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August 14, 2008
Wyyyyyoming...Where the Wind Comes Whipping Down the Plain
As hoped for, our trip to the hinterlands was a great success. There were hikes, beers, sunshine and rainbows, cowboy potatoes served up alongside cowboys and my first ever golf game (during which, ahem, the owner of the course said I was a "natural" and better than 25-percent of the women who played there). I learned that the U.S. Forest Service is not a respected agency, that women who work summers around town are called "ranch cookies," that hubcaps lock in 4-wheel drive, that native son Matthew Fox is a hot motherfucker (though I already knew that, just confirmed), that taxidermic skins are stretched over foam molds and that, when you golf, you have to decide whether you're going to put your arms over your boobs or under them. The squeeze method I perfected is not the ideal.
Photography, ye do no justice.
The scenery was increeeedible. The people were increeeeedibly friendly and funny and cool. There were five stuffed bighorn sheep heads lined up on the wall of the bar. I left the shampoo and conditioner Matt bought me in the motel. The dogs hated the "all natural" biscuits I got them. Matt packed four pairs of shoes, me only two. (Turns out he was right.)
So here's the story: turns out if I play my cards right, I just might get to spend **all** next summer up there, writing and reveling and dodging moose in one of the most beautiful places I've ever been in my life. Matt's pleased as rum punch that I'd even consider it but, like I told him, Dubois reminded me a lot more of where I done came from than Denver ever would or ever could. I guess there's something to be said for trying to find home. Besides, the longer I stay up there, the better chance I have of matin' and relatin' with the aforementioned Fox. And that's important.
Posted by Bree at August 14, 2008 08:32 AM