Winding through Wyoming

The drive across Wyoming all hinges on Rawlins. Heading northwest, it’s the obvious point to leave the interstate and strike across the empty plains. Heading up to the Bighorn Basin or Cody, and it steers you toward gaps in the mountains. 

Heading back toward Colorado, Rawlins the first sign of familiarity, a place where Laramie, Cheyenne and the turn south suddenly feel within reach again. Not that those in transit really pass through Rawlins, as its downtown business district is somewhat shielded from through-travelers. A short bypass for those headed north skirts the edge of the city, while the interstates loops around its southern edge.

I was headed to Grand Teton to visit Jess, a ranger at the park, and found myself deep in Wyoming on a late August day. 

When Rawlins falls away, the enormity of the Wyoming interior is all that remains. A handful of hikers appear along the road, a shock considering the desolate terrain ahead. Without gallons of water and sunblock, that route feels treacherous. The miles between the cities mounted. Even on the interstate, the stretches between any exits go on several dozen miles. They can go even longer for exits with services. The nation’s least populous state upholds its reputation at almost every turn.

Nature is busy reclaiming past attempts to stake down civilization. Jeffrey City’s descent into a ghost town has even claimed its liquor store. The former uranium mill boom town barely registers. The sage-covered prairies were empty this afternoon, almost all trace of life scrubbed away by the heat, even at the numerous watering holes throughout the region. Not one of the thousands of pronghorn who inhabit this land could be seen.

Despite the red rock landscape that surrounded Lander, the town could not arrive soon enough. Every sign only seemed to mark off a few miles. At times, I wondered if the signs might show the distance to Lander growing, because progress felt fleeting.

Enter Lander, historic mill to the left

Lander, which was among the first towns in the U.S. to have electricity owing to the excess electricity product by the Lander Flour Mill, the iconic tower that greets visitors entering from the south. Shuttered decades ago, the mill building has been converted into a boutique hotel that can tout unique views of the Wind River region.

Other motor courts speak to Lander’s history as a stopover on the road northwest. The log cabin look, the lounge touting steak dinners … it endures, even if it speaks from a long-gone era of travel. 

Bowling and liquor store

Immediately north of Lander the road crosses the North Fork of the Popo Agie River and enters the Wind River Reservation, Wyoming’s only Native reservation, 2.2 million acres shared by the Northern Arapahoe and the Eastern Shoshone. The reservation headquarters lies at laidback Ft. Washakie, named for long-lived Shoshone Chief Washakie. There are signs worth following. One road touts the grave of Sacajawea. 

The Wind River takes over, as its namesake mountains soar on the western horizon. Wind River and the highway run through a series of red rock canyons and multiple badlands. Dubois marks the last stop before the park, some 75 miles from Moran in prime fly-fishing country. By 3 p.m. most days, a lot of businesses have closed as the space between visitors increases. I stopped for a sandwich a deli/bar. A giant jackelope sculpture and car-sized bison skull draw visitors, then the national forest swoops in. 

Wildfire smoke thickened as I ascended toward Togwotee Pass, this summer a haven for grizzly sightings as a mother and cubs grazed in the area. Signed warned people not to get out of their cars. I didn’t need a second warning. When the road leveled off at Moran, I sat in Jackson Hole, even if the broad valley’s signature features lie behind a wall of smoky haze. 

General store in Dubois

So much red rock in Wyoming

Dubois jackelope

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Snake River Canyon banks

Leaving Jackson Hole to the south finds the road in increasingly narrow space in the Snake River Canyon, where the river rushes with renewed intensity. In a few miles the highway branches at Hoback Junction (more junction than town), I steered southeast into the Hoback River Canyon while the Snake curves toward Idaho farm country. The southeast route stayed quite scenic.

I skipped around a few slow movers before a miles-long no passing zone began, and had the highway to myself for close to 40 miles. The road follows its curves above the Hoback floodplain, while mountains sometimes obscure the sun. Free-flowing for its entire 55-mile run, the Hoback courses across a broad wetlands before it reaches the canyon and its fly-fishing hotspots. 

The Wind River Range, obscured by the mountains and smoke in Jackson, came back into view. Their western flank appeared as impenetrable as the eastern side. Less prominent than the Tetons, the Wind Rivers are taller (Gannett Peak squeaks past Middle Teton for the state’s high point) and more mysterious. A danger lurks in the points and folds of rock. 

Pinedale marks the last gasp of the gorgeous rivers and the imposing bulk of the Wind River Range. An outdoor sports base camp. Breweries and bistros lined the pleasant streets, with several parks lining the Pine Creek. New Fork River takes on Pine Creek and several others, its flow growing as its heads south toward the Green River. 

South from Pinedale, the sagebrush takes over. These sections of the Red Desert go light on red rock, rarely breaking from the beige and the sagebrush barely rising two feet off the ground. Had some sage grouse popped out, I might have reconsidered. 

The 100 miles to Rock Springs did not click down, but disappeared in fits and spurts. Road construction might lead to 15-minute stops while construction vehicles rumbled through.

 Rock Springs itself announced itself with high-tension lines and trucks churning up dust. It’s a mining town that feels more like a mining complex than a town. A new part of town with chain stores and restaurants clings to the highway. An older part of town light on activity lies further south. 

I kept looking for some landmarks to photograph. Aside from a few Eastern European Catholic and Orthodox churches, I found little, mostly empty storefronts. There’s little to describe along Interstate 80. The largest towns lie 80-100 miles apart. 

Take Sinclair. Essentially an oil refinery with a small town attached, it has just a handful of other businesses. The stylish hotel downtown has not hosted guests for generations, and has been repurposed. 

Parco Hotel building, Sinclair

Along with the ancient rock formations of Vendauwoo between Cheyenne and Laramie and the bulky peaks of the Snowy Range, a monument to Abraham Lincoln stands out. From a stone block, the 16th presidents head and shoulder emerge, standing sentinel over the fleets of trucks and tourists crossing I-80’s high point east of Laramie. I really wish the Lincoln sculpture didn't remind me of the incapacitated Capt. Christopher Pike from the Star Trek episode The Menagerie, but it's a thought I cannot un-think.

The railroad followed this path across the mountains, since it was among the more gradual passes. The Lincoln Highway followed the same route before the interstate arrived. Before all of them, Native tribes undoubtedly took the same route. Taking it for the first time, I was reminded how even in the state of wide-open spaces broken by mountains, we tend to follow those established routes since they work best.