a sign indicating that it belonged to John. Evidently, John was expecting company and a small town of four-wheelers and huge Wyoming trucks with the ubiquitous bucking bronco decal on the license plate so attached to the spirit of all Wyomingans and their big rigs. We parked our tent in a gulch, ripe with willow trees and mosquitoes and an ileum of a massive animal, most likely an elk or moose. As she banned from the truck, her odor made too offensive by rubbing in another dead critter’s remains, Lupe slept in the dirt. The near full moon split through the tent like a floodlight illuminating an escape at a prison compound, waking us up and causing Lu to panic.