Tuesday, August 04, 2009

50: No Food For You

We greeted the morning sun along with the pronghorn and got on the road. We enjoyed our ride through Lander quite a bit; the downtown was charming and just outside it were a series of interesting sites, including an intrepid pioneer woman with a series of teepees.

Then we rode by a home with what we were sure were decorative deer in the front yard.

And then they moved. They didn't run away, however; they just kept chilling out in the front yard, watching us and chomping on weeds, apparently unaware that they were in a neighborhood beside a road. Neither did they seem afraid of the giant dragons that apparently frequent these parts.

Remember Chief Washakie, whose trail we've been following? Today we reached the outskirts of his fort, which according to signs is also the location of Sacajawea's grave site.

It was time for a break and a snack, so we stopped at the local grocery store where Kyle and his donuts made a new friend.

We road on through the beautiful western landscape (which would have been more beautiful if we weren't against a headwind and getting crazier by the minute).

But then we were stopped by a serious construction project and had to wait with a line of cars for a pilot vehicle to lead us through. We made our way to the front and started chatting with the flagger, who told us about the Crow Heart Butte visible in the distance.

He explained that the Butte got its name when our old friend Chief Washakie defeated a tribe of Crow Indians on top of it and marked the victory by cutting out the conquered chief's heart and carrying it around on his spear. The historical signs we've been following never indicated that level of Temple of Doom badassery.

We finally got moving again, doing our best to keep up with the line; pilot cars drive slowly, but still not as slowly as we do, and eventually we were on our own again. When we approached the active part of the work zone they saw us and were kind enough not to run us over with their equipment, but they didn't wait until we were past them to start work again, so I got a healthy spray of tar on my face, arm, and shirt as we rode past. That's going to take a while to wash out...of my skin.

We also passed a troublingly incomplete sign:

That sounds great, Mr. Sign, in fact I was planning on not breaking any windshields, but do you think you could, you know, offer some more specific instructions about HOW I'M SUPPOSED TO AVOID IT? We don't have a windshield, of course, but since my face occupies that space I would like to know more about these mysterious threats.

Once again the headwind made the day longer than it should have been, but for once we were finished before it was completely dark out. Dubois (pronounced like dew-boys, because once again no one understands European pronunciation out here) looks like a Western town built for tourists, but it's actually a legit Wild West town (that has now been converted for tourists). Many of the original buildings are still standing, including the bar and general store frequented by Butch Cassidy, who spent summmers on a nearby ranch.

We also got to stay over in our own little log cabin, which was cute.

The town was still hopping around 8:30 when we rode down main street, so we figured we had time for quick showers before we ate. We emerged clean, refreshed, in normal clothing, and excited to have a sit down dinner for once. We were doubly excited because our friend Staph (who sometimes pretends to be named Paul, and who led a hiking group in the area recently) highly recommended the Cowboy Cafe. We walked through their doors, inhaling the aroma of perfectly cooked hamburgers, only to be turned away because the kitchen had just closed. Disheartened, we walked down the street to check out the other restaurants, all of which had the same disheartening news: while they were still technically open, and in most cases packed with customers, they weren't serving anyone new. We even ducked into the local bar to see if we could grab wings or a pizza, or maybe just some peanuts, but all they had were drinks. At this point I was getting extremely depressed and frustrated, and when we walked to the edge of town only to discover that even the gas station was closed, I was ready to burst into tears. I had been expecting and deeply craving cold drinks and food that was warm and flavorful, and if we had to go back to the hotel room and make a dinner of tepid water and the last of our bagels I might not be able to handle it. Then I spotted it, the holy grail of my drastically lowered dinner expectations:

The vending machine was in the back corner of an empty laundromat. According to the hours posted on the door it was supposed to be closed, so I sprinted into the building before an employee could materialize to lock us out. We pulled out all of the dollar bills we had, which was enough for a soda for each of us and a bag of Cheez-its for me. (Kyle, for some reason I couldn't understand, was okay with eating more bagels back in the room.) It was a far, far cry from the dinner I had been imagining, but at least it was something with flavor.

Afterwards we crawled into bed, and I struggled to fall asleep with irritating bug bites and a growling stomach. Wyoming is going to be a very, very difficult state...

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