A Wyoming Memoir: Chapter 1: Every mile holds a memory

Although I haven’t lived in Wyoming for nearly 60 years, it has never left me. The memories of my life there are always close to the surface.

Years ago, I began displaying Wyoming memorabilia in my office, posters from the Cody Rodeo, a rusty Big Horn County license plate I rescued from an old junked pickup, a Wyoming flag, a weathered state line sign riddled with bullet holes and photographs of Sunlight Basin. Rarely does a day go by without Wyoming becoming part of a conversation. Visitors notice the pieces, ask questions, and before long we’re talking about the West.

That becomes especially true as our annual trip approaches. Everyone who knows me knows I love Wyoming, and they know when another journey west is near. Each spring, as departure day draws closer, I can feel my adrenaline building at the thought of reuniting with friends, family and familiar places.

Such were the emotions this year when Susan, our dog Lucky and I pointed the car west and began the long drive home.

About 800 miles into the trip, subtle clues began to appear, signs that our homeland, though still another 800 miles away, was drawing closer.

A South Dakota cattle truck, manure plastered along its rails, felt like a welcome sign. At rest stops, cowboy hats and boots began replacing sneakers and ball caps. Even the candy changed. Big Hunks, Nibs, Salted Nut Rolls and Cherry Bings, rarely seen east of the Mississippi, suddenly became our breakfast of choice.

A couple of miles north of Sioux Falls, we turned west onto I-90, and though nearly 600 miles remained, it felt as if we were almost home. I-90 stretches 410 miles across South Dakota, and it is a beautiful drive. Winter wheat waves in the wind, and you can see forever. The landscape shifts from prairie to Badlands to the Black Hills, each with its own quiet grandeur.

The prevailing western headwind, paired with an 80-mph speed limit, meant more frequent fuel stops, though in the West, that’s not a nuisance. Gas stations and rest stops are like office water coolers. Everyone is from somewhere else, and everyone has a story and they like to share it. Traveling with a dog guarantees conversation. Sharing dog tales becomes standard rest-stop dialogue. Anyone wanting to sharpen their social skills should take a cross-country trip with a four-legged companion.

The further west one travels there are perceptible changes in topography, population and just as noticeable, bugs. The windshield looks like it’s been peppered with buckshot, especially in the late afternoon and evening. Florida may have a bug reputation, but western travelers would argue otherwise. Some of those bugs seem capable of stripping paint.

At 80 mph, the miles disappeared quickly. The Badlands, the Black Hills, Wall Drug and Rapid City faded into the rearview mirror. After crossing the Wyoming state line, the terrain shifts, flat wheat and alfalfa fields give way to rising hills and distant mountains. Towns grow smaller and farther apart. The air thins as elevation climbs nearly 2,500 feet from Sioux Falls to Spearfish. From the Wyoming border to the Big Horn Mountains, elevations range between 3,500 and 4,500 feet. This region, resting on the windward side of the Rockies, receives enough precipitation to turn the high plains into a sea of green grass and wildflowers.

Gillette is the gateway to the Powder River Basin’s vast coal fields. The coal mines are spectacular, but what always captures my attention are the long coal trains pulling up to 140 or more cars stretching behind powerful locomotives steadily rolling east, carrying Wyoming coal to power plants hundreds of miles away. When I graduated from Lovell High in 1961, Gillette was just another small Wyoming town. Today, it is the heart of one of the world’s greatest coal fields with a population over 30,000. 

A few miles west of Gillette, I-90 crests a series of hills that conceal the Big Horn Mountains. Mile marker 96 simultaneously marks the Johnson County Line and the sighting of the clouds shrouding the Big Horns. Cresting those hills and seeing the mountains appear is always a milestone. They are majestic, yes, but more than that, they hold a treasury of personal history.

Just northwest of Sheridan, we exit onto Highway 14 and begin the climb into the mountains. About 20 miles up sits Bear Lodge, a store, café and motel at the junction of Highways 14 and 14A. It may not be the very summit, but it feels like it.

To today’s traveler, Bear Lodge is simply a pleasant stop, fuel, a meal, a stretch of the legs. But decades ago, it was just a few rustic log cabins and a small bar. For those of us who remember, it carries layers of memory: homemade pies, hunting trips, Sunday drives and an escape from the outside world.

One of my favorite memories there is one of the last meals I shared with my mother. She loved the mountains and Bear Lodge, especially, with a good hamburger and fries. One of Bear Lodge’s signature attractions was their homemade pies. My favorite was Lemon Meringue; my mom’s was Banana Cream. I vividly recall her lamenting that this would probably be her last trip to Bear Lodge, and it was.

Reluctantly, yet eagerly, we left Bear Lodge to drive the final 50 miles to our hometown. From Bear Lodge, the road quits climbing and begins telling stories. Every few miles another memory steps out from the timber.

Richard Stevens is a 1961 graduate of Lovell High School. He and his wife, Susan, live in Granville, Ohio.