Riding a Bicycle Across Wyoming (Part 1)

Encounter with a Strange and Windy Town

In 2010, I was on a cross-country bicycle trek from Kansas to Seattle, Washington. I had already traveled across Kansas, up and over the Rockies of Colorado and had found myself dealing with the windy state of Wyoming. Here is one of my stories about an interesting 24 hours around Jeffery, Wyoming while riding my bike.

The Ride Between Rawlins and Jeffrey

The ride out of Rawlins, Wyoming and to Jeffrey was a mostly pleasant ride coupled with some tough moments and ending with a very strange evening.

Early morning riding was always my favorite. In the morning, the legs were still fresh, the wind mild, and nature was abundant. I saw lots of wildlife that morning: deer, antelope and plenty of hawks. It always amazed me at how many more animals I noticed while riding by at 14 miles per hour than I would see in a noisy car going 60 miles per hour.

The antelope were my favorite. They would see me coming and instead of running away like the deer, they would run parallel to me for little while until they darted off into the distance.

The climbs the mountains had to offer on this day were not so bad. Also, for the first 40 miles, the wind was fairly mild.

A Warning from Fellow Riders

In a little diner in Lamont about 30 miles into the ride, I met a man and woman from Washington D.C. riding their bicycles in the opposite direction.

I had a nice conversation with them, and I told them about the ride they had in store for them over the next few weeks and they did the same for me. Shared reconnaissance is important when meeting other riders.

When, they asked me my destination and I said Jeffrey City, they both noticeably cringed.

“I don’t trust that town,” he said, “Something about it creeps me out.”

They went on to explain that since the local Uranium mine shut down, the town was reduced to only 50 people and a bar with an odd assortment of locals was the only business in town.

“I noticed a hotel there on the map. Is the hotel still open?” I inquired.

They told me they didn’t think it was open anymore.

“It sure looked closed down from the road,” she told me, “I wouldn’t stay in that town if I was you.”

That frustrated me. The town would be at the end of a 70-mile journey. There would be no motel until Lander another 60 miles past the town of Jeffrey.

Since I had mostly been staying in hotels along the way, I had only a small tent and no sleeping bag. I knew the nights would get cold in the mountains and I did not have the gear to handle that.

This weighed heavily on my mind as a rode away from the diner and the couple.

As I contemplated what to do, the ride was going really well so I thought about resting when I got to Jeffrey and then trying to ride the remaining 60 miles for a total of 130 miles for the day.

I had never ridden over 100 miles in one day. I know it sounded crazy, but if conditions hadn’t changed, I thought I could do it. But of course, conditions changed.

Around noon, the west wind really picked up and made riding difficult. My progress slowed to 9 mph. The last 15 miles into Jeffrey were a lot of work. Finally, I rode by the old motel. It did look run down — like it hadn’t been open in years.

Jeffrey, Wyoming

Racking my brain trying to figure out what to do, I rode past the motel and went to the bar that was just next next door. The wind was really gusting now and I saw no way that I could do another 60 miles.

Even if I decided to sleep in the mountains with just my tent and no sleeping pad or sleeping bag, there were no campgrounds so I would have to get permission from someone to let me pitch a tent. Of course, there was also the problem of the cold temperatures.

As I entered the bar, I decide that the couple that I met earlier had been right, the locals in the bar were a little odd.

There were five people scattered around the room. A tall, skinny middle-aged man was leaving the bar as I entered and he did a doubletake at me and then left. One old man drank at the bar, a six pack sat in front of him. He had obviously bought that to go, but he kept drinking beer after beer.

The bartender, an elderly rotund woman, and a rather loud blond middle-aged woman were in the corner trying to operate a fax machine. The bar was cluttered and the residents of the bar (yes, it seemed they lived there) had all claimed their own tables which were covered with drinks, paperwork and laptop computers.

The rotund woman looked up when I walked in, stopped what she was doing and went behind the bar.

“What can I getcha?” she asked without a smile.

“Can I start with a glass of water?” I asked. She rolled her eyes but made no move to get me water.

“Do you serve food?” I added. She simply handed me a menu.

I ordered a sandwich and a short time later, the bartender emerged from the kitchen with my sandwich in one hand, a glass of water in the other, and a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

“There ya go,” was all she said as she put it in front of me.

I was getting the idea that they didn’t like strangers, especially cyclists clad in neon yellow, tight shorts, and bike shoes.

Suddenly, the door to the bar flew open and a man in his thirties with curly brown hair and two days worth of stubble on his face walked into the bar wearing rawhide chaps, a long sleeve shirt covered in mud, a cowboy hat, and a sidearm holstered to his side.

“Shorty, you know you ain’t suppose to bring guns in here,” the bartender complained.

On Shorty’s behalf, where he certainly didn’t tower above the room, I am not sure I would have used the word short to describe him. He was probably just under 6 feet tall.

“I been out shooting coyotes,” Shorty explained.

The bartender asked him if he was going to pay his tab.

“Next time, when I remember my check book” Shorty offered.

The conversation switched to raising cattle and I went back to my sandwich.

Next to me, the old man continued drinking his beer. Three P.B.R.s sat empty in front of him. He was working on the fourth from the six pack. No one seemed interested in cleaning up his area.

“Are you heading to Lander?” the old man beside me asked.

Startled that somebody had talked to me, I swallowed the bite of food in my mouth and said, “Trying to!”

I explained my predicament to the man and asked if he knew anybody with a truck going to the next town. He looked around and said everyone in here lives in Jeffrey. He didn’t offer anything else.

I told him I could ride to Landry in the morning when the wind would hopefully die down and I had had the opportunity for a little rest but the motel being shut down changed my plans.

“Well, the motel’s not shut down,” he said, “That was John in here when you first got here. He owns the place. Go knock on his door in the house next to the motel. He will get rent you a room.”

Apparently listening to our conversation, the loud blonde woman yelled from across the bar, “The room ain’t got no TV or nothing.”

When I didn’t respond, she added to no one in particular but much quieter and sadder, “This town is dying.”

I sat and waited to pay my tab as I thought about my plans. I felt pretty good. Maybe I could ride into Lander. But there was really nothing between here and there.

I had to walk over to one of the cluttered tables to get the bartender to let her know I wanted to pay my tab.

As I left the bar and got on my bike, I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do. A gust of wind hit me and made taking off difficult.

The wind had picked up and was far too strong to ride in.

That decided it. I turned around and pedaled back toward the motel.

To be continued…

Here is Part 2 of the story;

Also, if you would like to read another bicycle story:

You can see how the rest of the journey worked out on my biking journal : cgoab.com/cwmelzer