When we arrived in Dubois, Wyoming (pop: 983), the local newspaper showed sandbags lining the banks of the Wind River. A record snow had left thirty-foot drifts and four-foot flats in the high country where we planned to ride. Warm summer days had caused the melt to turn meadows into lakes. Dustin, our outfitter/guide/wrangler, is, deservedly, a local hero. His prudent decision was to postpone the trail ride a day. We “camped” at his ranch, sleeping on the carpet of the A-frame house I had designed for his father, Larry, about forty years ago. Dustin lectures us about Grizzly bears. All food, along with chewing gum, breath mints and toothpaste must be locked in an airtight steel bearbox at sunset. (While we are out a Japanese tourist will be “shredded” in Yellowstone.)
Don Van Osdol and his wife, Marie Gaudard, had watched tango dancers and ridden with gauchos with us in Argentina. Don had told of giving Marie a used hedge trimmer for a twenty-fifth anniversary present. Leon Simpkins has been on twenty-two Condor adventures. He tells tales of the Inca Trail, the Usumacinta River, and of our going way off-road on the Sinai desert to buy a hand-woven camel blanket from an isolated Bedouin family for the Bazaar. Beverly Simpkins has an exceptionally pleasant disposition that we all enjoy. Marjorie Myers was referred to us by Mike Mahoney, who had been here with us and his sisters, Martha and Molly Mahoney, and his niece, Kara. Kara did not want to leave. One night, she and Martha slept outside under a sky awash with brilliant stars undimmed by pollution. Marjorie is a low-maintenance, self-starter who does not expect to be pampered: a guide’s dream. The daughter of an Air Force pilot, she grew up in the Philippines, Spain and Montana, where she owned horses and competed in rodeo barrel races.
Dustin, wearing a high-crowned 10-gallon hat and a rodeo trophy belt buckle, hitches his pick-up to a stock trailer that (loaded with nine saddle horses, pack mules, food, feed, tack and our camp gear) weighs about 18,000 pounds. Mandy, is our camp cook. Her father owns a guest ranch near Gannett Peak (13,809 ft), the highest mountain in Wyoming. Some years ago, Bob Austin, Jim Piercy, Bob Goldie, Michele Macfatridge, Mark Degomine and I climbed it. After coming down we, and most of the townspeople, watched Gio, a traveling stripper, perform at the Ramshorn Inn. The next morning, the historic establishment was shut down for good. Mandy’s daughter, Abby, comes with us as far as the trailhead. She is a beautiful precocious child with flaxen hair in braids and clear turquoise eyes. She matter-of-factly states that she was the smartest in her kindergarten. When a horse prances dangerously close she runs to where I sit, hugs my shoulder, and confides, “My Grandpa taught me to do that.” Whose heart would not melt?
Photo: Marjorie Myers
We ride to our campsite by a rushing creek overlooking a grass meadow defined by deep forests with snow-capped cliffs rising above—the Absaroka Range. We will not see another human being for five days. The silence and solitude soothe the soul. Our other wrangler, Steven, is in high school, but is more mature and self-reliant than most adults, possibly the result of summers of hard work and vigilance upon which others’ comfort and safety depend. He does not have a girlfriend because “they are too much trouble.”
We fish a nearby lake and catch thirteen brook trout. Mandy broils the four largest as delicate rich hors d'oeuvres. The main courses are chicken breasts, pork tenderloin, and as a finale, huge T-bones custom-cut by Wind River Meat. All are grilled over a wood fire. Marie says she is obsessive-compulsive. We watch her cast off petty anxieties and embrace the simple rigors of camping. Don is articulate and profound. His wit-laced conversation is entertaining. Over the next few days two moose and countless deer pass near our camp. A herd of elk grazes on the slopes above.
Photo: Marjorie Myers
We ride to a pass overlooking where the Mahoney’s camped. The dramatic beauty overwhelms Bev, and she breaks into tears. One afternoon the big paint horse shows symptoms of colic (which is often fatal). Dustin injects it with a muscle relaxant, and he and Steve take turns keeping the animal walking until two in the morning.
Photo: Marjorie Myers
The days are clear and warm, the nights chilly. We ride out fatigued, relaxed and happy. After hot showers and clean clothes we attend the weekly rodeo. The most fascinating event is the “Mutton Busters”; children (under the age of six!) attempt to stay on the backs of bucking sheep. Then it is on to the Rustic Pine Tavern, the social and cultural center of Dubois. Ranchers, oil-riggers and others come over to introduce themselves and welcome us to their town. Music by the talented Roaring Fork Band pulses across the dancehall. The lead singer is a tall brunette in halter-top, pink skirt and high cowgirl boots. She plays the mandolin, ukulele and guitar. Don and Marie are showstoppers with their ballroom style. The crowd applauds. Cowboys hoot, “Dip her again! Dip her!”
We have our last breakfast at the Cowboy Café. Marie is reluctant to leave.
It has been a strong experience.
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We will return next year for a shorter trail ride, a tour of Yellowstone and a stay at a bed and breakfast on a friend’s working ranch.
Buz Donahoo
