It’s a funny thing. I’ve been so focused on the possibility of dying in the days following Casper that I didn’t realize I might just die sooner.
The day started off innocently enough, with the promise of only minor trespassing. I mean that theoretically, of course. I’m not one of those fools who breaks the law and documents the whole thing on social media. But if I were looking for the nicest (and shortest, amazingly enough) possible route on foot from Guernsey to Glendo, I would be inclined to follow the road through Guernsey State Park and to then join the railroad westward from there.
Did you know it’s trespassing to follow the railroad? Even if you’re not literally walking on the rails? I mean, there’s a whole dirt road running parallel to the railroad through this section–Google satellite makes that clear. Even when the train goes through a tunnel, it’s plain as day that the dirt road carries on over the hilltop, meaning that neither the walker nor the train engineer would have cause for concern. And with the train running through especially scenic territory, passing alongside the river, the views must be fantastic. As an added bonus, the railroad leads into the ghost town of Wendover, so there’s a little history as well. Who needs rails-to-trails when you have rails-AND-trails! This seems like a feat of forward-looking design, not a reason for ticky-tack litigation.
Of course, I was not subject to such litigation, given that this was merely a theoretical exercise. I arrived in Wendover innocuously enough, snapped a couple pics of the abandoned buildings, and then climbed the hill–on the public, legal road–heading inland from the railroad.
Now that I’m on my own, I’m responsible for every step of the route-finding, and most of that unfolded in the months prior to my departure. This stage posed some particular challenges, as no highway runs directly between the two towns. Instead, one highway leads west from Guernsey, and then the interstate carries on northward from there. Obviously, it’s not my preference to follow a highway the whole way, but it offers a safety net–something to fall back on, should my more freestyling approaches prove troublesome. No such look today. Fortunately, though, I had an ally. Google Maps! Somehow, this trusty software was able to discern a viable walking route through the hills from Wendover to Glendo. Ever the skeptic, I had surveyed every bit of this on satellite view, and this process generated some concerns–a large, circular, irrigated field stood right in the middle of one of the “roads”–but it was just so convenient that it had to be legitimate. I turned right off the Wendover Road and rolled the dice.
I was pleased to have my skepticism confirmed very early in my ascent. There was indeed a crop field that had eliminated all indication of any prior track. If my survey had accurately diagnosed this, then my final verdict of the route’s viability must be on target as well! Such blithe rationalizations were soon reinforced, after I circled around and found a legitimate, honest-to-God track on the other side, which aligned perfectly with the GPS track. A pack of perhaps 20 white-tails monitored my progress from the ridgeline above, as though they were encouraging me onward.
As the sun rose and the grass thickened around my feet, I gave added consideration to the rattlesnake population that I was likely infringing upon. I developed my safety routine. I snagged an abandoned fence post to deploy as a poking stick. I started stomping my feet. And, in short bursts, I belted out old hardcore lyrics. I wouldn’t sneak up on any rattlesnakes today! I might aggravate the hell out of them, but at least there would be no surprises.
When I crested the hill, I encountered my first “no trespassing sign,” accompanied by a locked gate. And this, I confess, is when I broke the law. I blame Google. I was already so many miles in, I could have been endangering myself by turning back. I imagined the fun, look-at-the-stupid-Portlander-trying-to-navigate-Wyoming-back-country-with-Google-Maps conversation I might have with an armed rancher, each of us laughing uproariously at my foolhardiness, and hopped the fence.
Ten minutes later, I heard a “THUMP, THUMP, THUMP,” and resisted the impulse to dive headfirst into the snake-choked brush. I think it was just a piece of heavy machinery in the valley below.
Was I on the Oregon Trail? In the absence of any sort of historical markings, how would I know? In one section, it sure looked like I was marching through deep wheel ruts, but even if they were, they certainly could have been produced by modern vehicles. It’s that unsettled feeling–I think I’m following the route that I set out to follow–that ultimately smacked of authenticity to me. What was it like to be heading through regions unknown with your family and livelihood staked entirely to the journey, and trusting it all to a fading line of ruts jutting off in the distance? Even with GPS, I was plagued with doubts in the midst of this walk, as the old track grew increasingly overgrown, creating all kinds of shadowing, overgrown thickets in which venomous serpents could be plotting. What would happen if I got bit out here, cut off from all humanity, hours on foot from any possibility of help?
I paused and took a drink, ate a banana, and just looked around. There haven’t been many prettier places that I’ve walked through than the Wyoming countryside I enjoyed today. The absence of humanity posed certain risks, but it brought advantages as well. Birdcry rang overhead throughout the walk, and smaller groups of deer bounded in and out of sight. I swear a saw a mountain lion at one point. A gentle, constant breeze and unusually cool morning temperatures made for absolutely delightful walking conditions. And as this was the hilliest day of walking I’ve had on this trip, there were constant vistas, unfolding in every direction. Small pockets of wheat waved in the breeze, offering their momentum as I slalomed through the brush.
And suddenly, before I knew it, the worst was over. There was a moment when I thought the trail I was following had evaporated, and that I would need to wade through even thicker grass. Instead, I spotted a beautiful, majestic, lifechanging gravel road just 20 feet ahead. My deliverance secured, I confirmed that all was well with the GPS track, and marched ahead, feeling 20 pounds lighter. Just in time to see a UTV coming right for me.
I put my hands up.
The driver was a 20-something woman, but I wasn’t going to make any assumptions. I apologized for being on her land and launched into an explanation that I’d been rehearsing in my head ever since I hopped the first (of what ultimately became a handful) fence. She laughed, saying she could see exactly how that might have happened, and then she got serious. “Where are you headed next? I want to make sure the actual owners of this land don’t see you; they probably won’t take it as well.” Her grandparents, it turns out, own the neighboring ranch, so she guided me over there and explained the route to follow onward to Glendo. “You don’t need to worry about the people who are from Wyoming,” she explained. “They’re generally pretty easygoing about this sort of thing. “It’s the people that move here who are the problem.”
And thus, dear reader, I escaped potential death by (theoretical) train, rattlesnake, aggrieved property-owner, the stultifying bureaucracy of the legal system, or the extreme self-recriminations that likely would have come if I had created ten extra miles of walking for myself. Instead, I rolled into Glendo early in the afternoon, pleased as could be with one of the more adventure-filled walks of the trip.
