When Storm Clouds Turn Into The Big Horn Mountains

Day 6: Travels with Wally and Company: The Westward Excursion

Tuesday, June 28, 1988 Hill City, South Dakota to Cody, Wyoming

After a late and satisfying breakfast, we quickly packed up and headed west, driving through the remainder of the Black Hills. We said our last goodbyes.

It’s sad leaving a memorable place. But I didn’t feel too bad. We still had fifteen days left.

In the town of Custer, we stopped to mail postcards. Route 16 crossed the border of South Dakota. Interstate 90 was a straight ribbon of sun-baked blacktop into the Endless Horizons of Eastern Wyoming.

The terrain leveled. Wyoming was barren. Dry, rolling hills and huge cattle ranches — stretched as far as a light year. Numerous oil rigs diligently drilled the resources from the land.

Others lingered in rustic ruin.

Mile after mile — no signs of human habitation. Only empty spaces were covered with sage and huge rolls of hay. It was incredible. So much land. I thought back to my home state in New Jersey: so cramped and overcrowded — every space taken by shopping centers, strip malls, housing developments, convenience stores, or business complexes.

Dark shadows rising ahead marked High Noon. I turned down the music. “I think they’re the Rocky Mountains,” I said.

She said they “were storm clouds.”

As we drew closer, that storm cloud transformed into towering, snowcapped mountains. They were the Big Horn Mountains — extending like a spine, north to south — creating a sharp contrast. On one side, the brown sun-parched land had been carved evenly, with small hills and valleys. Up ahead, mountains were lush with green vegetation.

The Big Horns appeared with little warning, possessing the beauty of “purple mountains majesty.”

For the moment, we bypassed The Big Horns and headed north along Route 90, passing several large towns, situated at the base of the mountains. Mom maintained our original course, traveling west on Route 14 for Yellowstone National Park.

There was the newer way — Route 16.

In Sheridan, we stopped for lunch at Hardee’s. Even more “cowboys” there. I quaffed two cheeseburgers, a large vanilla shake, and some fries (for those who are curious).

Then — the difficult passage through The Big Horns. The road switched back through the foothills, and then the incline increased. The road was narrow. Two lanes had sharp curves with soft shoulders and steep grades. Out of the window, I saw nothing underneath the van.

Just a sheer drop into Hades.

Mom said nothing. Her hands were tight on the wheel. Her veins and her fingers bulged with blood — especially the taut wrists. Could I drive to alleviate the pressure? She just laughed.

“That’s quite all right!”

The sky had been overcast all day, but now any lingering blue had been washed clean with the rain. It grew heavier as we climbed higher. Dense banks of fog seemed to block the road. Visibility was almost nothing. Clouds lingered in the valleys.

Our headlights flashed upon a sign — 12,000 feet. The sudden change in altitude made my head woozy. The fluid in my ear switched back and forth. And then suddenly — the water burst.

Inside the heart of the Big Horns, the road leveled off. The rain stopped, mostly. And the air was much cooler. A headache was approaching. I knew it. We stopped at a rest area. David and I explored as Mom and Noelle recovered inside the family truckster.

A long flight of stairs led to a waterfall that raged beneath us, crashing over rocks and moving everything in its path. There was a wooden platform. The beauty was incredible: the water cascaded over the top and it appeared green as it rushed over the rocks down to the bottom of the canyon — some 200 feet down.

The rain resumed. We finally realized we were getting soaked. Did we really want to catch a cold while on vacation?

Back in the truckster, I drifted off to Neverland. Twenty minutes later, I woke with a splitting headache. Although it was hard to appreciate the beauty, I tried to place the pain on the back burner, and concentrate on the outside.

As my headache subsided, we pulled over twice for a rest and a stretch. We continued along Route 14 towards Yellowstone National Park, finally stopping by 5 o’clock at the Wapiti Valley Inn, some 18 miles west of Cody and 30 miles east of Yellowstone.

For those interested, that term means “Elk” for the Native Americans. After quickly setting up camp, we went to the camp store for supplies. Tonight, I was more anxious to stop than any other night.

I read in the AAA book that the drinking age in Wyoming was only 19. I wanted to buy drinks at a local bar for The Big Guy and Me, but to my surprise, the campground tavern said I had to be 21 to be served alcoholic beverages. I was shocked — and a little pissed off, to say the very least.

No Sloe Gin Fizz for Mom.

At the rec hall, Dave and I shot a game of pool. Mom and Noelle did laundry. Half an hour later, we drove up the road for groceries. The store owner said the drinking age in Wyoming was still 19.

“The way I hear it, it’s still 19 until July 1st,” he said. “And it turns 21 like everywhere else. Yeah, the Feds in DC finally got us — too much pressure for withholding federal funds for transportation.”

Happy, I picked a brand, after saying proudly, “I’m going to buy a beer, Mom.” I bought a six-pack of Michelob.

When my mom saw that, she said, “I thought you meant a beer, not six.”

At the campground, I swam in the supposedly heated pool. The water was cold and the air — frigid with a breeze cutting through the Wapiti Valley. I stayed in, however, for an hour. I conversed with a few people.

Later that evening, I brought out my guitar, sang a few favorites, and sipped an ice-cold beer. I stayed out until dark. I sat back, breathed in the fresh air, swallowed the refreshing lager, swatted bugs, and gazed at the waning moon. It was bright orange — situated upon the summit of a mountain, right behind our camper.

More adventures coming! Look for these stories on The Masterpiece:

• Day 1: Travels with Wally Chapstick and Company
• Day 2: The Traveling Blues Ends with Talentless Bums
• Day 3: The Magicless Normalcy of The Corn Palace, and Other Notables from Iowa
• Day 4: Thousands of Stars Interrupt ‘Rocky’ in The Black Hills of South Dakota
• Day 5: The Wonders of Childhood Rediscovered on a Mountain Hike