Carbon County Museum lights up local history

Dino the Sinclair dinosaur and an unnamed mule deer in front of the Carbon County Museum in Rawlins. Photo by Annie Shay.

Daughter Annie and I traveled to Rawlins a few Fridays ago to cover a story on the Carbon County Museum. Annie's a photographer and this is the first story we worked together. I've watched her start her own photography business. She's assembled some good photo equipment. I've watched her edit her work on PhotoShop, a world of mystery to me. Photography has been a hobby and part of my job several times, including my time at the Wyoming Arts Council. My skills have always been rudimentary. Over the years, I've found that I can interview the subject or take photos but not both. I need to query the subject, watch their body language, and study the face. 

So it was a bonus for me to work with a photographer. We also traveled and had lunch together. How cool is that? It's fun to talk and negotiate the snowless Snow Chi Minh Trail over Elk Mountain, there and back again. Always a good stop at that rest area, although not so pleasant in January when frigid 80 mph winds freeze your hands and buffet you about. Annie shot photos of the mountain, free of snow in late June which I found odd but in keeping with climate change. 

But, summer. It's short but glorious.

Annie and I cruised to Anong's for lunch and then found the museum at 9th and Walnut. It's in an old LDS church and it looks church-like but for the museum's sign and the big green dinosaur staring off to the north and the mule deer lying in the shade. 

Annie: Is that real?

Me: Dinosaurs are extinct.

Annie: No, the deer.

Deer (looking at us): It's a damn sight cooler here in the shade. Think I want to be out on the parched prairie and its 95-degree heat and coyotes and rattlers and the sudden urge to dart into speeding traffic? I'd be inside if I could figure out a way to open the doors (raises hoofs) See?

Annie and Me: Oh

After our deer encounter and, equipped with opposable thumbs, we go inside. Dr. Steven Dinero sits behind the old bank teller's cage. He's the ED and serves some shifts as the official greeter and gift shop cashier. 

You have to read "From outlaw skulls to rail stories, Rawlins Museum animates history" on WyoFile's Studio Wyoming Review. Take a look at the accompanying photos and click on the captions so you can see Annie's credit line, her first-ever. She's proud of it and so am I. 

A note about museums: I've lived in Wyoming for 30 years but I'd never been to this museum. I've been to the Frontier Prison and the real prison south of town. I've toured the old train depot and stopped for food and bio breaks dozen of times. Weather stopped me one February day and I chose to go the northern route back to Cheyenne so I didn't miss Chris's birthday. I wonder how many other of the state's 100-plus museums have I passed by. Dozens, I suspect. Take an hour break on your summer sojourn and visit a museum. 

Gun totin' in schools, El Rancho Avalancho and red state energy bound for blue state

Some things that irked and/or entertained me this past week:

The state legislature is in session. Opening day included the Gov's State of the State speech, a "legalize pot" march by Wyoming NORML and performances in the House chambers by WY Poet Laureate Echo Roy Klaproth and the UW Collegiate Chorale. The week was filled with debates over Medicaid expansion, gun-totin' in schools, minimum wage increases, early childhood education, more guns, Common Core, increases to hunting and fishing licenses, a decrease in coal taxes and, of course, more gun-totin'. Most bills were killed early so the Housers and Senators can get on to the issue at hand, the budget. Only three weeks left to do so. The big surprise is that Sen. Chris Rothfuss (D-Laramie) fashioned a bipartisan bill on Medicaid expansion that still is in the mix. Way to go, Sen. R! This is a miracle in this Obamacare-bashing state.

From the library shelves: "This Land was Made for You and Me (But Mostly Me)" by Bruce McCall and David Letterman. Yes, that's the same David Letterman as seen on late-night TV. And illustrator Bruce McCall was one of the Scots-Irish geniuses behind the rise of National Lampoon, the others being Michael O'Donoghue and P.J. O'Rourke. Letterman is a millionaire with a Rocky Mountain getaway in Montana. I'm not sure about McCall's portfolio, but it's intriguing that Dave and Bruce would turn their comedic sights on the super-rich and their favorite playgrounds in the West, places like Jackson Hole. This from the book's intro:

It all began a decade and a half ago or so in the far American West, in Montana and Wyoming and those other states that appropriated and misspelled the Native American words for "Big Empty Space" and "Much Bigger Empty Space"; there, a few daring pioneers from the pharaonically wealthy top crust embarked on a spree, powered by lust, inspired by a vision only they could see.

Because it takes more than money, privilege and cronies in high places to ransack nature's bounty for the private pleasure of a privileged few, in what poets might call acts of sublime idiocy (as if anyone would ask poets their opinion!), in other words, obliterating what always was, and making out of it what never existed before, then flanking it with armed guards and electric fences and Rottweilers.

The writer/illustrator duo go on to explore "the only Montana hunting lodge with its own indoor airport,"  El Rancho Avalancho in Idaho -- the world's first skiable mansion, and "the biggest goddamn bison in Wyoming." During the legislature's first week, it was good to once again laugh at the humor of wretched excess.

Speaking of wretched excess.... A Los Angeles Times story excerpted in my local paper today is about the largest wind ranch in creation, coming soon to Carbon County. Big enough to fit all of L.A. inside of it, the 500-sqare-mile ranch -- owned by gazillionaire Philip Anschutz -- will be home to 1,000 wind turbines and the starting point for a transmission line to carry all the energy to California. Cali needs clean energy and Wyoming breaks wind incessantly -- a match made in heaven. The irony in all of this is that the the most blue of blue states, with more enviros per square mile than anywhere else on earth, will be getting its energy from the most red of red states, a place that keeps its energy rates the lowest in the nation by burning coal, the dirtiest energy-creating substance there is.

California has until 2020 to ensure that one-third of its energy comes from renewable resources. Meanwhile, its cities are clouded in a haze that travels from pollution generated by coal-burning plants in China. Some of that coal comes from Wyoming's Powder River Basin. Wyoming currently is working with officials in Washington to build new ports to ship more coal to China.

The world is indeed an odd place.

Winter off-roading in Wyoming

A week ago today, I sat in my Ford staring out at the frozen tundra of Carbon County. I was about ten feet off of Hwy. 287, rear end facing the road. My tires had carved a trail as straight as an arrow from road to final resting place, a slight depression midway between asphalt and barbed wire. 

My mistake was going too fast through a slushy mix of snow and ice. You'd call it "hydroplaning" if the road was awash in rain water. The tires lose contact with the road and the car goes into a spin. Florida people hydroplane all the time. It's an official state sport.

But it rarely happens in Wyoming, where rain usually falls in a fine mist. Hail is a different kettle of fish. I once was caught in a hailstorm in I-25 near Buffalo. My car began to lose traction as hail swamped the road. Couldn't see either. So I slowly rolled to a stop on the shoulder, coming to rest five feet behind a truck hauling a horse trailer.

Last Saturday, I sat for a few minutes and then decided to take a look at my predicament. The wind blew about 50 mph but it was a warm wind, as these things go, not an Arctic blast but a downslope wind, a chinook or "snoweater" as Native peoples used to call it. It also blows freshly fallen powder snow in great quantities across roadways, leaving snow traps for the unwary.

My front wheel wells were clogged with wet snow. My running board rested on a snowbank. I guessed that I was high-ended, the term used when your car's mid-section rests on a mound of snow or sand or dirt and your wheels can't find traction. This usually means a tow, or getting pushed out of your predicament by a roving band of cowboys or collegians. When I was younger, I found pleasure in helping push people out of predicaments. My damaged heart won't let me do that any more.

A father and son in a small truck pulled over and asked if they could help. "Don't have anything to tow you out with," said the man. "Want us to call someone?"

I showed him my phone. "I'm going to call my insurance company."

He nodded and pulled away.

I extracted my gloves and ice scraper. I dug out around the front tires and poked the scraper beneath the car, trying to loosen the snow that kept me high-ended. I scraped the snow down to the prairie grass, hoping I could get a purchase on dry ground. Winded, I got back in the car and caught my breath. Bluegrass tunes played on the radio. At least I could get Wyoming Public Radio. 

I rocked the car -- reverse to forward and reverse again. The car moved a tad, but finally got stuck again. I shifted back into park and fished out my insurance company's 1-800 roadside assistance number. I called. Reached an electronic voice that transferred me to another e-voice and then I got a real person. She wanted to help me. I reconstruct our conversation from memory.

"Where are you located?" she asked.

"Off of a state highway about 10 miles north of Rawlins, Wyoming."

"Where?"

"Off of Interstate 80, north of Rawlins in Wyoming." I was tempted to add: "The big square state right in the middle of the map."  But didn't.

A few seconds passed. "I-80 -- found it," she said. "You said Rawlins?"

"Yes."

I heard her tapping on the keys in an office somewhere in Dallas or Indianapolis or Portland. "State highway, you said?"

"Can't remember the name. 287 I think."

More tapping. "Ah," she said. "Highway 287."

"Sounds right."

She asked me if I was stuck. I said I was. She asked if my car was damaged. I replied that it was OK. She asked if I was less than or more than 10 feet from the road. I thought it would sound better if I said less than ten feet so that was my answer. She asked if she could have permission to log into my phone's location finder. I told he that my smart phone was busted and that I had a dumb phone with me. That didn't seem to phase her. She said she was going to locate me, said I would get a call from the responder. We said our goodbyes and disengaged. Wind rocked the car. Old-timey banjo music played on the radio.

I looked to the south and saw two snowplows headed my way. You couldn't have been here a half hour ago? They stopped just short of me. Both drivers disembarked.

I got out of the car. 

"Need any help?" asked the first driver, who was surprisingly young. He looked at me and then at the car.

"I have a tow truck coming."

He nodded. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

We parted ways. During this three-day trip, I had seen a dozen snow plows. It's winter in Wyoming and this winter is a doozy. The WYDOT plows get a lot of credit for keeping the roads open. But it was a closed interstate that brought me to this predicament. I-80 was closed between Rawlins and Laramie and it didn't appear it would open any time soon. And I needed to get home for my wife Chris's birthday party. So I was taking the long way around, going north around the snow, or so I thought.

My phone dinged. I answered an automated call. It went something like this: "Your roadside assistance vehicle is on its way. You can expect it in approximately six hours."

WTF? Six hours? I'll never get home. The call disconnected. I noted with alarm that I had only one bar of service showing on the phone face. How did I get so low? Now I was going to sit here for six hours with very little phone service, a heart patient trapped in a snow bank. Cars and trucks passed on the road. I thought about making a sign and standing out by the road. "Heart patient needs help." Or maybe "Help -- Wife will kill me if I don't get home for birthday."

As I contemplated my options, I noticed a surprising number of cars and trucks and SUVs passing me by. Would I stop if I saw a stranded motorist on the side of the road? Depends. It was the middle of the day and, if they were to get a good look at me, people could tell that I was somewhat harmless. What does a red Ford Fusion tell you about the person inside? Buys American cars. Wyoming license plate. Probably not a very good driver -- what kind of knucklehead slides off a road in the middle of a sunny February day?

Someone did stop. Dark blue pickup. Guy got out. I got out. Young Latino, maybe 30. Wore a light jacket and a ballcap. Asked if I needed help. I told him my story, said a tow truck was coming but not until dark. He walked over to the car and looked around.

"I think we can push it out." He spoke with a slight accent. "My girlfriend is in the truck -- she can drive."

I thought about it for a second. I really shouldn't be pushing out any cars, even my own. But he seemed very certain that we could do this. I nodded. He waved his girlfriend out of the car. She came out. Very pretty woman wrapped in a bulky coat. She walked over, the two spoke and she got behind the wheel. 

The man and I pushed. The girlfriend turned the wheels and the man said to keep the wheels straight. We pushed again, the car moved back a few inches and I fell on my face in the snow.

"You OK?" said the man.

I nodded. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don't be a weinie. Heart don't fail me now.

We pushed again. I slipped in the snow. The car moved back toward the road, slowly, and then it gained traction and reached asphalt. Two cars on the inside lane had stopped, giving us some room to back up. The girlfriend backed gently onto the road, and then pulled forward on the shoulder. I breathed heavily, my heart pounded. 

"Thank you so much," I said to the man and his girlfriend. She grinned. I never heard her speak a word. The two walked back to the car. I got into my Ford, looked in the rearview mirror and saw them get into their pickup. I waved. I put my car into drive and gently pulled away, hoping I hadn't sustained any front-end damage. The car purred. I drove. It was a good 20 miles before I caught my breath. From there, it was mostly smooth sailing.

Also see my post that day from the new Burger King in Rawlins, written while I waited (in vain) for I-80 to open. This new BK featured gaming PCs at several of its tables and AT&T wireless. The password: ILoveBacon. Read my blog from Rock Springs about the travails of Elk Mountain here.

Code of the West: "Remember that some things are not for sale"

I was wondering when someone was going to make the link between Wyoming's official "Code of the West" and the rise of corporate personhood. Great column by Dave Throgmorton writing in the Rawlins Daily Times. Go to Rawlins Times opinion columns

Rawlins man publishes a Wyoming mental illness memoir

An amazing story at this Casper Star-Trib link: http://trib.com/article_6d01c998-a490-11df-84c7-001cc4c03286.html

Daniel Meyers, 56, finished his autobiography, "The Spirit of the Lion," after 21 years of work. An earlier version was lost, so he had to begin again. Not many of us writers have such dedication and stamina.

Daniel has schizoaffective disorder. He lived a wayward childhood and was once in an orphanage. He's been in and out of mental health centers and has taken a variety of medications for his disorder.

He started the writing his book around 1989 as part of a non-fiction writing class taught by Helon Raines at University of Wyoming/Casper College.

Rodger McDaniel, head of the Wyoming Mental Health Division, liked the book so much that he bought one for every state legislator. And the Carbon County Library in Rawlins includes it in one of its book discussion groups.

Read the entire CST story. It's inspirational.  And then go buy the book at http://www.authorhouse.com/