Day 30 - Greybull to Ranchester, Wyoming - 78 Miles

Today is Saturday, our fourth Saturday on the road since we left Carson City. While the exciting events of yesterday would be hard to top, we did make an honest effort today to at least keep our eye out for interesting diversions to write about here in the blog. I hope when I relate the things we saw and did, you'll agree that, while yesterday was stellar, today didn't turn out so bad, either.

A moment ago, before I settled in to write the blog, I was scrolling through Facebook in search of the country's news developments in the last 24 hours, or perhaps a message from a friend or two. But at one point the following quote appeared on my Facebook page, with a note that the quote was by one Joseph Addison (1672-1719), and that I had posted it some years back. It said: "True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise; it arises, in the first place, from the enjoyment of one's self; and, in the next, from the friendship and conversation of a few select companions."

Mr. Addison's words rang so true in conjunction with our vacation lifestyle right now, that I thought I'd just go ahead and post them here. My reasoning is simple. As we think back on all the places we've visited, and all the adventures we've had in the last month, it's the fascinating people we have met and with whom we have spent time that has been the most memorable.

Just a few minutes ago, as we were traveling east on Wyoming Route 14, and were entering the outskirts of yet another small town, I suddenly pulled over and stopped the RV on the main street of Dayton, Wyoming, population 575. I had seen a large sign for "ICE CREAM," and for some reason that just sounded perfect. Concetta said she didn't care for any and would just wait in the rig. So I got out and walked across the street to the combination General Store and soda fountain, my mind set on a soft-serve ice cream cone, much like the one on the sign out front.

As I approached the building, I saw a woman sitting on a bench in front of the store, sipping some sort of ice cream concoction through a straw. It looked so good, that I stopped and asked her what she was eating, just in case I wanted one, too. She told me it was a chocolate ice cream drink whose name I don't remember now, and didn't recognize at the time. I asked if the ice cream the store sold was good, and she said it was excellent. Then, I kidded her about how many calories we both were going to be consuming in the next few minutes, and she said it would be okay for her since she'd been hiking in the mountains all day. And just like that, we fell into an easy conversation about our respective lives, which we would later continue when Concetta came over, and I came out with my own "treat," a root-beer float.

That sort of interaction with complete strangers is what I have come to expect here on the road. I find that everyone wants to tell you their story, listen to yours, and explore some common ground. Today, in addition to the young lady with the chocolate drink, we talked with a U.S. Forest ranger in the Big Horn Mountains, another Forest Service employee from Wisconsin who is volunteering for the summer, a couple of gung-ho hang glider pilots, one of whom lives in Mesquite, Nevada, during the winter, and a guy from Florida who comes up to work the summers in Wyoming at the KOA camp where we stayed last night in Greybull.

In reality, I find that there is almost no limit to what you can ask and have answered by complete strangers. Take Mary, for instance, the lady who lives in Wisconsin, but who volunteers with her husband as Forest Service employees at various parks around the west. I suspect that Mary is probably in her mid fifties. She's fit, intelligent, and seems to have the energy of two people. She told us she is a teacher, and works exclusively as a substitute back home. To hear her tell it, she is almost never unemployed because substitutes are so much in demand there.

Concetta and I spent about twenty minutes with Mary where we learned at great length her theories on the subject of what's wrong with today's design for education and how it could be made better. Though at times frustrated, she has no intention of quitting because she loves her kids, Mary tells us. And Mary probably knows. She has degrees in Criminal Justice and Sociology, in addition to a degree in Education.

We had to let Mary get on with her work at that point, more because the mosquitoes were eating us alive than because she was boring us. But my point is that all we had to do was express an interest in Mary's life, and pretty soon we had all become best buddies. At first she didn't trust me to take her photo as she was afraid that it would end up on Facebook. But ten minutes into our talk, when she relaxed a bit, she didn't seem to care at all. We parted as Mary was scrounging all over her pickup to send us away with gifts for our grandkids, mementos from the Forest Service. What had started out as a mere lunch hour in the forest, turned out to be an interlude that we will not soon forget.

Once we had pulled out of our lunch spot, and resumed our journey to the town of Sheridan, Wyoming, we only traveled a very few miles before we had to pull over again. Perhaps most people would have sailed right on by, and we almost did, too. But at the last moment, I swung the rig onto the very last vestige of the valley overlook pullout, then backed our way towards the action.

You see, what we had noticed, almost at the last moment, was a couple of hang gliding enthusiasts setting up their gliders on the tarmac of the overlook. At the time we pulled in, we were two of only a half dozen people there -- including the pilots -- and we had plenty of elbow room to get up close and photograph what was going on there.

What was going on, turned out to be the proverbial one chance in a million of being in the right place at the right time to see two old duffers like myself stand on the edge of a thousand foot drop-off, take a couple of steps, and then launch themselves into the accommodating updraft of a very intimidating cliff face.

Incredibly, as we pulled up, the first pilot was just moments away from taking off. We had just enough time to stop the truck, get into position, ready our cameras, and start snapping photos. Although I didn't know the pilot at this point, I was later able to make his acquaintance when we drove down the mountain to the landing zone, a place he called the "LZ." He had been a helicopter pilot, presumably in Vietnam since he was my age. He told me that he just couldn't give up the thrill of flight when he left the army, and hang gliding was his way of staying in touch with the heavens.

His name was Jim Bowman, and I gave him my card so that he could contact me for photos later. I probably took at least 50 of his feat of bravery, starting when he was poised to take off, and finishing at the landing site a thousand feet below us.

Jim had miraculously found a thermal and was able to stay aloft at least forty minutes, all while we on the ground craned our necks to keep him in sight. Rather than drift downward into the valley below as I had expected, Jim actually soared to heights hundreds of feet above us, then circled around and around, then dipped and rose, then dipped and rose again. It was truly magnificent and awesome.

Later, when I was standing next to Jim and he was folding up his rig for yet another trip up the mountain, he seemed so excited and grateful that I would go to the trouble of sending him a DVD of everything I shot of him today, that his gratitude just overwhelmed me. It made me feel like if I had accomplished nothing else today, making this Vietnam veteran happy would have been more than enough. His handshake was solid and warmly friendly, and as we shook hands for the first and probably only time, I told him to fly safe. I hope he does, for he single handedly reaffirmed for me what this trip is all about, and what I'm ever so grateful for!

So now here we are this afternoon, Concetta and I, sitting under a Linden tree at the Lazy R Campground in the town of Ranchester, reflecting on the day's events. Once again we didn't make Sheridan, even though it was our second attempt. It's less than twenty miles away at this point, so perhaps tomorrow we'll make it -- if the creeks don't rise, and we don't run across a dinosaur quarry, a wild west museum, or some other irresistible attraction here in the heartland of Wyoming.

More important, though we didn't make our stated goal today, we took our time and gathered memories along the way, which has allowed us once again to savor our time upon this earth. And it's all thanks to, as Joseph Addison put it "...the friendship and conversation of a few select companions."

And if YOU set off on your own personal quest to find talkative forest rangers, hang gliding helicopter pilots, or some equally fascinating Americans, we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.

Day 29 - Cody to Greybull, Wyoming - 52 Miles

Today was a day of fantastic opportunities, serendipitous discoveries, and one "you're kidding me" coincidence. First the coincidence, since it just happened. A little background: About twenty minutes ago Concetta brought it to my attention that when I plugged in the rig at the camp's electric power tree outside, nothing happened in the RV. In other words, the surge protector that we use that plugs into the tree was showing a green light, meaning all was well, but things were definitely not well. The surge protector set us back about $270 bucks, so when it appears to be broken, I'm not happy.

While I was out checking into what might be wrong, our across-the-street neighbor here in camp noticed me outside from the vantage point of his comfortable easy chair beneath a cool, spreading cottonwood tree. When he asked me what I was up to, I walked across the road to tell him my tale of woe.

Once my sob story was out of the way, and we both agreed there was nothing to be done except replace it, we fell to talking on a variety of subjects. I'm not sure how the topic of marriage surfaced, but I told him that I had been married 41 years and he told me that he was on his second wife, but had been married 27 years to the first one. And then he hit me with the bombshell that he had lived twenty-five years in the town of Yerington, Nevada, and then went on to tell me where he had been married back then. "Yup," he said, "I got married right there in that little white church in Genoa, and we had our reception in the Genoa town hall."

"That's pretty amazing," I told him. "We got married in Genoa, too. Not in the little church, but in the nearby restaurant and gathering place called "Sierra Shadows. It had a nice dining room and a big fireplace, and we got married right there in front of a glowing fire." He and I both shook our heads in amazement at the coincidence.

So, here we are in the middle of Wyoming, holed up in the tiny town of Greybull, at a stop that we hadn't planned on making since we were headed to Sheridan. And right across the road from us is a fellow Nevadan who got married in the same state, in the same town, and just four years distant from us. But then, that coincidence was but the curtain call for what has been an unbelievable day for me.

Anyway, next we'll take up the discussion of "fantastic opportunities." I have been a fanatical fan of most areas of history all my life. I've always taken photos of old cars, houses, and machinery, collected rusty mementos of once-upon-a-time historic sites and read incessantly on a variety of historical topics. When I was in the 7th grade, I was already a member of a Civil War round-table group that met once a month to hear invited speakers, and to do a show-and-tell of vintage weapons, uniforms, and other collectibles belonging to members, most of whom were a half century older than me.

About the age of 14, I was able to purchase, in a junk shop, an 1865 Enfield (British) rifle that, owing to its age, may or may not have been used in our Civil War. The rifle was basically not serviceable and had not enjoyed the best of care throughout its life. Still, I loved that heavy old gun and own it to this day. Once in a while I even hang it over the fireplace where it looks totally cool!

As you might guess at this point, my dream starting in the 7th grade, when I would attend those Civil War round-table meetings and get to gaze upon all the lovely antique weapons, was to someday shoot such weapons, or at least the faithful reproductions of those wonderful old guns.

Over the years, that desire to shoot antique weapons has never left me. Occasionally, we have come across a weapons demonstration, in perhaps a living history setting, while on one of our RV trips, and then the desire would be rekindled. But until today, the timing never seemed to be right to step up hold the weapon myself.

But then, while checking in at the Ponderosa RV park in Cody, Wyoming, my attention accidentally wandered over to the "things to do in Cody" pamphlet rack while I was waiting for the desk clerk to check us into the camp. There, in living color and bold print, was a pamphlet that proclaimed in large red and yellow letters, "SHOOT GUNS."

Naturally I grabbed a copy and opened it up. My eyes got very big, I'm sure, when I noticed that you could shoot nearly any and every type of historic gun, from flintlocks to machine guns, and from old west pistols, to Winchester repeating rifles. I wasn't sure that Concetta would be supportive of such an endeavor, though the cost didn't seem to be out of the question. I put two of the pamphlets into my back pocket. I didn't say anything to Concetta, but I intended to keep the place on the "back burner" of my memory. Maybe a trip to the gun shop could be in the cards for me sometime during our stay.

As you know, if you've been reading the blog, we've stayed very, very busy since we arrived in Cody. But today we intended to hit the road after filling the tank and buying some groceries. As we were getting ready to leave, I broached the subject of shooting antique guns to Concetta before we got on to more mundane activities.

To my great joy, she not only didn't mind but really seemed to think it was a great idea and a great photo op as well. The gun shooting business was just a couple miles west of us, and we made it in just a few minutes. When we walked in, we found that only one other customer was ahead of us. The owner personally took us under his wing, introduced us to our choices of weapons, and gave us a bit of history on each.

After hearing what he had to say, I told him my choices were the large-bore, flintlock musket identical to the ones that Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery had taken with them on their two-year sojourn into the vast, uncharted wilderness of President Jefferson's Louisiana Purchase. I had the option of choosing a Kentucky long rifle, lighter and of smaller caliber, but I stuck with the larger musket. For my second choice, I hearkened back to my 1865 Enfield that I had purchased as a fourteen-year-old and I chose the 1861 cap and ball rifle, identical to those used by the Union army in the Civil War.

With the really old stuff out of the way, the weapons that I had wanted to shoot for a lifetime, I arrived at my third choice. For this one, I can only say that all those black and white westerns of my youth, like the legendary films of Jimmy Stewart and John Wayne, influenced my final choice, that of the 1873 Winchester repeating rifle. Indeed, Jimmy Stewart had actually starred in the movie called, "Winchester 73."

So there you have it. They proceeded to give me ear and eye protection, run me through a litany of rules and regulations, and then a bright and perky young redhead escorted me to the firing range. I'm sure my pulse was pounding by this time. Was it really and finally going to happen?

Well, not at first. Try as she might, Jo, my shooting "coach" could not get the Lewis and Clark gun to fire. She started by putting the wadding and a ball at the top of the barrel, then ramrodded it down. Then she checked the flint to make sure it was tight in the frizzen. After that she added powder to the pan, then closed the pan cover. Finally, she moved the hammer to the half-cocked position. "Okay," Jo said. Keep your finger off the trigger until you sight on the target. When you're ready, pull the hammer to full cock, then fire.

Even though we seemed to do everything right, when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened but a "flash in the pan." At that point I would lower the weapon, and Jo would set about cleaning the touch hole. After doing that about four times, Jo suggested I move to the Kentucky long rifle, and perhaps the boss would have to deal with the Lewis and Clark gun himself. I was disappointed, but at least I'd been able to hold the darn thing to see how heavy it was.

Jo and I went on to repeat the process with the Kentucky long rifle, a gun that our colonists would have used, as well as soldiers during our revolution. This time things went much better, and I took my very first black-powder shot. About this time the boss came back with the big-bore Lewis and Clark gun and told us it was working now. The gun still had the original ball in the barrel, so all we had to do was pick it up and fire it. That I did with great glee, and I pulled the trigger and sent the ball down range and into the target, missing the bulls eye by just a half inch or so.

Since the Lewis and Clark gun was probably going to continue to cause us minor problems, at that point I elected to finish the flintlock session with the Kentucky rifle. I then was allowed to fire three more shots with that gun, and managed to keep the bullets very near the two I had already fired.

The funny thing about shooting these guns was that I couldn't really see the sights, since I forgotten to bring my "up close" glasses. But since my whole idea was merely to experience shooting the antique weapons, I really didn't care where the bullets went. This makes it all the more remarkable that I was able to shoot all five flintlock bullets into, or very near to, the center of the middle target.

My next weapon was the 1861 Springfield, the gun that helped win the Civil War for the Union. This is the one that I had hoped to shoot from the time I was 13 years old. The gun was not too heavy, and the wood was as silky as a baby's bottom. My heart was indeed beating faster now. Jo loaded the Springfield with the proper Minie ball, put a mercury cap (or whatever they use nowadays) on the nipple, and then turned it over to me. After that, I proceeded to put all five shots within a four-inch circle and right around the uppermost red target, though I hadn't necessarily been shooting at that one. I just made each shot like the previous one, and all ended up in the same place. Once again I could not see the sights of the rifle, only the target 50 feet away was in focus.

For my final weapon, Jo selected the Winchester 73 and dry-fired it once to show me the safety feature and the action. At this point, I decided to just have fun and not worry whether I hit anything or not. I got to shoot ten shots this time and I wanted to rack that lever just like Jimmy Stewart did as he picked off the bad guys in his famous movie. I ended up putting seven of the shots into the right-hand target in a four-inch circle, though none in the red. Two others went more afield and mingled with the Springfield's spread of hits. The last one must have gone through one of the massive holes left by the two flintlocks, or missed the target altogether as it left no trace.

To say I was walking on air is off by four miles. I had FINALLY fulfilled one of my childhood -- and adult -- dreams, and had fired virtually ALL the weapons I ever wanted to shoot. PLUS, since my first-choice flintlock had proven problematic, I had actually gotten to fire FOUR weapons for the price of three. Damn! Life is good!

Before leaving Cody, a town which for a huge variety of reasons, has been our very favorite stop on this trip, we tarried briefly for gas and groceries, took a look at the map, then set our course east for the town of Sheridan and, we hoped, more adventures to come. Little did we know that we would not make Sheridan, but would once again be pulled off the highway and into a new adventure, AND a visit with my past.

We didn't get too far out of Cody before we came across the perfect lunch spot, high on a bluff overlooking, well, it seemed like we were overlooking about ALL of Wyoming. But I believe it was the Bighorn Basin. It turned out to be the perfect spot to appreciate the high-desert countryside, the magnificent cliffs to our west, and voluminous clouds that seemed to be portending rain in the future but just looked beautiful in the present. (You can see the photos at the top of this blog entry.)

After lunch, we jumped back on Route 14 toward Sheridan, and we actually made a few miles. But somewhere between the tiny town of Emblem -- population 10 -- and the larger village to the east called Greybull, we came across the last of the three events today that I alluded to in the opening paragraph, that of the serendipitous discovery.

You may or may not know that from October of 1969 to July of 1972, I served my country in the U.S. Naval Air Corps and was stationed on a tiny airbase in Illinois called NAS Glenview. Throughout much of my enlistment I was a Naval airman, and flew as a crewman aboard some 1940s-vintage aircraft, most of which were used along American's coastlines to search for enemy, mostly Soviet, submarines. While my enlistment in Illinois precluded my searching for Russian subs, we still used the same airplanes for training purposes for our Navy reserve pilots. Consequently, I spent a few hours each month of my enlistment flying largely as an observer, as we flew out over Lake Michigan and even north into Wisconsin.

Today, as we motored east toward Sheridan, imagine my surprise as we came upon an unusual sight for the middle of Wyoming. There, as we rolled along Route 14, I could see the familiar nose and tail assembly of the Neptune P2V-7, complete with U.S. Navy markings, getting closer and finally showing up very near a road sign that announced a roadside rest was at hand.

Without a second thought, I moved the rig into the turn lane, entered the roadside rest parking lot, and pulled in next to an idling 18-wheeler. Turning off the engine, I said to Concetta, "There's no way I'm passing this one up. I've been trying to get close to one of these to take photos, and perhaps get a tour of the interior, for decades."

Concetta agreed, and said that she didn't have a problem with stopping. So, off we went to tour the air museum which lay at the back of the rest stop and contained a small variety of ancient military aircraft, later used for firefighting duty. I was having a hard time believing that these unrelated events were happening in a single day of my life. I was finally in the right place, at the right time, to get up close and personal with an important and indelible part of my youth. The Neptune was just a few hundred steps away. The sky was bright blue, perfect for shooting white and silver airplanes, and attendance looked minuscule, so no one would get in the way of my shooting.

Concetta and I wandered back and forth across the weedy ground, looking at the planes from every side, trying to get the best camera angle. The only thing I can complain about is that the staff would not let me go aboard. I truly ached to go and sit in the waist or the nose, places in the plane I used to ride. The plexiglass nose was the most exciting. Once airborne, sitting in the glass nose was the next best thing to flying without visible means of support. You felt suspended in mid air, floating, as the clouds whipped by, and the intermittent patches of blue sky appeared and disappeared at random.

I asked again once we got back to the ticket office, but the museum docent just shook his head. Nope, he wasn't letting me get aboard. Maybe someday when I come back. "Oh, well, maybe someday I'll come back and stuff money in your hand until you let me go aboard," I said.

The docent just smiled, and we ended up just buying a t-shirt with a Neptune firefighting plane on it, and a decal of the same description to complete our visit. I hated to leave and not see the inside of the plane, but I'm going to keep my eye out for another air museum. Somewhere, somehow, someone will let me get onboard, and THAT will be another dream come true.

And when you set out to find your past, create a new one, or just hit the road to explore this country, from coast to coast, or border to border, we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.

Day 28 - All day at the Buffalo Bill Center of the West - 14,000 steps

As confirmed history lovers, nothing is more dear to Concetta and me than spending a full day at a quality history center or museum. Here in Cody, Wyoming, we certainly spent the day living our dream at the Buffalo Bill Center of the West. Over a whirlwind two-day period, we learned about the fascinating natural history of the plains and high desert, then segued into the life-ways and crafts of the northern plains Indians. We viewed and marveled over walls full of award-winning western art, and we learned more about the famous western artists. We came away astounded at the breadth of the museum's vintage and collectible firearms collection. And, we even took a guided tour of Buffalo Bill Cody's incredible life and career, from bull-wacker to frontier -- and international -- western showman. Believe me, the Center of the West has anything and everything that the history-lover would want. All you need to do is come and enjoy.

In addition to all the wonderful collections indoors, there is a truly remarkable collection of bronze statues surrounding the museum building outdoors. These are available for anyone to enjoy without entrance to the museum. But if you pay your admission, you are afforded access to more bronzes set amidst incredible gardens of quaking aspen, native plants, flowers, and water features.

We saw a memorable bronze of the Sioux War Chief, Crazy Horse, which we found profoundly moving, especially since we had, on an earlier RV trip, visited Fort Robinson, Nebraska, where Crazy Horse is buried. Another unforgettable bronze was entitled, "The Forgotten," and seemed to be a frozen moment in time showing a group of Native Americans suffering in agony, perhaps in the throes of death from starvation,

We also had some truly uplifting experiences at the museum today. When we walked back to the museum after lunch, the first thing we did was visit the chuck wagon, chautauqua-style exhibit. The chuck wagon came complete with food warming over the fire, including biscuits, beans, and cowboy coffee. When Concetta and I got there and began talking to the exhibit docent, we discovered that she was a stand-in for the REAL "Cookie of the trail," Ron Clark. Evidently, Ron was on his lunch break, and would return by 2:30 p.m.

Still, we tried the biscuits, beans, and coffee, and found them good and hearty. I especially liked the beans. The biscuits could have used a bit of wildflower honey. After taking a few photos, Concetta and I continued on into the museum, promising to return and meet Ron Clark, of the Chuck Wagon for Hire company.

As fate would have it, we finished our tour inside the museum just in time to find Ron back at his job beneath the canvas awning attached to his turn-of-the-century chuck wagon. The wagon had started out life as a simple farm wagon, but Ron revamped it into a chuck wagon in recent times. He makes his living taking his wagon to brandings, weddings, trail rides, roundups, and any other western-themed events where folks might like a touch of the old west with their beans and biscuits.

Oddly enough, we thought we had met Ron inside the museum. At one point we saw an old duffer in a ten-gallon cowboy hat sitting in the cafe area. Working up our courage, we approached the old-timer and asked if he was the chuck wagon guy. Turned out he wasn't, but he acknowledged that the two were friends. Once the ice had been broken, we three launched into quite a discussion of things western. The old cowboy, who told us his name was Don Decker, proceeded to tell us about the life he'd led, the famous people he'd known and worked with, including John Wayne and Ronald Reagan, and the western books he'd written, including one on the famous cowboy, Will James, who at one time lived in Washoe Valley just north of our "spread" in northern Nevada.

Since the RV rested peacefully beneath a spreading cottonwood tree today, we walked back and forth to the museum, about seven blocks away, all day long. In all, we made three trips since we came back to the rig for lunch, then returned to the Center in the afternoon. This evening, after learning about a wonderful museum-sponsored dinner and bit of western musical entertainment, we walked back yet again. Let me tell you, we're sure glad we did. Not only was the food expertly prepared and presented, but we were seated with three delightful and pretty ladies from the town of Cody. Two were school secretaries, one was a school nurse, and all three were great fun to be with. Even though we five had been strangers just minutes before, we never seemed to lack for something to talk about through dinner, and we regret that it's unlikely our paths will cross again.

Following the truly excellent dinner, dessert, and coffee, came our treat for the evening, the Dan Miller Cowboy Review. Now I have to fess up and reveal that Concetta and I have only infrequently listened to country western music. I AM a huge fan of Mary Chapin Carpenter, whose songs often have a country western feel to them, but have not moved much beyond Mary for my western music entertainment. But tonight, watching Dan, his daughter Hannah, and base guitar-player, Wendy, we were snapping our fingers, tapping our feet, and singing along with the rest of the audience. We just may have to give country music another look.

But for now, our time in Cody has come to an end, and tomorrow we travel on. We've met some memorable people here, experienced things in the Cody Center that will remain with us for life, and we have gratefully learned still more about the exciting and humbling history of the western America that we love. And if you set out to explore this country, especially the glorious west, we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.

Day 27 - Eagle Creek Campground to Cody, Wyoming - 44 Miles

So, what do you do when you're dry-camping and you can't use your breakfast coffee maker or toaster? I know what we did. We drove into town and had breakfast at a local restaurant. Of course I ate a granola bar before we rolled. I thought I'd get too hungry before we traveled the 44 miles to Cody, Wyoming, found a restaurant, found a place to park the rig a couple of blocks from the main street, then walked back to the restaurant. We did get lucky once we got there. Even though the place looked like it was Cody's favorite place for breakfast, our hostess found us a table that they had been reserving just for us.

Truth to tell, Concetta and I don't eat breakfast out more than about four times a year. Most of the time we just can't stand the weak, tasteless coffee that most restaurants serve. At home we've gotten used to the best stuff, at least for grind-it-yourself beans from nice places in Africa or South America. Other than Sweetie Pies in Placerville, California, I can't even think of a restaurant in or near northern Nevada where I would recommend their java to anyone.

I can't say the food was all that great where we ate, a place called Grannies or Grandmas or some similar nostalgic title. I had the oatmeal because I had filled up on a granola bar for some reason. The raisins were pretty fresh, but the oatmeal itself was evidently made with water and bordered on tasteless. I added brown sugar for umph. The restaurant ought to try cooking with the product called, "The Silver Palate," and use milk in the recipe instead of water. THEN they might have something.

Concetta had poached eggs, hashbrowns, and wheat toast. I don't know about the eggs and hashbrowns, but the toast was as tasteless as the oatmeal. When Concetta gave me her last piece I slathered it with grape jam, but it didn't help much. Amazingly enough, Concetta says she liked the eggs and hashbrowns, possibly even the best over easy eggs and hashbrowns she's ever had in a restaurant. Go figure. I was hoping for a consensus on the mundane nature of the food, but alas, no soap. So if you're ever in Cody, Wyoming, and you're looking for sometimes good, sometimes not so good food, Grannie's is the place, or perhaps it Grandma's. Oh, and by the way, the Coffee is predictably mediocre, but the service is just outstanding. Guess they had to be good at something.

After we were finished with breakfast, the next item on the agenda was drive to the Ponderosa RV camp that had been recommended to us by Dave and Berta, two of our fellow campers at Eagle Creek last night. The Ponderosa, Dave told us, is located just (more than a few) steps away from the Buffalo Bill Center of the West, our intended touring destination for the next two days. Dave turned out to be mostly right, since we're tireless walkers, but someone less ambulatory might need transportation from the camp.

We were a little worried that the Ponderosa might not have a space ready at such an early hour, being that it was right after breakfast and only 10:00 a.m., but we went ahead and parked in the entrance-way and I marched right up to the front desk. There I met the best comedian that I have encountered on this whole trip. I spent so much time laughing and joking with him, as I tried to check in, that it must have taken me a good twenty minutes before we even got to the money part.

Since he had turned every other sentence out of my mouth into a comedy routine, I thought he was kidding when he said, "Don't take those," when I slipped my credit card onto the countertop.

"No?" I raised an eyebrow, waited for the punchline.

He said, "Nope, never have. We'll take a check, though."

"Oh," I said. "I'll have to go get my wife and the check book."

He waved me off. "Don't worry about it. Go pick out your spot and when you've parked in the one you like, come back and pay then." He pushed the camp map across the counter. "Here, take the map. You can have 14, 15, or 94. I don't care which one, just let me know which one you're in when you come back."

And that was that, at least I thought it was. Still laughing at all the jocularity I had just encountered at the front desk, I got back in the truck, and literally drove around the corner, saw space 15 was under a nice cottonwood tree for shade, and backed the rig into place. Space 15 was not only easy to find, and partially shaded, but lay about 30 feet from the laundry facility. To our great fortune, they let us in early, gave us a great spot, and we wouldn't have to carry the laundered clothes half way across the camp. But the best was yet to come.

When we got back to the front desk with the check book to pay for space 15, Concetta got to meet the 79-year-old camp host, Larry. Once again he rolled out the red carpet and took the next 15 minutes to explain every single nuance of everything it was possible to experience, see, and do around Cody, Wyoming. In the many minutes of his pep talk for seeing what the city of Cody had to offer, he kept stuffing brochures in our hands and doodling figures for what each item might cost. Larry was the most thorough host either of us had ever encountered. Now comes the truly great part.

Since our rig has become a veritable rolling mud ball, Concetta piped up as we were finishing our get-acquainted session and said, "Do you know where we can find a truck and RV wash in Cody?"

"No need," Larry said. "There's a couple of guys who come right here to the camp. They charge $2.00 a foot and do a very nice job."

"That's terrific," I said. "How do we contact them?"

"Again, no need," Larry replied. "They're working on a rig here this morning already. Let me give them a call and get you scheduled."

Forty minutes later while I was busily working on yesterday's blog and Concetta was doing laundry, two guys knocked at the door and asked if I was ready.

"Absolutely," I said, and they immediately went to work. They had their own truck and trailer with a large tank of soapy water, and before long the filthy, bug-splattered aluminum box had been scrubbed and re-scrubbed, rinsed, and been toweled dry. It turned out to be the best $70.00 we've spent this trip.

Our wash surprise was so very timely. We were beginning to feel a tad embarrassed when we would pull into a camp full of gleaming coaches that we just knew the owner had spent several hours each day spit-shinning. Usually camps will not let owners use any water at all to spruce up their rigs. So the owners can sometimes be seen taking a half pail of soapy water and a mountain of rags to do what they can. I regard that as simple lunacy.

If you want to do a good job on your RV, the best solution is to find a good long-haul trucker's giant truck wash. We have one in Reno that does a great job for about $40.00. The best one we ever saw was in New Mexico. They had a special moving wash machine that the operator would push along the side of the RV and the big rollers would scrub just like the rollers in your average car wash.

So, by 1:00 p.m. today we had washed the clothes, washed the RV, and planned to walk over to the Buffalo Bill Center for the afternoon. Everything was right with the world.

Cody was hit with a few minutes of rain this afternoon, but Concetta and I were inside being conducted on a tour of the Cody Center where we got to hear about Buffalo Bill, Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Sacagawea, Frederick Remington, Charles Russell, and several more notables in American History over our hour-long walk around the Center. The whole complex is immense, containing five separate museums in one. There's the Plains Indian Museum, the Buffalo Bill Museum, the Whitney Western Art Museum, the Cody Firearms Museum, and the Draper Natural History Museum.

This afternoon, when our tour was over, we did as much of the Art Museum as we could, and it was just fabulous. We also did portions of the Natural History Museum, and found it to be excellent. Tomorrow we're here in Cody all day and we plan to spend as much time in the Cody Center as our feet and tired backs will allow. Fortunately, the Center provides ample sitting room for us oldsters. I'm especially anxious to see the gun collection, but the Plains Indian Museum should be exciting as well.

If you've never been to Cody, Wyoming, you've really missed out. In addition to the Cody Center, they have one and two-hour river-rafting, off-roading, a history museum, a frontier town where they do gunfights in the streets, and a country and western performance that comes complete with a cowboy dinner. They also have a rodeo. And those are just things I happened to see brochures on today. When you get tired of all that nature stuff in Yellowstone, Cody is the place to come to have even more fun in the great outdoors. And when you venture onto the highways and byways of this wonderful country of ours, we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.

Day 26 - West Yellowstone, Montana to Eagle Creek Campground, Wyoming - 150 Miles

This evening, which is to say yesterday evening, we did a bit of “dry” camping along the Shoshone River when we left Yellowstone Park by the eastern entrance. It was late afternoon, and we had been on the road from about 10:00 a.m. when we left the Yellowstone Historic Center Museum in the town of West Yellowstone. So when the afternoon was getting on toward 4:00 p.m., and we came across one of those lovely brown, U. S. Forest Service signs announcing, “Eagle Creek Campground” just ahead, we made a snap decision and pulled off the highway to check it out.

As soon we pulled in, we came abreast of a middle-aged couple walking through the camp, and they recommended that we stay since the camp’s proximity to the Shoshone River made it extra nice. So we drove down a few spaces, found one we liked for its levelness, and stayed. There’s absolutely no amenities other than the scenery, but that we have in abundance, along with burbling river sounds, loads of filtered sunlight, and a friendly neighborhood.

If you only knew, you’d realize that we fully deserve a nice camp after the day we’ve had traveling through Yellowstone. This morning we thought we'd sail right through the park on our way from the west entrance to the east entrance, even though we knew we had to pass “Old Faithful” in the bargain. But our first task of the morning was to visit the fine museum in West Yellowstone that is devoted to all aspects of Yellowstone Park and the public's insatiable appetite for visiting.

"You probably know that a member of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, John Colter, was the first white man to view the area now known as Yellowstone Park when he was trapping in the west after the successful completion of his job with the Corps of Discovery. But after returning and reporting what he had seen, he was widely disbelieved, and his momentous discovery was then derisively known as "Colter's Hell.

Fast forward to the post Civil War era, and after more than half a century of exploration and Yellowstone boosterism, President Ulysses S. Grant signed the paperwork that made Colter's Hell the new national park of Yellowstone. After that, there was an increasing flood of tourists to the area. This period of the exploration and development of park amenities and support features is what the West Yellowstone museum so thoroughly and expertly displays. Everything from the 19th century freight wagons used to haul in supplies, to the stagecoaches and early buses that ferried tourists around the park, to mementos of the trains and airplanes that brought tourists from around the world to the park gates, are wonderfully explained and portrayed. Should you ever travel through West Yellowstone, we enthusiastically encourage you to visit the museum. It's right on the park entrance road.

We left the museum around 10:00 a.m., hoping that we were still early enough to avoid the biggest rush of the day. And indeed, for the first ten miles, we really made great time. But then we rounded a bend and came up against a line of cars reminiscent of the construction zone lineup from the day before.

The line was moving so slowly that we thought there must be an accident up ahead, which, in the absence of construction zone markers, seemed the only reason the traffic would be virtually at a standstill. Every once in a while we’d be stopped completely for many minutes. But most of the time we’d be creeping forward at a pace roughly approximating the walking speed of a ninety-year old.

Strangely, every once in a while, the speed of the captive automobiles and RVs would suddenly increase to near normal for a half mile or so, only to suddenly be brought up short again. By the time we’d been at it for approaching an hour, and we hadn’t even gone 14 miles, I was scouting ahead for a turnout, which I planned to use to the reverse direction and head back to West Yellowstone.

I figured, I could probably go north out of West Yellowstone until I reached Bozeman, Montana, then I could go east on Interstate 90 until I hit Columbus, Montana. There I could turn south again and, taking Highways 78 and 212 to Red Lodge, then 296 east for a bit, I would be in Cody by nightfall. The distance would be maybe twice the 150 miles I expected to travel through the park to Cody, but then I wouldn’t be doing it at 3 miles per hour.

As expected, when I ran the idea past Concetta she voted no. Okay, I said, but at this rate it will take us a week to go the 150 miles to Cody. Instead of abandoning the whole eastward crawl, Concetta suggested that we plug in our book on CD, and just enjoy the beautiful scenery, made more enjoyable since it would be like watching a turtle race. And that’s what we did.

When we were nearly to Madison Junction we finally found out what had been causing the massive traffic jam. It turned out to be a female antelope or moose. The creature had set up her mealtime munching right beside the road, and our lame-brained fellow travelers, and at this point we can’t blame just one or two, for it must have been dozens, decided that it would be okay to stop or slow down to take a photo of the browsing creature. THIS WAS THE ONLY HOLD-UP THAT HAD COST US AN ENTIRE HOUR OF TRAVEL TIME! Once the cars were past the browser, traffic sped up to normal levels.

Okay, I’ve certainly met people as dumb as the ones with whom we traveled Yellowstone Park’s southern route today. You probably have, too. But this wasn’t the end of the story. We mercifully found ourselves restored to normal travel speeds for just a brief period of time before we hit yet another near standstill blockage. And once again, after we had wasted yet ANOTHER hour traveling some sixteen miles, we discovered that the holdup was nothing more than a group of buffalo feeding on grass near enough to the highway to cause the brainless to come to a halt to photograph them out the car windows.

Thankfully, once we had passed Old Faithful, and once we had passed the exit for the southern gate, we ended up having the highway toward the eastern gate, at times, largely to ourselves. We spent the entire rest of the day cruising along at normal speeds, stopping (in designated turnouts only) whenever we felt the need to photograph something, and enduring absolutely no traffic congestion whatsoever. My advice, should you choose to brave coming to one of American’s most popular destinations, is to enter the park via the southern or eastern gates. The northern gate is okay, or will be whenever they get the road construction done. But at all costs, avoid the western gate unless you bring a good book on CD, and don’t really mind if it takes you two hours to travel the thirty or so miles to Old Faithful and other nearby attractions.

I met several very interesting people today. Though I neglected to learn any names, they all interested me greatly. First there were the tent campers who were our next door neighbors the previous night in West Yellowstone, and who were traveling by bicycle all the way from California to Virginia. The group included a California girl, an Argentinian man who was the tent mate of the California girl, and a man from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, who apparently had become acquainted with the couple on the road. He told me that he had decided to throw in his lot with them for the ride east. The first two were somewhat uncommunicative, but the rider from Philadelphia told me he just did this when he wasn't being a full-time RVer. I didn't ask him what he did for money, but he looked far too young to be retired. Maybe he was a .com millionaire, which would have made a better story.

The next traveler I met was peddling a sort of modern Soapbox-Derby car uphill and down dale and who stopped at the same wide spot in the road where we had stopped to have our lunch. As I sat eating my sandwich and drinking my coffee in the comfort of the RV, I began to wonder what sort of supplies he could actually carry in his form-fitting machine. So I resolved to go over and find out. I grabbed a bottle of water, jammed it into my back pocket, then set out to make his acquaintance.

When I approached the strange conveyance, I immediately noticed that he was asleep, perhaps taking a nap after his long climb up to the 8,541 foot Sylvan pass we were about to surmount. But he somehow became aware of me, and opened his eyes. When I asked if he needed anything, and I held out the water, he turned down my offer, telling me that he had a tube for fluids, as well as liquid sustenance, that he could access without doing anything extra.

Then, for the next few minutes, I asked about his travels and he asked about mine. When I told him that we sometimes only traveled about fifty miles per day, he smiled and told me that he usually beats that figure. Then I asked him where he was staying the night, and he told me, “Flagstaff.” I didn't want to tell him that Concetta and I in our RV would probably have trouble making flagstaff, Arizona, in under three days. I decided let the statement stand. Perhaps there actually is a Flagstaff, Wyoming, coming up ahead somewhere.

The last interesting person I met was another bicyclist whom I encountered when I stopped just over the highest part of the pass to get a photo of some lakes in the distance. He peddled up and stopped while I was standing at the overlook snapping photos. After we exchanged some pleasantries, I asked him if he was a Deutchlander since his accent sounded German. He seemed pleased by my question, and the correct pronunciation of his ethnicity. “Yes, German,” he said, his smile broad.

”Tough hill to climb,” I said.

”Yes,” he said. “But I am in training, climbing as many hills as I can. Soon I will be riding my bicycle from the very tip of Alaska to the very tip of South America.”

Naturally, I was very impressed, and I asked him to pose. I regret not learning his name, but I suppose it’s not that important. The important thing is that he was doing something that only the best among us will ever attempt. My hat is off to him and to all intrepid citizens of the world like him.

The rest of the day Concetta and I spent traveling and stopping and traveling and stopping as we encountered incredible vistas. The traffic could only be described as “slight,” and we seldom had to worry about merging back into traffic once we had pulled over for a break of some sort.

One of my favorite breaks today was in a part of the forest that had burned completely in 1988. If you remember, forty-five percent of Yellowstone Park burned that year, and though the destruction was disheartening and graphic, the rebirth of the forest has been awe-inspiring and everywhere to be seen. From among the forest-floor ashes and charred tree trunks, legions of small pines have thrust their way skyward, and are now reaching for the heavens with all the vitality of their forebears.

My other favorite stop today was when we neared the eastern park gate. Not having scored a T-shirt for Yellowstone Park yet, we determined that I should look one more time before we exited the park. We stopped at the handy trading post and there I added not one, but TWO t-shirts to my U.S. traveling wardrobe collection. And then, at Concetta’s insistence, I also grabbed a peach-flavored ice-cream cone to properly round out the day. Life is good on the road!

So now the light is fading in our primitive camp in the pines. The laptop is almost out of juice, I won’t be able to charge it, and there is no Verizon service to be had. But if you’re okay with a minimum of modern technology when you’re on the road, and the magnificence of mountain rivers and towering pines makes you happy to be alive, then we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.

Day 25 - Livingston to West Yellowstone, Montana - 106 Miles

Well, we're here. But as fate would have it, we're not in the "here" for which we were headed. It all seemed so easy at the time. All we had to do, after buying our groceries and propane, was to jump on Route 89 south, which happened to be right outside the market, and drive.

And the drive was achingly beautiful, with tall peaks, green rolling fields, and the tumultuous Yellowstone River to keep us company all the way to the town of Gardiner, 52 miles away, which lay astride the entrance to every camper's favorite outdoor recreation destination, Yellowstone Park. The route seemed so easy, we thought that there was simply no reason to put up with the antics of Ms. GPS. We kept her turned off.

We stopped a few times along the way to gaze at the full-to-overflowing might of the Yellowstone River. Once we even caught a glimpse a couple of parties of river rafters floating downstream, but before I could find a parking spot, leap out, and capture their image, they had paddled nearly out of sight. This prompted me to pull over when I came abreast of a raft company site. Once there, I walked back to talk to them about price and ride duration. They told me that the one-hour tour was $34.00 a head and the two-hour tour was double that.

I told Concetta about the prices, but we already knew that a raft ride today, when we knew we wouldn't be able to camp in the park, would prove very difficult. A prior camp host had told us that all sites in the park are completely booked a year in advance. Since we knew we'd have to tour the park, then go outside to find an available camp site, it was clear that we had precious little time to stop and play.

As long as we were already parked at a fairly nice spot overlooking the Yellowstone, we decided to just stay put and have our lunch. Nearby, in the front yard of the fire station, a female moose browsed contentedly on some lush grass, so we weren't without lunchtime entertainment. Unfortunately, by the time lunch was over, no more river rafters had appeared so my lunchtime photo opportunity didn't pan out.

Once we packed up and headed on into Gardiner, we immediately recognized that we had arrived at a very tourist-oriented town. Cute commercial buildings lined both sides of the main street, and river-raft companies sprouted every couple of blocks all the way through town. If you want to river raft the Yellowstone, this town should be your destination.

I would have liked to have found a large parking lot somewhere downtown and walk around a bit, but we didn't find one until we got to the park entrance on the south end of town, and by then my enthusiasm for walking had cooled. So, we satisfied ourselves with getting our photo taken in front of the Yellowstone Park entrance sign.

There is one aspect of carrying a Nikon around your neck that must instill confidence in our fellow humans. Two different couples invited us to use their camera and take their photo by the sign. One couple was Chinese and spoke very little English. But we got the job done, and, in return, they used the Nikon to snap our photo.

From the northern park entrance I assumed it would be tremendously easy to just follow the parks internal circle road around until we came to a fork inviting us to chose between the East or West exit. We had already decided that we wanted to leave by the East entrance so that we could camp near Cody, Wyoming and then visit the particularly grand museum in that town. Concetta and I have not been to the Cody museum since 1980, but remember it fondly as just being outstanding.

I assume you've heard that old adage that goes, "Life is what happens to you while you're planning for something different," or words to that effect. Well, we spent the early part of the afternoon cruising south through a bewildering throng of cars, trucks, and RVs, all intent on stopping wherever they could to get a photograph of the buffalo, or some other natural phenomena. We, too, occasionally stopped, though finding a parking spot for a 32-foot rig is a tad more challenging then for a Prius.

But the tourist traffic wasn't the worst part of our afternoon drive. Around 1:30 p.m., when we were already starting to get antsy about getting through the park and finding a camp somewhere, we rounded a bend and came upon a long line of cars, at the very head of which was a young woman in a hardhat holding a stop sign. Concetta and I looked at each other and sighed. "Well," I said, "if we can't get out today, maybe we'll be able to hide the rig on one of their forest service roads for the night. The RV is painted dark gray and maybe they won't notice it in the after the sun goes down."

Worse than the stalled traffic, many of the drivers had exited their vehicles and were roaming the highway and shoulder area looking for something to occupy themselves, thus advertising that they'd probably been stalled for quite awhile already. We were right. We sat in that ever-growing line of traffic for another half hour. By the time we finally began moving, I couldn't see the last car in line by looking behind us.

Okay, so by time we finally got moving it was after 2:00 p.m., we had many miles to go before we slept, or even got out of the park by the closing hour of 10:00 p.m. After closing, I suspect that the rangers turn the bears loose to chase off the stragglers.

Once the ubiquitous pilot car had turned off, and all the northbound traffic had gone by, we knew we had to get serious about getting out of the park. But at this point we were stuck behind a pilot car of our own. As the minutes ticked by, and the pilot car proceeded at the leisurely pace of 20 miles per hour, we could do nothing go along for for the ride.

And then things got worse. Suddenly we came abreast of a sign which said, "Caution. Pavement Ends." Immediately the ride got infinitely more muddy, and bumpy, and even slower. Workers had removed the entire highway in both directions and were busily building a new one, or so it appeared. Then for three quarters of an hour, we proceeded at a snail's pace, bumping along at a few miles per hour. When we finally reached the pavement again, it was well after 3:00 p.m., and we were no closer to our target destination for the night. It was time to turn on her highness, Ms. GPS. and feed in the closest camp address by the east exit.

Concetta turned on the oh so ornery lady, and proceeded to punch in our choice of RV parks lying in or around the town of Cody, Wyoming. Ms. GPS accepted these instructions with only a couple of strangled demands to "make a U-turn." But when everything appeared to be proceeding according to plan, we relaxed a bit, and let her take us to our destination.

For the next hour Ms. GPS was silent and we just rolled. But at some point she piped up and announced that in 3 miles we needed to turn right at Madison and proceed to the West Yellowstone gate. "Right!" I said. "Right can't be right! And we don't want to go to West Yellowstone at all. Are you sure you put in Cody for a destination?" I asked Concetta.

Concetta affirmed that she had. By then we had come abreast of the Madison right turn and I went ahead and turned right, knowing full well that right was wrong! When the next mileage sign announced that we were 14 miles from the West Yellowstone gate, I pulled over and Concetta and just looked at each other. We had somehow missed the turnoff somewhere which would have led us to the east gate, and we had been driving the wrong way all afternoon.

For a few minutes we reversed direction and took the choice that bypassed the Madison turnoff, but we soon realized that the southern loop would take us hours and hours to achieve the east gate and deliver us to Cody. So, I turned around once again, took the Madison exit to West Yellowstone, and now here we are on the wrong side of the park, looking at a three-hour drive tomorrow to rectify our mistake.

But let's look at the bright side. Within walking distance of our camp tonight is a fine museum devoted to Montana and Yellowstone Park history. Concetta and I saw it on our way through town and have already walked over there and bought our tickets for tomorrow morning. Navigator Concetta found us a reasonable camp site right in West Yellowstone, which I wouldn't have predicted, since most sites fill up pretty quickly when anywhere near the park. The price was right, the space commodious, and our neighbors from Atlanta are quite talkative and congenial. Right ON!

And there you have it. Sometimes things go according to plan, and sometimes they don't. Or as Mary Chapin Carpenter puts it, "Sometimes you're the windshield, and sometimes you're the bug." But it's all good if you're having a good time, and with us there is never any doubt. We love what we do out here on the highways and byways of America. And when you go looking for the best things in life, we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.

Day 24 - White Sulfur Springs, Montana, to Livingston, Wyoming - 72 Miles

As you can see, we didn't drive very far today, mostly because we took time before leaving camp to launder the sheets and towels. But hey, we weren't actually rushing once we got out on the highway. In fact, for most of the short day, I seldom pushed the rig above 55 miles per hour. There was just too many interesting things to see, too much beautiful scenery to enjoy, and we didn't really care whether we made a lot of miles or not.

In fact, we had hardly left camp when I stopped again to photograph some vintage railroad equipment that I had somehow missed on our way into camp yesterday. Here's what I found out about the equipment that seemed to be marooned in White Sulphur Springs, Montana:

"The White Sulphur Springs and Yellowstone Park Railway, now defunct, was an American railroad built and operated between the towns of Ringling and White Sulphur Springs, Montana, a distance of 22.8 miles. The railroad, constructed in 1910, provided White Sulphur Springs with a link to the national railway network via a connection with the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Pacific Railroad ("the Milwaukee Road") at Ringling (Formerly Leader), Montana, renamed after John Ringling."

"The southern four miles of the railroad's route, between Ringling and Dorsey, were leased from the Milwaukee Road. Lew Penwell, the promoter and builder of the railroad, envisioned that White Sulphur Springs would boom as a tourist center. The Montana Daily Record reported that $3,000,000 would be spent developing the Smith River Valley and the building of a grand hotel at White Sulphur Springs."

"The railroad did a study to extend to Cascade, on the Missouri River, and there were rumors that it might build to Helena, MT, to replace the stagecoach route. The Milwaukee Road had a majority interest in the railroad of 51%, and supplied it with rolling stock and one locomotive. Milwaukee rotated the locomotives that were used on the WSS&YP due to the pure water available at White Sulphur Springs, which removed build-up and scale from the boiler."

"The railroad was abandoned in 1980, a consequence of the Milwaukee Road abandoning its line through Ringling. The station in White Sulphur Springs still stands after being restored for the movie Heartland in 1982. A heavyweight coach and sleeper sit in front of the station along with a Milwaukee Road ballast car and a stock car, marooned far away from the nearest rail system."

The next bit of historic trivia we encountered was a bronze statue, known as "Thunder Jack," we stopped to admire Jack at a spot just north of the town of Wilsall, Montana, on Route 89 South, in the Shields River Valley. As the accompanying sign informed us, "The river was named by Captain William Clark, of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, in honor of John Shields, a member of the party. Captain Clark and his men, guided by Sacajawea (also spelled Sacagawea), the Shoshone woman, camped at the mouth of the river July 15, 1806, while exploring the Yellowstone on their return trip from the [Pacific] coast".

The sign goes on to say:

"Jim Bridger, famous trapper, trader, and scout, guided emigrant wagon trains from Fort Laramine, Wyoming, to Virginia City, Montana, in the 1860s, crossing hostile Indian country via the Bozeman Trail. Bridger's route came up this valley from the Yellowstone, followed up Brackett Creek, crossed the divide west of here (Wilsall, Montana) to strike Bridger Creek and thence down the latter to Gallatin Valley."

The statue itself contained a plaque with the following information:

"The mountain men, weathered and windbitten were adventurous explorers who led American deep into new regions of the Rockies and beyond. Names John Coulter, Thomas Fitzpatrick, and Jim Bridger were among hundreds of men who were unsurpassed as marksmen, horsemen, naturalists, and the ultimate masters of survival."

"This sculpture is dedicated to all those who came, endured, and made a home in this mountain valley before and since Captain William Clark named it in 1806."

From Wikipedia we learn that: "The life of a mountain man was rugged. Many did not last more than several years in the wilderness. They faced many hazards, especially when exploring unmapped areas. Biting insects and other wildlife, bad weather, diseases of all kinds, injuries and hostile tribes presented constant physical dangers."

"Grizzly bears were one of the mountain man's greatest enemies. Winters could be brutal with heavy snowstorms and low temperatures. In order to stay alive, the men needed keen senses, and knowledge of herbal remedies and first aid, among other skills."

"In summer, they could catch fish, build shelter, and hunt for food and skins. The mountain man dressed in deer skins that had stiffened after being left outdoors for a time; this suit of stiffened deer skin gave him some protection against the weapons of particular enemies. There were no doctors in the regions where mountain men worked; these men had to set their own broken bones, tend their wounds, and nurse themselves back to good health."

One of my favorite books on the subject of mountain men is "Men to Match My Mountains," by Irving Stone. Another is "Firearms, Traps, & Tools of the Mountain Men: A Guide in Picture & Text to the equipment of the trappers and fur traders who opened the Old West from the 1830's to the 1840's." The latter is a wonderful book if you want to know just exactly what the mountain men took with them into the mountains."

We discovered a museum on our RV trip in 2016 which turned out to be one of our very favorites. It's called "The Museum of the Fur Trade," and it's located on Nebraska Route 20 near it's intersection with Route 385 near the town of Chadron. Concetta and I spent at least an hour, and probably much longer there as the museum was so excellent.

As we were slowly motoring south on Montana Route 89 this morning, we were talking about how incredibly difficult it must have been for Lewis and Clark, and subsequent mountain men, to brave the wilderness without even a hint of a support system should something go wrong. With virtually all of nature against them, it seems that those men were defying the odds just to survive until the next day, let alone an entire winter. Then they would come out of the wilderness, not just having mastered their trade, but having accomplished something grand in many cases.

Lewis and Clark, and the Corps of Discovery, trekked 8,000 miles and threw open half a continent to which future Americans would emigrate and enjoy. Subsequent mountain men, while only really just earning a living, often discovered new passes through the mountains, new routes for wheeled vehicles to utilize, and new sources of much sought-after commodities. It's truly an awesome and epic story.

We spent much of our time today, that which wasn't tied up doing laundry and a general cleaning of the RV at last night's camp, stopping to check out and photograph local sites. After we discovered "Thunder Jack," we rolled into the nearby town of Wilsall, Montana. Wilsall is the town where, evidently, nothing of importance ever happened, at least Wikipedia enumerates only the demographics, but has nothing to say about the town's history or importance to Montana.

When we rolled into Wilsall, the first thing we did was look for a nice quiet park or green space alongside which we might park the rig for our lunch break. We turned west off Route 89 when we saw a sign for "Veterans Park." But once there, we saw that the park had no adjacent parking and absolutely no place to put a 32-foot vehicle.

Okay, so next we began to cruise the town's side and cross streets looking for ANY flat spot wide enough to accommodate us. We cruised by a couple of dozen houses, a stock coral, a rodeo arena, a heavy equipment yard, and copious disabled and long-dead vehicles, but no decent lunch spot presented itself.

In the end, since I had seen some interesting subjects to photograph on the main highway, we drove back to Route 89, and parked right beside a photographic studio about a half block from the Mercantile on one side of the street, and an interesting bar on the other.

Our lunch was a tad noisy as heavy trucks rumbled by every few minutes just scant feet from our "dining room" window. But at least the site was level. Fortunately, the town of some 237 individuals had provided wide enough parking along main street to give us ample space for the RV to park, and there was still lots of room for the trucks.

The first thing I did while Concetta was working her magic over the cutting board, was wander for a few minutes around the town's main crossroads. While the Mercantile and bar occupied two corners, and a vacant lot the third, the forth corner sported a rather jaunty structure that had all the earmarks of having been a gasoline station. I don't suppose it had, since it was well off the pavement. But in front of the pseudo gas station stood a 1920s gas pump, all painted up in authentic Conoco oil company colors.

Naturally, I had to shoot the station and the pump from several angles. From there I strode over to where a wonderfully artistic mural adorned the mercantile building. Unfortunately, someone had deposited a Dodge in front of the mural which made it hard to shoot, but I did my best.

From the mural I walked down south a bit and immediately caught sight of an old Studebaker dump truck that appeared to need my attention. Trying to avoid the mud puddles in the dirt lot where the Studebaker rested, I got closer and grabbed a few shots, caught one of some wild flowers, then headed back toward the RV.

At this point I came to the bar which, to my amazement, sported the most incredibly beautiful, obviously fully functional, neon sign over the door that I had seen in some time. Wishing that I could catch it at sunset, I nevertheless fired off a couple of shots to remind me of what I might have shot.

Back at the RV, Concetta was nearly ready with lunch so it turned out my time was well spent. After lunch we both took a little walk north along Route 89. The reason to walk north was that Concetta had noticed, as we drove into town, that successive streets were named Lewis, Clark, and Sacajawea. We just had to get those streets recorded!

With our walk done, and our steps counted, we loaded up and headed out of town. We didn't get very far as the Yellowstone River was raging off our port side and at some point we just had to stop, get photos of the river, of the old rail line that kept us company on our starboard side, and a cool pin truss bridge that popped up out of nowhere and beckoned for attention.

Once we reached Interstate 90, where we had to leave our beloved two-lane and join the madly rushing hoards, we sailed west in search of the first town that might have a truck and RV wash. Our little home on wheels has accumulated so much dirt, bugs, and grime that we're beginning to look like we're from the 1930s Oklahoma dust bowl.

The first town we encountered turned out to be Livingston, and we promptly exited Interstate 90 and rolled into town. By the time we stopped at a gas station to fill the top half of the tank, we had seen no such truck and RV wash business.

We had to exit the gas station by turning left into the neighborhood rather than right onto the main drag as there was insufficient clearance between the pumps and the rig as the tail end would swing. As we rolled south through the quiet neighborhood setting, we were immediately impressed with the quality of housing. Everywhere we looked were wonderful vintage craftsman, Victorian, and traditional farmhouses, most in terrific condition. We even saw a California mission revival house that was so beautiful that I had to stop and photograph it. As we continued to roll south enjoying the architectural treasures, we found ourselves wondering what must be behind the obvious economic revival of Livingston. Were wealthy Californians moving in here, too?

Then, quite by accident, we caught sight of the city park at the end of the street. Wondering if there might be facilities for an overnight RV, we headed down there.

The park didn't have any such facilities, but what it did have was a wonderful bronze statue of Sacajawea and her son, Jean Baptist. We parked the truck near the statue and spent the next twenty minutes just admiring the awesome expertise of the artist and all the hard work that must have gone into its production. We say bravo to the artist and to the town of Livingston for making it possible.

By now it was far too late in the day to travel on, so when we regained the main street heading west, we grabbed the first sign that advertised a nearby camp. The camp was certainly not on a par with the one we found last night, but it had all the utilities, the hostess was cordial, and we have our very own patch of grass and tree to provide shade.

After we got everything set up, Concetta and I took off into town, got an impressive number of steps on the pedometer, visited an outdoorsman shop where I saw, for the first time in my life, female underwear on sale in various creative designs of hunter's camouflage. Not sure exactly what woman would go out hunting bears and wildcats in her underwear, but what do I know? Now we're settled in for the night. Our research tells us that NO truck and/or RV wash business is being advertised anywhere in the area (other than a mobile one), so the rig will have to remain grungy.

Tomorrow we're headed down to Yellowstone Park, though we were told by our host last night that chances of actually staying in the park are between slim and none. No matter, we'll stay wherever we can drop our anchor, inside or outside of the park. At some point we're definitely going to stop by the wonderful western museum in Cody, Wyoming, that we last saw nearly forty years ago, so stay tuned for that. And until we meet again, we wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.