The Wyoming Journals, Ch. 6: Medicine Bow and Burgers at The Virginian Hotel

When last we saw our intrepid hunters, they were riding off into the sunset with their freshly harvested elk.   That evening, we know they dined on lasagna made with ground elk.   Another elk, harvested in another year, not this one.

There are no photos of the elk lasagna because I was too hungry to stop and take a photo.   Somewhere in the hundreds of photos I took, I think there is one of leftovers being stored in plastic containers.  

The next morning brings the BOING!   BOING!    BOING! of that infernal “melody” from Chris’s phone alarm.   Lawdy, but I hate that song, but to be truthful, I hate any noise that emanates from any device meant to awaken me.

Prairie dog

Up at 4:05.  Chris always gets back in her sleeping bag after hitting snooze or whatever she has to do on her phone, and I’m sure it’s so that I can spend five minutes dreading that wretched noise a second time.

We’re eating pancakes for breakfast at 4:30.   Brad and Charles go off to hunt and we four cousins go back to our beds.   That’s a perk that happens when your team has harvested an elk.

Later in the morning, Bud, Bob, and I drive to Medicine Bow to deliver the elk to the game processor, Maddox Meat.  Waiting for Bud to complete his order, I notice a sign on the wall that warned of a $50 extra charge is game was brought in WITHOUT the hide.  The reason, of course, is so that the meat stays clean.  I suspect in Alaska, if you had the ability  (crane, forklift, etc.)to take a whole moose in, hide and all, you’d be charged a whole lot more!

It seems that everything important in Medicine Bow is located on the main street, the Lincoln highway.  There’s Maddox, a gas station/convenience store, a bar, an ice cream store (closed), and an RV park.  Medicine Bow was founded in 1868 as a watering station for the steam locomotives of the Union Pacific  railroad.   

Brad's antique truck backed up the offload the elk.  Cousin Bud built the tool boxes, etc. on the truck.

At it highest population, in the 1980 census, there were 953 folks counted.   In the 2010 census, only 284.   But, the estimated population in 2016 was down to 270.

I don't think the census counted the dogs.

We drive over to the gas station, fill up, and walk into the convenience store.  The lady behind the counter, like most westerners, is friendly to strangers and we talk for a while.  I am floored by the price of hot dogs, and ruefully recall $3 hot dogs in Alaska.   These aren’t little bitty dogs, either.

A large hot dog is $1.39!

And they aren't little ones, either.

Our next stop is next door (almost) at The Virginian, an historic hotel built in the early 1900s.  The three of us all order burgers and fries and I wander around with my camera.

During its heyday in the early 1900s, this was the largest hotel between Denver and Salt Lake City.

 

We will certainly hear more about this claim later in the Wyoming Journals.

The young fellow who waits on us is as skinny as a stalk of straw.   He’s wearing sneakers, jeans, and a black hoody that he wears with the hood pulled over his head.   It’s odd, but there is nothing to complain about with his service.  He’s polite and knows the right way to ask and serve.  It’s the hoody!   I have to wonder if he's hiding something.

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Cousin Bud is seated and staring at his phone while Cousin Bob checks out the decor.

Across the street.

Then, we head for camp.   Along the way, we spot many pronghorn antelope in the fields.

 

This fella is antler-challenged, having none on the right side of its head.

Pronghorn with some of the wind turbines.

 

 

We have one more stop to make before we get back to camp, one that utterly enchants me, but that’s another chapter in this on-going tale….   

Pretty soon we will get to the shoot-em-up.   Stay tuned.

 

Stop at the right spot and you find the wind turbines aligned.

Some photos from inside The Virginian restaurant and special dining room:

This is in the special dining room, apparently for meetings, etc.

Note the ceilinig.

A waiting room for the restaurant.

The Saloon.  Again, note the ceiling.

The Wyoming Journals, Ch. 4: Lessons Learned the Cold Way

Ch. 4:  Lessons Learned the Cold Way

I’m curled up on the front bench seat of a 1981 Ford Bronco, freezing my tush and toes off, when I realize this trip to spend time with my long-lost cousins* at their annual elk hunt in Wyoming is going to be a learning experience.   To wit:   Those little packets of air-activated heat packs don’t work a darn if you wait until your feet are frozen before you stick the patches under your toes.

That lesson, uncomfortable as it is in this incident, can be forgiven.   I’ve never used them before because, in Alaska, I’ve never had to.   I always had appropriate clothing and boots when I ventured out.

I am not sure this is the actual mountain top where we parked, but it gives you an idea of the terrain.

This morning, the first day of elk hunting, I think about the brand new North Face insulated boots that I’d bought on sale in a sporting goods store in Ft. Collins, Colorado, when Chris and I were on our way from Denver to the Snowy Mountain range in southeastern Wyoming.  Why I didn’t put them on this morning is beyond me.   The temperatures weren’t that bad and I figured I was tough enough to wear my hiking boots with wool socks.

I am not.   I am cold.   And groggy from the high-altitude meds I am taking.  I bugged out of the hunting blind mid-morning and scrambled uphill to a wind-swept mountain ridge where the Bronco is parked.  I don't start the vehicle to get warm because it is a cranky starter.  I curl up in the fetal position and try to go to sleep while outside a blizzard with white out conditions is screaming down the canyon with nothing to block its path except the Bronco.

I think I did fall asleep, because I am surprised when my three cousins arrive at the vehicle and pile in out of the poor weather.  No visibility, they sa7/.

We go back to the warm motorhome and eat the sandwiches Chris prepared for us at 4 A.M.  A couple hours later, after the storm abates, Bud says the game plan is to return to the blind where he will wait while Bob and Chris go up the canyon a way, climb down the side of the mountain and (theoretically) move any elk in the area across Bud’s line of site.   It will be difficult terrain, he says, and suggests I remain in camp.

Sounds good to me.   I settle into Bud’s recliner with my Kindle and try to read.  After a few paragraphs, I fall asleep.   And again and again.   Finally, I snuggle into my sleeping bag and take a nap.

Later the sun is out, the temperatures are nice and the wind has died down. I dress in warm clothes and  walk up the valley to a place called White Rocks.  I am embarrassed to admit that I have to stop several times to catch my breath as I walk a gentle rise (I joke that it was only a 20-foot gain in elevation, but that might be more fact than humor).

Weathered and eroded by wind, water and blowing sand, these iconic sandstone formations can be seen from many points in these mountains.  I am on a birding mission and, seeing something winged and feathered, I climb to the base of this incredible rock and make my way along its base.  

Soon, I come to a natural indentation in the base of the rock and movement catches my eye.   We don’t have chipmunks in Alaska, so I am fascinated with this little critter.

Back at camp, my cousins form a three-cousin search party and set out to find me.   They know where I am, so there isn’t much searching to be done.

 The following photos were taken by Chris on their afternoon hike down the mountain.

  

Chris and Bob

 

Bob and Chris

Bud waiting in the blind for an elk to walk in front of him.

*  My cousins didn't know they were lost.   They thought I was, living up in Alaska