US 10: Across Wyoming on the High Plains

I’d been on the veranda just about long enough to have a cigarette; get comfortable in the chair we’d left out; and, contemplate our imminent ride across Colorado and Wyoming on the High Plains, when I heard Mel moving around in the room. The curtains were drawn and the lights were out, so he was bumping into things. I opened the door and stuck my head in.

‘Hey Mate! You OK?’ I asked.

‘I’m a bit low . . . just looking for a snack.’

Managing sugar

Within a year of his marriage breakdown, Mel had been diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes. Although his youngest son had been diagnosed several years earlier, I’d been shocked by Mel’s diagnosis; I didn’t know of anyone in our forebear families with diabetes. Perhaps it had been the emotional, social and financial strain of the breakdown that had triggered the illness; maybe it was the pressure of discharging his professional responsibilities while concurrently completing his PhD; or, maybe it was the confluence of the two. Whatever the case, Mel had learned to live with diabetes. He’d developed a protocol for managing his illness in the context of his regular work routine; on a road trip with no standard routine or schedule, not so much.

Diabetes . . . why?

Years earlier, I‘d been in Toowoomba enrolling our daughter in boarding school. While there I got to know a gentleman who’d developed diabetes on his return from service in World War II. During the war, he’d been flying Spitfires out of India and Burma; had been commissioned as a Squadron Leader at the age of twenty-two; had seen unrelenting service against Japanese Mitsubishi Zeros during 1943-45; and, finally had been stationed in Japan as part of the occupying forces immediately following the war. At nineteen years of age he’d left Australia as a superbly fit young pilot. And, four years later he’d returned in one piece after his tours of duty. Then, six months after arriving home, he’d been diagnosed with diabetes. 

I got to know him in the middle 1980s; and, all those years later he was still struggling to manage his blood sugar levels. He spoke dismissively of his service; but, I knew that no one got to be Wing Commander at the age of twenty-two unless they were exceptional. I guess trauma – physical, emotional and psychological – can wreak havoc on anyone’s general health and well-being.

Learning to be a brother’s keeper

With diabetes, the management of sugar levels is critical. It can also be reasonably straightforward where activities are predictable and the quality and quantity of food can be controlled. This is a lot less straightforward on a road trip where the physical demands; the quality and quantity of sleep; and, the availability and regularity of nutrition are a lot more variable. So, there had been occasions where Mel had ‘gone low’ or ‘high’; and, at this early stage of our travels, I was a complete novice at noticing key indicators of these conditions. While travelling across Wyoming on the High Plains, I’d need to pay far closer attention to Mel.

‘Eat your snacks, Mate, I’ll rustle up some coffee.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

Well, I not only rustled up some coffee, I got hold of an apple and an orange as well; and the coffee was better than average.

Raining fire from the sky

Even though dawn was still some time away, Mel gave no indication that he intended to go back to bed. So, I flicked on the TV to catch the news; see what had been going on in the world. And right there, on the Denver News, was a report that sixteen tornados had touched down over northern Colorado and in Wyoming. There had been no tornado damage to infrastructure generally and no loss of life. But the supercell had brought torrential rain; flooding had been extensive; roads had been damaged; and, several bridges had been washed out.

‘Good advice from that bloke in the Maccas car park, eh?’

‘Bloody oath!’ I replied.

We moved out to the veranda to finish our coffee; and, noticed that the sun was only seconds away from breaking above the eastern horizon. The air was crystal clear; the way only a rip -snorter of a thunderstorm can leave it. On trees along the fence line and bordering the sidewalk, leaves hung stock still. We would be travelling across the Wyoming High Plains under an almost cloudless sky but, there was promise of another seriously hot day.

Breakfast . . . but not at Tiffanys

After we’d shaved, showered, and done all that jazz, we headed out for something to eat. Our accommodation had not included complimentary breakfast; so we opted for Dennys again where we had scrambled eggs on toast, hash browns, tomatoes, avocado and coffee. The meal was great, the coffee crap; but I drank it anyway. At eight dollars a piece, there really wasn’t too much to complain about.

Then, it was back to La Quinta to pack, check out, and load. That done, we fired up and headed back along 120th, across the overpass and took a left towards the on-ramp for Interstate 25. Out to the left as we headed north, the Rocky Mountains stood out in crystal clarity after the storm; on the right, farms and straw coloured fields spread out to the horizon. The road that stretched ahead was flat and generally dead straight under a faded blue sky. Although the temperature would, no doubt, climb as the morning wore on, it was a good day to be on the road. Our V-Twins thumped comfortably in unison as the miles drifted away and we moved closer to the Wyoming State Line. It was an easy ride but not riveting.

North to Cheyenne

Shortly after crossing into Wyoming, we approached the outskirts of Cheyenne; Capital City of Wyoming. We actually avoided the city itself and didn’t get far off the Interstate; just far enough to refuel and get something to drink. Then, it was back to riding across Wyoming on the High Plains through Chugwater and Wheatland towards the Glendo Reservoir. 

There was a marked increase in the numbers of motorcycles heading north; and, more often than not a clutter of bikes at filling stations. We assumed these were mostly bikers headed to Sturgis, as we were, for the Motorcycle Rally.

We stopped only briefly at Glendo to stretch our legs; for Mel to check his blood sugar, and for me to have a smoke. Although it was hot and dry, the sky was still almost cloud free and there was no sign of a repeat of yesterday’s weather performance. Shortly after Glendo, we crossed the North Platte River; and, as we continued across Wyoming on the High Plains, I got the distinct impression that we’d veered to the north west.

Roadworks . . . and advice

Not far out of Glendo we encountered several trucks and a bunch of road maintenance workers. Heavy machinery was obvious and stop signs were prominently displayed. We slowed, and then stopped, cut our engines, leaned the motorcycles on their side stands and got off. In front of us, and also stopped, were a couple of Honda Gold Wings; complete with colour-coordinated trailers and two guys of about my age. The delay, they said, would probably last for about another twenty minutes.

As a group of four we chatted to pass the time and, in the course of the conversation, they asked if we were heading north to ride BearTooth Pass. Neither of us had ever heard of BearTooth Pass, and we told them as much. We let them know that we were on our way to Sturgis and looking to visit Yellowstone National Park enroute. Their response was, if we were going to Yellowstone anyway, we ought to head out via the North East Entrance. This would, they said, take us onto US 212 and BearTooth Pass; it was virtually on the way to Sturgis and well worth the effort.

Eventually, the highway cleared, stop signs were removed, and we took off as a foursome towards Douglas. Although Mel’s blood sugar readings were OK at Glendo, it was getting well past the normal lunch hour. So, just after we re-crossed the North Platte River, we waved to our friends and took the exit for Douglas. It was definitely time that Mel got something to eat; and as for me, well on a road trip, you just can’t have too many cigarette breaks.

The High Plains

We’d been riding across the Wyoming High Plains past ranches and open grazing land for hours. Certainly, we’d passed a few towns and the occasional cluster of buildings that indicated a small community; but the overall impression was one of a vast emptiness. The mountain ranges in the distance were diminutive and almost hidden in the haze on the horizon. In a sense we were riding the plains as cowboys had done a hundred and fifty years earlier. The vistas then would have been pretty much as they are now; and there would have been the same loneliness of the long-distance rider. The difference now was that we were riding iron horses and were covering distance much more rapidly. As the miles and hours rolled away, I thought of a book I’d read during the early years of my secondary education.

Jack Shaefer’s Shane

For those not familiar with the novel, Jack Shaefer’s Shane is narrated by a homesteader’s son, Bob Starrett; and, is set in Wyoming when the territory was still subject to the Homestead Act. The unclaimed land surrounding the Starretts’ homestead had been used by a rancher named Fletcher well before it had been claimed by Bob’s father. Although Fletcher had settled in the area first, he could only legally claim a hundred and sixty acres [64.7 hectares] as a homestead; but he wanted to expand his herd and the Starrett Homestead was hindering his expansion.

Shane, the title character, is a mysterious stranger who rides into and then out of the lives of the Starrett family. He is ‘a man who seemed to come from nowhere and appeared equally determined to pass on to nowhere’. Shane is absolutely silent about his past; he doesn’t carry or wear a gun, but everyone seems to understand that he is a dangerous man. When Joe Starrett hires him as a farmhand, Shane puts aside his tailored Western clothes; and buys clothing more suitable to work as a farm hand. 

Given the ongoing stand-off with the rancher, Shane becomes involved in helping the Starretts resist intimidation by Fletcher and his men, in their attempt to have them abandon their land claims. In spite of his reluctance to carry a weapon, Shane is ultimately forced into a gunfight. In this flight he demonstrates that he is a skilled and deadly gunfighter. He also makes it clear that he will not brook any attempt to coerce the homesteaders into abandoning their property. That done, he dons his tailored Western attire and ‘rides off into the sunset’, so to speak.

Batting against the odds

It is a quintessential yarn about the little man battling against the odds; against large vested interests; against wealth, and power; and, against threats of violence. The story was one that captured my imagination; appealed to my innate sense of justice or the absence of it; and, left a residual desire to be a Shane in what I saw to be a fundamentally threatening world.

One of the great things about a road trip is that you’re alone with your thoughts for extended periods. You can revisit events, episodes, incidents, and even books from the past and reassess your reactions, emotions and attitudes. Also magic, particularly if you take the byways, is the opportunity you have to meet ordinary people doing what they do to get by. We’d just met two such people when we stopped at the roadworks; and, in Douglas we were about to experience an absolutely classic example of what I’m talking about here. 

We coasted in to a diner not far off the interstate; left our motorcycles loaded and leaning on their side stands in the car park; and I took a smoke while Mel went in to study the menu. By the time I got inside, he was in animated conversation with a couple seated in an adjacent booth. He’d already ordered because he knew that I would probably have ordered what he had anyway.

Grizzly Adams and a Lady

It was early afternoon, and the couple with whom Mel was in conversation, were just out for a ‘bit of a gallop’. When I arrived, there were introductions all around and then the conversation continued as we ate. The guy matched the picture I had in my head of North American mountain men, a Grizzly Adams type. He was big enough to make my brother look a bit diminutive; and that is not an easy thing to do. His lady was the polar opposite; a petite redhead who laughed easily. He was probably in his early forties and she, probably a few years younger; though I find it both difficult and dangerous to speculate about the age of women.

We talked about where we came from, where we had been and where we were going. They, as we had found often to be the case, were taken with our accents; with the fact that we were Australian; and that, in their opinion, we had a very laid back and open-ended attitude to our road trip. When Mel said we would probably end our trip for the day in Casper, they suggested that we avoid the Interstate and instead take US 20 which followed the North Platte. Then, ‘Grizzly Adams’ set about explaining how to get to US 20; where to turn, whether to take a left or not and so on. Ultimately, he stopped and said that it was going to be easier to just show us.

Another road less travelled

After lunch we walked together out to the car park. They were two-up on a jet black, highly polished 100th Anniversary Ultraglide. Mel and I were on the Lowrider and Deuce respectively: well, what else would we be on, right? We all fired up and, for a short stint, took to I-25.

We took the exit for US 20 towards Glenrock and, sure enough we were riding adjacent to the North Platte. Certainly a much more pleasant and interesting ride than ripping along Interstate 25 as we had been. We were still heading across the High Plains but on a road less travelled. It took well over an hour and a half to get to Casper. When we pulled over just before entering the city, our new friends recommended reasonably priced accommodation; with ready access to facilities, eateries and entertainment. Then with handshakes, and hugs for the lady, and well wishes all around, they took a u-turn, waved and accelerated off into the distance.

It was difficult to believe that, purely out of generosity, this couple would take three or four hours out of their afternoon to travel with us; just so that they could show us a pleasant, scenic alternative to I-25. There was absolutely nothing to be gained, for them, from being friendly, warm, welcoming and helpful beyond belief. Both Mel and I felt humbled and grateful; we wondered whether, in similar circumstances, we would have been as generous, warm, welcoming, and helpful.

Casper . . . oil and cowboys

The first thing we noticed on arrival in Casper was a very large painted sign. ‘Casper Welcomes Sturgis Rally Bikers’, it read. Well, that was us, wasn’t it? So, we felt welcome and, clearly, so did a lot of other people; accommodation was at a bit of premium. Sturgis Rally celebrations and a live concert were to be sited at the Stamford Hotel in the city center. Clearly that would be where accommodation would be most difficult to find. We discovered, however, that the accommodation advice offered by our friends from Douglas was sound; we secured accommodation at the Baymont Inn.

It was immediately obvious that Casper wasn’t a bad place to live. In 2010, and on several occasions since, the city had been ranked the ‘Best Family-Friendly Small City in the West’ by Forbes magazine. The city is nestled along the North Platte River on the high plain just east of the northern Laramie Range. Casper, with a population of a little over fifty-six thousand, is the County Seat of Natrona County; and second largest city in Wyoming. Also known as the ‘Oil City’, it has a long history of oil boomtown and cowboy culture. This dates back to the development of the Salt Creek Oil Field in the late 19th Century; more oil has been produced by this field than any other in the Rocky Mountains.

Confluence of trails

As you’ve probably noticed, the American Midwest had held a mystique for me ever since I’d read Shane; and some other background reading on Wyoming. It is an interesting region with a tragic history; certainly for the American Indians. The folklore around the area and its people has provided ample fodder for many a western movie ever since motion pictures were invented. The Wyoming High Plain was the setting for a confluence of the Oregon, California and Mormon Trails; and was the focus for what was basically a massive ‘grab’ of the best grazing and farming land. The local Indians, understandably, resented this intrusion and clashes with the settlers were legendary.

Land grabs and outrage

Of course, the displacement of traditional land-owners was not quite the end of land-grabbing in Wyoming. As I’d read in Shane, big ranchers set about forcing out small-holders. Disputes over water rights, boundaries, cattle rustling, and access for cattle drives escalated. Cattle companies started ruthlessly persecuting ‘rustlers’ in the area, many of whom were actually settlers. Violent incidents escalated until the ranchers hired gunmen from Texas, Colorado and Idaho to ‘invade’; the incident is referred to as the Johnson County War. Travel to Casper by the hired gunmen was facilitated by advances in transport technology: they caught the train. This ‘invasion’ angered small holders, and state lawmen, who subsequently formed a posse of two hundred men. The resulting ‘siege’ ended only when the US Cavalry was ordered in by the President.

As a young bloke in junior secondary school I’d been outraged by all this; but, as I later discovered, we in Australia, had been no better. We, the military and convict settlers, managed a similar process by establishing the legal precedent of ‘terra nullius’; literally meaning uninhabited land. Collectively, we’d ‘legally’ acquired whatever land we wanted by pretending that it didn’t belong to anyone. At least the Americans were forthright enough to say ‘we know that this is your land, but we want it and we’re going to take it’. 

I don’t think anyone could fairly accuse me of being a communist, or even a socialist in the strict sense of the word, but I’d begun to think that old Karl [Marx] had probably been right when he’d asserted: People don’t act on principle . . . they do what they have to do, want to do, or need to do, and then rationalise their actions later. 

So, this was the context against which Casper was established and developed.

Casper’s establishment and growth

A ferry service was established to offer passage across the North Platte River in the early 1840s; and, in 1859, Louis Guinard built a bridge and established a trading post near the original ferry location. In response to attacks by American Indians, a military garrison, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel William Collins was established to protect telegraph and mail services at what was called Platte Bridge Station. Then in July 1865, Lieutenant Caspar Collins [son of the good Colonel] was killed by a group of Indian warriors. Three months later the garrison was renamed Fort Caspar in his honour. In 1867, the troops abandoned Fort Caspar in favor of Fort Fetterman just downstream on the North Platte River.

Casper was founded as a stopping point for the Wyoming Central Railway; hence it became an early commercial rival to Bessemer and Douglas. Although the town was founded well after Fort Caspar had been closed, it was named ‘Casper’ to honour the memory of the old Fort and Lieutenant Caspar Collins. The discrepancy in the spelling of the name is said to be the result of a clerical error at incorporation.

Digs for the night

We checked into the Baymont Inn and suites; were allocated a ground floor unit so we could park our motorcycles right outside; unloaded our T-Bags; and moved in. The first order of business for Mel after a reasonably hot ride, was a shower. I, slipped outside to the chair on the narrow verandah, eased myself into it, and lit a cigarette.

It suddenly occurred to me that we’d just spent our first seven days on the road; well, except for the day my Deuce had been in Zion Harley Davidson for repairs and a major service. Normally at about this point I would be starting to think about the days left before I’d have to start heading home. But, that was not the case this time. The six weeks we still had up our sleeves seemed to hold limitless promise of unridden roads; unseen sights; unknown people; and untried experiences.

The uneven, lazy beat of the Lowrider and Deuce, was like a pulse bringing life to our odyssey; and propelling us through a world of places I’d never been before. And all this was an unplanned bonus because we were still several days away from our first objective; the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. Yet again, I had cause to wonder why I had delayed doing this for so long; and again, I reminded myself that I had already lived many more years than I had remaining.

Just a thought . . .

People generally don’t act on principle . . . 

they do what they have to do, want to do, or need to do, 

and then rationalise their actions later.

Click to continue reading: US 11 Butch and the Hole in the Wall