US 11: Butch and the Hole in the Wall

It had just gone 4.30am. It was almost a new day and I was out looking for coffee. The Baymont didn’t have any; well not twenty-four hour coffee anyway. So I’d wandered off up the street to a service station because they always had coffee; not good stuff usually, but better than none. Before I’d gone to sleep, Mel had said that he thought we might make it to Yellowstone the next day. What he hadn’t told me was that we’d be riding through Butch Cassidy and Hole in the Wall Gang country – perhaps he didn’t know.

The stars were still out, and there was no wind; indications that the day would dawn clear and cloudless. With coffee in hand I strolled, at a leisurely pace, back to the Inn. Walking in the early morning is a bit like riding. It gives you an uninterrupted opportunity to turn a few things over in your mind; allows space to get some perspective on a few things in your own life.

A recalcitrant

My thoughts strayed back through the years to a time when our daughter, at thirteen going on thirty, had been deeply troubled. She’d also been causing us, my good wife and I, considerable grief. In particular, I remembered a phone conversation with my Dad after I’d spent the best part of twenty-four hours looking for her; she’d absconded to be with her boyfriend. 

My phone conversations with Dad were a regular thing. On this occasion, though, he’d made the observation that I sounded tired. I’d said that I was bone weary. Then, I’d gone on to give him a detailed rundown on what had been going on with our girl. In retrospect, now that a lot of water’s gone under the bridge, I’m sure I must have sounded exactly like a petulant brat.

In any case, at the end of my diatribe, there was a long silence. 

‘You there Dad? I asked.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ he responded.

‘Oh, you were so quiet; I thought I’d lost the connection.’

‘No, I was just thinking,’ he said.

‘About what?’

Perspective . . . it changes everything

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking that our little girl seems pretty much like her Dad used to be at that age.’

We both laughed and, just like that, the tension was broken. With that comment Dad had put the whole situation back into perspective. He seemed to have twenty-twenty vision when it came to human nature, family, children; and, the relative importance of these and so many other things and situations. I guess, after you’ve buried a young wife and two boys, you develop a fair idea about what is important and what is not; the difference between the curveball you need to play, and those you just let go through to the keeper.

I think, over the years, I have got to be a little better at the whole perspective thing; but I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit to still having a distance to travel. Still, it was a new day and the beginning of a new week; our second on the road. I arrived back at our room as the sky was starting to offer signs that dawn was on its way.

Clean motorcycles

The overnight dew glistened on the motorcycles’ paintwork and chrome. So, rather than have a cigarette, I hauled out the chamois and wiped away the overnight moisture together with the bugs and dust from yesterday’s ride. Although Mel had suggested that we might to Yellowstone by the end of this day’s jaunt, but I don’t think it really mattered to either of us whether we did or not. Still, an old Principal of mine used to say it’s always good to have a plan whenever she considered the achievement of a goal to be unlikely, .

With both motorcycles clean, I packed away the chamois; eased myself into the seat on the verandah outside our unit; lit a cigarette; and admired our motorcycles; the Lowrider and the Deuce. Notwithstanding the problem with the engine sprocket, the Deuce’s performance only seemed to improve with every extra mile we travelled.

Powered by a Twin Cam 88 cubic inch V-Twin, the Deuce differs from the FXD Dyna Lowrider family of motorcycles; its power plant is not rubber mounted. In common with other motorcycles built on the Softail platform, the Deuce engine is bolted directly into the frame; counterbalance shafts manage the vibration. Designated Twin Cam 88B these engines are distinctly different to those used in the FXD and FL series.

The Deuce . . . a new model for a New Century

For the uninitiated, the Motor Company at this time essentially had four platforms; the XLH Sportsters; FXD Dynas, FX Softails; and FL Touring models. An 883cc or 1200cc rubber mounted V-Twin powers the XLH series; a rubber mounted Twin Cam 88 powers both the FXD Dyna and the FL Tourers. The Twin Cam 88B motor bolted directly to the frame drives the FXST series.

The Softail series, in all its iterations, is a nod to the original Big Twin ‘hardtail’. The term refers to the fact that early motorcycles had no rear suspension. On a smooth, sealed surface this was tolerable; on rough roads the riding experience was back-breaking. The XLH, FXD and FL motorcycles feature rubber mounted power plants and rear suspension; twin shocks mounted externally to the rear of the rider. In contrast, the Softail series has the clean lines of the early Big Twin; there are no visible, externally mounted shocks.

Softail . . . a new concept

This design was the result of Harley’s collaboration with Bill Davis; a motorcycle enthusiast and engineer. He had independently designed and developed a triangular swingarm with shocks anchored to the frame underneath the gearbox. This innovation allowed the Motor Company to develop a motorcycle that looked like the classic hardtail; but, with the handling and comfort characteristics of a full suspension system. This platform was launched in 1984 when the FXST Softail Standard was unveiled.

During subsequent years, the Motor Company built a range of models on the Softail platform; the Softail Standard, Softail Springer, Heritage Softail, Heritage Springer, Nightrain, Classic, Fatboy, and the Deuce. The Deuce, developed in the late 1990s, was released in 1999 as a new model for the new millennium. Indeed the name, Deuce, is a nod to the fact that the world was about to enter a whole new century. Unlike Mel’s Lowrider with a history originating in the early 1970s, my Deuce was manufactured in 1999, and discontinued in 2007.

A new factory custom

Harley Davidson introduced the first factory custom, the FXD, in the early 1970s. With the release of the Deuce, however, the whole factory custom cruiser concept took a huge stride forward. It was a production motorcycle that didn’t look like a production motorcycle. The Deuce had an aggressive stance with increased front fork rake; a narrow wire-laced 21-inch front wheel; and, a fat 17-inch rear tire mounted on a solid disc.

The gas tank designed specifically for the Deuce had been slimmed down, stretched and smoothed. The rear fender was bobbed and fitted with a one off contoured tail light. Chrome started with the front forks and extended to the engine, drivetrain, and horseshoe oil tank. The fasteners were hidden, and new turn signals looked like aftermarket items. And, right there in the motel car park was a 100th Anniversary example; long, low, aggressive, unspeakably cool, and most importantly, mine.

When Mel finally emerged, the sun was well up but there was no heat in the day – yet. We did all the stuff that you do before getting onto the road: breakfast, showers, packing and loading. That done, we fired up; worked our way through traffic; crossed the North Platte River; and, accelerated off towards Shoshoni on US 20. Between Casper and Shoshoni, US 20 and US 26 share the same road. We’d made a solid start to our second week on the road; and, the time we had remaining seemed to stretch out in an endless ribbon in front of us. It was a feeling of freedom like none other we’d experienced.

The Tumble Inn

By the time we’d been on the road out of Casper for an hour or so, I needed to find a tree and was hanging out for a smoke. So, when we saw a settlement on the right we throttled back and pulled off onto the gravel. But what had looked, at a distance, like a settlement was actually a couple of abandoned buildings. One had probably been a service station and the other was the Tumble Inn Lounge Bar; also abandoned.

The Tumble-Inn had rough-sawn timber cladding painted red; and, the structure had a low sagging corrugated iron roof. Behind the main building an extension, not visible from the road, looked to have once have been stables; repurposed as very basic accommodation. Out front, the sign was peeling and weeds had broken through the bitumen to grow waist high in the forecourt. I lit a cigarette and poked about for a while but the place was desolate; absolutely devoid of people. Except for a couple of rusted cars, it looked as though it’d been vacant for a quite a while.

The inside story . . . maybe

After stooging about for a bit, I made my way back. Our bikes were still there leaning on their side-stands, and Mel was checking his blood sugar. Right on queue, it seemed, a rust and red Ford F250 pulled off the highway onto the gravel. A solid guy, about my age, with long grey hair and an impressive beard, opened the cab door and stepped out.

‘Yer about ten years too late lads,’ he said with a grin.

‘Late for what?’ I asked.

‘This here place . . . bin closed about ten year now.’ he said.

‘Why did it close?’ I enquired.

‘You guys ain’t from round here are ya?’

‘No, we’re Australians taking a road trip,’ I responded. ‘We just stopped for a break and a smoke.’

‘OK, so ya don’t know.’ he said – more a statement than a question.

‘Know what?’ I asked.

‘Well, it ain’t called the Tumble Inn for nuthin’ . . . you come here if you wantin’ a bit of a tumble . . . busiest little whorehouse on US 20.’

‘Really?’ I was a bit incredulous.

‘Trucks used to line up a half mile down the road back in the day. Great steaks with hot and cold runnin’ waitresses.’

‘Really?’ I exclaimed. ‘So that’s what the building out the back is all about?’

Accommodation, weren’t five star . . . but the babes were,’ he said.

‘So, why did it close?’ I asked.

Busted

‘Owners diversified . . . got into oxy. Highway Patrol didn’t mind the whorehouse . . . even stopped here themselves from time to time. But, the oxy, was a curveball they wasn’t going to let go through to the keeper . . . if y’all know what I mean. Someone passed word to the DEA and, right about there, it was all over.’ he said with just a touch of nostalgia.

‘You sound like you might be speaking from experience, Mate,’ I grinned.

‘You bet! Used to be a teamster back in the day . . . and didn’t drive by very often. Just pulled in today for old times sake.’

And, with that he wished us a good day and safe travels; climbed back into the cab; gave us the thumbs-up; cranked the motor over; and, pulled out of the forecourt apron and back on to the highway in a cloud of gravel and dust.

Now, I have no idea if any of this was the God’s truth; but, it seemed a likely story to me, and anyway it made a great yarn. We climbed back on our motorcycles; fired them up; pulled out onto the highway; and accelerated away through Powder River Township and on towards Shoshoni.

Following Powder River to Shoshoni

As miles reeled by under our wheels, I turned the Tumble Inn situation over a few times in my mind. What seemed likely to me was that both the fuel station and the pleasure establishment had been owned by the same person – or persons. The business model seemed to have worked well for a long time according to the bloke with the F250.

So, what had happened to cause change? Did the owner or owners get greedy or did a third party intervene? And, why did the Highway Patrol draw a line in the sand? Did they really have a problem with oxy? Or was it that there was some sort of kickback involved that was thought to be insufficient? And, what happened to the proprietors of this august establishment? I’m sure someone knew – just not me. Whatever the truth, the only thing I could be sure about was the Tumble had closed about ten years previously. 

The Boysen Reservoir

Just past Hiland we noticed the greenery that characteristically marks the path, through an arid countryside, of a watercourse. We paralleled the snaking progress of Powder River pretty well all the way to Shoshoni. As we pushed on, we noted a gradual but distinct changes in the landscape from the open plains of the high country towards and sometimes through mountains, valleys and escarpments.

Shoshoni, with a population of around six hundred and fifty, was named for the Shoshone tribe of indigenous Americans; most of whom now live on the nearby Wind River Indian Reservation. Originally established as a railroad and mining town, it lies at the intersection of US 20 and US 26. We stopped to take a break and stretch our legs. With nothing much to see in Shoshoni, we climbed back on our bikes, took US 20 and headed north. On our left, as we continued between mountains and escarpments, was the massive Boysen Reservoir. I’m told that, in the Summer, this Reservoir draws large numbers of recreational fishermen and boating enthusiasts.

Wind River

Once past the reservoir, US 20 traced the course of the Wind River virtually all the way to Thermopolis. The valleys got narrower and the escarpment walls taller and more pronounced. As the road followed the meandering river course through the valley, we leaned into corners left and right; and the heavy beat of our V-Twins echoed off escarpment walls. In fact, it was just the kind of riding that a biker dreams of after riding the high plains.

It took about an hour to get to Thermopolis; forty minutes worth of riding and another twenty minutes worth of stops to take pictures. We’d actually never heard of the place and were a little bemused on account of the rather Greek-sounding name. Be that as it may, we’d been on the road for an hour and any town was a good excuse to stop, take a walk, get a coffee or all of the above. So, when we reached the town limit, we throttled back, coasted into town and parked beside an automotive repair shop.

Thermopolis

Thermopolis, with a population of around three thousand, is the largest town in and County Seat for Hot Springs County. The name is from the Greek for ‘Hot City’; probably because of its proximity to numerous natural hot springs that are heated by geothermal processes. The town actually lays claim to having the world’s largest mineral hot spring; very creatively named The Big Spring. 

In any case, after we left the motorcycles leaning, fully laden, on their side stands, we crossed the road, and stepped on to the verandah of an old saloon. It looked as though it had seen better days, but we stepped inside. 

Butch and his Hole in the Wall Gang’s Bar

Once inside, it was clear that we’d stepped back a hundred or so years. The bar, which ran the length of the little saloon, had the deeply polished sheen that only old, regularly polished wood can have. The shelves behind were laden with just about every type and label of liquor imaginable. The corner had been bricked in with sandstone slabs; and, in that corner was an antique, but working, wood burning stove. Part way along the wall adjacent to the bar, was a card table; that might have been new some time in the 1860s.

We ordered a couple of cokes and Mel sat at the card table while I had a walk around. I started looking at and reading pictures and posters that had been strategically placed around the saloon walls. And right there, on the wall at the back was a framed copy of a Wanted poster. It featured Robert LeRoy Parker; also known as Butch Cassidy. So, I turned to the barman.

‘Is there some sort of connection between this place, Butch Cassidy,and the Hole in the Wall Gang?’

‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ he asked.

‘No, just passing through,’ I said.

‘Well, Butch used to come in for a few drinks whenever he was in the area.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘See those holes in the wall above the door back there?’ he asked.

‘Yep’.

‘Butch put those there while he was shooting the numbers off of a playing card . . . for a bet,’ he added.

‘Seriously?’ I asked.

‘Serious as a heart attack!’ he replied, and then went back to work.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid . . . the movie

Back, when I was still an undergraduate at university, I took time out to see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid; the Newman-Redford movie. It’s still one of my favorites. But, it never crossed my mind that, one day, I would be standing at the spot where Butch Cassidy stood. In the photograph included, Butch Cassidy is on the right and the Sundance Kid is on the left.

I was right, it seemed, about the saloon. It looked like something leftover from the 1800s; and it was. 

In the second half of the nineteenth century, as the Indian wars came to an end, cowboys and outlaws began to move in. The US Cavalry had largely withdrawn and lawmen were thin on the ground. It was a time of epic cattle drives from Texas to Montana; ranchers were discovering that cattle could be raised profitably in this part of the country. Cattle barons exercised considerable control over state laws. Many of them were ruthless in their efforts to exclude homesteaders; smallholders who wanted to set up farms and fence off land. This really was the Wild West.

Butch Cassidy and the Hole in the Wall Gang

Into this context, Robert LeRoy Parker arrived and saw that significant gains could be made from outlawing. Better known as Butch Cassidy, Parker had been born into a Mormon family in Beaver, Utah, on April 13, 1866. In his teens he became a cowboy and met the outlaw, Mike Cassidy; whose name he adopted after joining him rustling cattle in Utah and Colorado. He acquired the nickname Butch after a short stint working as a butcher in Rock Springs, Wyoming. With a lightening quick draw, Butch was likeable, gregarious, and known for his sense of humour. Legend has it that he could shoot a playing card dead centre at 50 paces. Butch Cassidy was founder and leader of the Wild Bunch; sometimes referred to as the Hole in the Wall Gang.

In contrast, the Sundance Kid, whose real name was Harry Alonzo Longabaugh, was born in Mont Claire, Pennsylvania in 1867. Harry, it seems, stole a gun, a horse and a saddle from a ranch in Sundance. He was subsequently caught and convicted; and that, was how he got the name Sundance Kid. Although the ‘Kid’ had a reputation as the fastest gunslinger in the Hole in the Wall Gang, he was not known for killing.

The Pony Express

Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid and the Hole in the Wall Gang [Wild Bunch] went on the longest crime spree in the history of the American West. Local legend has it that the reasons for their remarkable ability to elude capture were twofold.

First, Butch was very popular with the local folk. He was likeable and seems to have been something of a Robyn Hood. He frequently provided assistance to those who were struggling; even to the extent of occasionally paying off bank mortgages to thwart foreclosure. The other reason seems to have been that Butch, and the Gang, borrowed operating protocols from the Pony Express. He kept horses and supplies strategically placed so that he always access to fresh horses; and hence he could outrun any posse.

Of course, by the time we got to Thermopolis, there were no living associates of the Wild Bunch. There were, however, a couple of old blokes who claimed that their fathers frequently drank at the saloon with Butch. Mel, as he is wont to do, engaged these couple of older gentlemen in conversation. I, on the other hand tried a coffin on for size; well, it was there right next door to the saloon. On a road trip, as in life I guess, if you stay flexible and talk to the locals, you give yourself an amazing opportunity to discover some truly interesting stuff.

Time to leave

Interesting and all as Thermopolis was, time was marching on and we had to move on with it. We’d cooled down, had something to eat and drink, and had re-fuelled, so we fired up and pushed on north. We continued along river courses. It seemed probable that early roads had taken the path of least resistance by following watercourses. It is likely that subsequent road makers just redeveloped early paths, old roads and cross-country routes.

Bighorn Basin

From Thermopolis we took State Highway 120 towards the north west; as opposed to US 20 directly north. This looked shorter but more importantly, it was a byway and hence a road less travelled. As we pushed on, we noticed that the flat country through which we were riding was becoming increasingly wedged; between the mountain ranges of Yellowstone on the left, and those of the BigHorn National Forrest on the right. The day was clear and, even though we were riding at over four thousand feet, it was hot. We pushed on through Meeteetse and then more directly north towards Cody and the Buffalo Bill State Forest.

It was well past lunchtime as we approached Cody and I just knew that Mel would be getting low; so, I caught up with him and signalled that we ought to stop.

As we crossed the town limit, we throttled back, coasted in and parked outside a diner in the main street. Wide streets suggested that, when the pioneers established the place, they planned for a city considerably larger than it actually turned out to be.

Cody, with a population of just under ten thousand, is sited on the Shoshone River in the BigHorn Basin. Mountain ranges surround this basin on three sides; the Absaroka Mountains to the west; the Owl Creek Mountains to the south; and, the Big Horn Mountains to the east.

A treaty with the Indians in 1868 initially restricted settlement of the Bighorn Basin. However, ten years later, the government lifted restrictions and settlers began to move into the basin. The area subsequently became the last frontier settled in the lower forty-eight states.

Buffalo Bill’s City

The city was founded in 1896 by Colonel William F. Cody, perhaps better known as Buffalo Bill. Cody had passed through the region in the 1870s and had been so impressed by the potential of rich soil, grand scenery, hunting, and proximity to Yellowstone that he’d returned in the mid-1890s to establish a town. The names of the men he brought with him are still remembered in the street names of Cody’s downtown area; Beck, Alger, Rumsey, Bleistein, and Salsbury.

Incidentally, the photographs included are a then and now of the Irma Hotel; opened in 1902 and photographed circa 1920, named in honour of Cody’s daughter.

William F Cody

At the time, Cody was forty-one and possibly one of the most famous men in the world. He was variously known for his exploits as a Pony Express rider, scout, hunter, entrepreneur and showman. Cody had become a friend of Presidents, Senators, Governors and many of the country’s most influential business people. His Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, captured international attention and toured the world for thirty years.

This was all pretty impressive; perhaps even more impressive than the city ended up being. In terms of prestige and international notoriety, our entry to the city added nothing at all. But we did get to take a break, stretch the legs, have a nice meal and, in my case, have a smoke.

Mel had said, the previous day, that we might get to Yellowstone by the end of this day’s ride and, right then, it looked as though he might have been right. The boundary of Yellowstone National Park was 52 [84km] miles to the west. 

To plan . . . or not?

Now, in my opinion, there are a couple of ways you can do trips like this. One possibility is that you can schedule your travel and make appropriate arrangements for daily accommodation, food, sightseeing, and entertainment. Otherwise stated, this is what I call planning the crap and life out of the thing. This strategy leaves no room for unintended things, like the trouble I’d had with the Deuce; or random suggestions that you get from people along the way about things you ought to see. These serendipitous things would absolutely destroy any planned itinerary; days travelled, distances and accommodation pre-booked.

Alternatively, you can have an overall objective. In our case, that was to get to Sturgis; be in Milwaukie for the 110th Anniversary of the Motor Company; and, ride Route 66. Then, you just get on the road; make it up as you go along; stop when you’ve had enough; and, see what happens. In this context, the problem with the Deuce was just another day; no plans destroyed and no bookings to be cancelled. Of course, there was a downside, and that was you could sometimes find there was no accommodation available. And we had no bookings for accommodation at Yellowstone.

North Fork Shoshoni River

Shortly after riding out of Cody on US 14, otherwise known as the North Fork Highway, we skirted the northern edge of the Buffalo Bill Reservoir – a massive body of water – and then traced the course of the North Fork Shoshone River towards the west and Yellowstone. At the little settlement of Wapiti, we paused for coffee and to stretch our legs before continuing on a winding road into the mountains.

Yellowstone National Park

This was great riding. Around every corner there was another vista: steep mountain slopes covered in the verdant green of pine forests; crystal streams cascading across rocks and boulders; clear almost cloudless skies; and, a road virtually free of traffic. Almost before we realised what was happening we’d throttled back and were coasting gently down towards Yellowstone Lake.

We skirted the north east shore of Yellowstone Lake through Mary Bay until we reached an intersection with Grand Loop Road. Following signs to the Canyon Lodge, we traced the course of the Yellowstone river towards North Canyon Road and, after a few miles, turned into the car park for Canyon Lodge and Suites. 

Leaving our motorcycles loaded and leaning on their stands, we headed towards the Lodge Office. I stayed outside for a smoke, while Mel went in; on the off chance that there might be accommodation for two. 

Well, I’d only just finished my cigarette when Mel emerged with a grin from ear to ear.

‘Guess what?’ he asked.

‘There’s no accommodation available,’ I replied.

‘Well, there isn’t now . . . we just took the last room.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Yep,’ he replied. ‘That’s just the way we roll!’

At this point, I really do have to say that I just don’t know how he does it. Once every now and again can be put down to good luck; but, Mel can just do this sort of thing with monotonous regularity.

Just a thought . . .

You don’t have to strike at every ball pitched at you 

 . . . some are better left to go through to the keeper.

Click to continue reading: US12 Yellowstone to the Top of the World