States often take a little while to introduce themselves. Coming into Colorado from Kansas, for a while, was a stark disappointment, as it still took many miles to shift from flat plains to Rocky Mountains. Wyoming, however, announced its presence with authority. Sagebrush has suddenly become a fixture. Craggy hill tops are now dotted with pine trees. Cows munch through the meager fodder, disrupted only occasionally by oil processing plants. Even the dirt roads have changed, now characterized by a soft, powdery sand that erupts in tiny clouds with every step.
When I enter a new state, I try to seek out the representative literature of the region. This was much more challenging in Wyoming’s case. That’s not a knock on the state’s erudition, but rather just probability. After all, Wyoming’s population is smaller than Portland, Oregon’s. The most acclaimed author tied to the state in literary circles is Annie Proulx, author of “Brokeback Mountain.” Does she qualify, though, as a Wyoming Author? That’s open to debate. She bought a house in Wyoming in 1994 and has spent time in the state ever since, even leading to a historical account of her region. Still, the more I read, the more it seemed like folks around here were much more likely to hold up someone like Craig Johnson–author of the Longmire Books mystery series, the first of which is Cold Dish–as quintessentially Wyoming.
I spent most of the walk from Torrington to Fort Laramie in close proximity to the highway, sometimes veering off to follow a canal that ran loosely parallel to the two-lane road, but otherwise admiring the landscape with only occasional interruptions from cars and trains. Sheriff Walt Longmire carried me through. With big hands, low energy, and a terse drawl, he effectively runs the show in a small town in Northwest Wyoming, bordering Cheyenne and Crow lands. That proximity, along with Walt’s best friend–Henry Standing Bear–being a Cheyenne means that there’s a stronger indigenous presence running through the novel than I’m seeing in my own part of the state, and that comes with no shortage of politically incorrect humor.
What stands out the most is the scale of things. On one hand, it’s quite small. There’s one café in the town center; not only does Walt eat there, but it also supplies meals for anybody held in the two-cell jail in the police office. There are two bars, one run by Henry. Everyone knows everyone else. On the other, though, the town is dependent upon Cheyenne–however many hours south–for medical examiners and higher-level crime scene investigators. When snow falls, the town is practically cut off from the world. The Wyoming I’m encountering–right now, at least–doesn’t have the same level of isolation, given that the highways passing through here offer one of the major conduits across the state, but the community where everyone knows your name certainly rings true. At the supermarket in Torrington, the man checking out in front of me asked the young teller about the start of the new school year. At the pit stop in Lingle, the two energetic girls at the counter had established rapport with every local that passed through. When kids got dropped off by the school bus in Fort Laramie, they warmly greeted every adult they passed by.
What stands out the most in the Longmire Books is the presence of strong-willed, take-no-shit women. Walt is simultaneously a charming, roguish hero and a bumbling, clueless idiot, and the different female characters hold him accountable. It’s not hard to see the inspiration for these characters as I move through the state. At the Fort Laramie Bar & Grill, in particular, the two older women running the show were quick to cast barbs at their male customers. That said, they also cared a great deal about their work. When I ordered the steak quesadilla without the steak, it created a minor kerfuffle. The chef came out of the kitchen to check in with me directly. When she personally delivered the finished product, she did so with a mix of consternation and concern, asking for my feedback, since she had “never done this sort of thing before.” It was great.
Women dominate the historical signs lining the Oregon Trail, as well. I’ve previously mentioned Amanda Lamme and Narcissa Whitman. Two more awaited me on my walk from Fort Laramie to Guernsey. The first came shortly after my visit to the historic fort, which was far more satisfying than Fort Kearney. A full row of barracks survives, as does a pair of officer houses. On a hill overlooking the fort rests the remains of Mary Homsley, who died of measles here in 1852. She had been making the journey with her parents, husband, and three children, plus ten brothers and sisters, along with some of their spouses and children. When she set out, Mary’s kids were 6, 2, and a newborn. Already sick when they arrived at Fort Laramie, Mary’s wagon overturned, dumping Mary and the baby out in the frigid waters, which only exacerbated her delicate condition. Both she and the baby died soon after.
I suspect that what I witnessed as I walked onward from Mary Homsley’s grave is not that dissimilar from what her surviving family members saw as they made a similar journey. This was one of the best stretches so far in terms of preserving the original Oregon Trail and making it accessible to someone on foot. The highway and railroad were far away, down the hill and across the North Platte River, and at multiple points I encountered extant remains of wagon wheel ruts. The most impressive stretch I’ve ever seen has been preserved just south of Guernsey, with a deep groove having been cut through rock by the trail traffic.
Just a little further to the west, in an idyllic spot overlooking the North Platte and the southwest corner of Guernsey, is a memorial to Lucindy Rollins, who died here a little before Mary, in 1849. Little is known about her. Was she headed to California, as part of the gold rush? Perhaps. Regardless, it’s interesting to me that the fallen women pioneers hold prominence in these roadside memorials. I don’t think it’s a matter of emigrant women dying at a disproportionate rate; in Mary Homsley’s case, we know that two of her brothers died along the journey as well. Did families make a more concerted effort to memorialize fallen women? To some degree, it’s a matter of good fortune that these graves are preserved. A random cowboy happened to spot Homsley’s grave in 1925. The Guernsey newspaper editor stumbled across Rollins’s grave some years later.
That also speaks, though, to the persistence of the Wyoming landscape. While I haven’t escaped corn entirely, its presence has been dramatically diminished, as the vast majority of the land has been turned over to cattle ranching. A rock with a carved inscription left 150 years ago stands a much better chance of holding its ground today. Indeed, there’s a whole wall of carved inscriptions–Guernsey’s Register Cliff–that serves as a log of travelers, past and present, who passed through. On one hand, the austere, unforgiving conditions here make everything look old and weatherbeaten. On the other, those conditions also preserve the old and weatherbeaten far better than any other state I’ve walked through.
