Wyoming

Sign, Sign, Everywhere A Sign [Part 1]

I could claim that these signs I’ve stumbled upon on my travels represent something more transcendent… a metaphysical representation of the culture and place. But mostly they’re just kinda funny. Or interesting. Or, hell, I just like them. 

{Above, what passes for a public safety campaign in Burma: Drive carefully or DIE! So Pulp Fiction.}

 

Wyoming Wisdom: Yes, it’s bear country, and special rules DO apply. 

#1: If there’s two of you, the slower runner loses. 

#2: Tripping the faster runner is allowed. 

#3: Don’t allow a “friend” to tape a sandwich to your back. (Really—and you know who you are.)

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Cowboy Genes

CONDE NAST TRAVELER

A rugged Wyoming dude ranch tests citified Jason Harper against his homesteading heritage

 

The riders are kicking up plumes of dust in the distance, silhouettes backlit against the expanse of bald plain and comb-over scrub brush. Hooves make small explosions in the dry dirt as the wranglers blitzkrieg after runaway cows. The sound of mothers bleating for calves floats back to us on a light, cold breeze. I’m atop my own horse, impatience blooming. Our group-a collection of expectant faces topped with mint-new cowboy hats-has been stuck with guard duty, eight newbies forming an equine barricade around a dozen cows and calves. One calf is doing a slow circle around its sad-eyed mother, going nowhere. This is killing me. I’m not built for patience, and neither is Apache, my not so imaginatively named paint horse. His ears are antennaed to where the action is. Continue reading…

Wild On Wyoming’s Best Roads

AUTOMOBILE MAGAZINE

 

Twenty-seven thousand miles of paved and gravel roads. Three hundred seventy-four stoplights. These are Wyoming’s road stats. I try to do the math as my plane flies over the vast countryside. That’s like, well, a whole lot of roads without a lot of stoplights. Pressing my nose to the turboprop’s window, I can, in fact, see them. Roads curlicuing over mountains, arrowing through plains, whoop-de-doing through rolling fields. Arriving from canary-cab-packed Manhattan, all I can think of is all that country and no traffic. Continue reading…