Following the Seasons

We wait for the changing of the seasons.  Each one sends forth suttle messages announcing its arrival.  Always ready to welcome the change that the seasons bring, we are atuned to the movement of the wind, the patterns of light, the diffusion of colors.

In late Septermber the sun is lower and the wind brings a touch of cool air that refreshes and renews the tired plants and stirs the leaves hanging on to the last vestage of summer.  The mountains reward us with color slowly spreading from bush to tree.  Quakies give up green leaves and trade them for deep yellows while the scrub brush gives us our reds and oranges.

Somehow the soul finds renewal in the changing of the seasons.  Fall signals a slower pace and the need for deep rich breaths.  Does it come from the color, the nip in the air, or is it simply a welcome change in the patterns of life?  We will feel a surge of excitement with the first real snow fall and the first green bud of spring.  A lift in our spirit and wonder at the beauty of each season is nature's bonus gift to us.

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The Journey's End

The journey has ended.  We covered just under 800 miles in 3 days.  There are so many places I know very little about.  Books only give a small view of what is beyond our own door.  You can't feel, taste or touch through a book.  I have a greater appreciation for those eager individuals who were the early explorers that moved through the west.  They had determination, endurance, curiosity, and  the courage to walk into the unknown.  In spit of the bleak and barren landscape, they kept going.  Perhaps those early settlers had the faith that there was more than met the eye.

 So much of the western United States is inhospitable.  It moves from lush forests to dry deserts in a matter of miles.  High mountain ranges open to wide dry valleys.  As one travels across Wyoming,  you see  the remnants of farms and ranches long abandoned, and the dreams they were built on, once so bright and full of hope, are scattered in the dust.  It is a story repeated through out the west. 

Where the desert gives way to fertile ground, however small, the land has been cleared and planted.  Idaho tells the same tales as Wyoming.  I could see beyond the harsh dry land and find a quiet beauty in the in the mountains.  Massive rock formations pushed up from the desert floor thousands of years ago provide a rainbow of colors--rust, purple, shades of gray. 

It is refreshing to still find small towns that stand on their own; clean, well kept, with vibrant main streets,  busy stores and small cafes.  Life moves slower and you feel the ease that comes with slowing down.  The best part of American is hidden behind the the interstates.  The original highways let you see more of who and what we are as a country.  There is still more of Highway 20 to see and this was just a very small taste--enough to wet the appetite.  Will we venture on and work our way clear to Boston?  I hope so.  There is too much to see and it would be a shame to miss it.  Nolan and I are too curious  about what we don't know to let the grass grown under our feet.  The best is sharing it together. 

                                                                   

Day 2 Highway 20

Wow!  It is a long dry drive from Cody to Casper.  There are places where even sagebrush refuses to grow.  The road goes on and on.

 A few very small towns are scattered along the way.  The welcome sign for Emblem proudly announced a population of 10.   It was difficult to actually tell where it began and ended.  Amid the odd ram shackle homes and odd sheds was the most amazing Lutheran church built in the late 1800's.

                                   
  Thermopolis was a thriving metropolis of several hundred.  It is famous for its natural hot springs.  It is a small oasis in a desert.   Unfortunately we had no swimming suits so we couldn't take advantage of the pools.

 

We have gone about as far as we can go in the amount of time we allowed for the trip.  If we continue east we would cross into Nebraska.  Tomorrow rather than back track all the way we will go back as far as Shoshoni and leave 20.  There will be no town of any size until Jackson Hole.  It could be a long day of driving.  Tomorrow is a big question mark.

                
       Main Street USA-----One of the bigger towns Highway 20 passes through.                               

US Highway 20

When you feel the need to get away you often have to be creative. We are discovering old highway US 20 which runs from Boston Mass. to Newport Oregon.  After leaving the east end of Yellowstone Park it resumes its run. Obviously we aren't driving all the way to Boston. With only four days scheduled for the short journey, we get to explore a small section of Wyoming. Yes, I know what some of you are feeling right now--pity. Let's give this trip a chance to prove itself.  Remember this a short trip and we are not going clear to Nebraska. We want to see just where US 20 will take us.

Some of the best sights are seen when the interstates are abandoned and the old highways are rediscovered. You find less traffic, small forgotten towns and new country. Wyoming is vast and open. The Shoshone River flows parallel to the road. Fall is just beginning to touch the foliage. Soft yellow, bronze, and pale red is showing in the grasses and brush along the river.

This must be what is referred to as the open road.

We have seen mountains of rock that are similar to those in southern Utah. Surprising you with their spires and odd shapes. The road winds and then opens to the horizon where billowing clouds constantly build and change shape.

Cody is the first real town. A true cowboy meca. Anything and everything any red blooded cowboy or cowgirl would need is here. One shop says it caters to the spirited woman. People line up on the street to witness an old time gun fight. Wyatt Erp even made an appearance along with various other characters. A little corny, but hey this is the west. After all was said and done Grandpa Fred came to save the day.

Grampa saved the day.

It doesn't take long to walk the main street in Cody. Indian and cowboy souveirns are inticing if you are a new comer to the western experience We opted to drive through the neighborhoods and old streets to see the real town and real life in Cody. We soon discovered that residents of Cody share their yards with deer. Not just one, but several at a time. Apparently, no one chases them off because they seem to have no fear.

I think they have free range.

Tomorrow we head toward Greybull.  I think it is a good thing we are not staying in Cody longer because we are beginning to act like tourists and pose for pictures.  I told him not to do it, but he insisted.

Where Do We Go From Here

In the early 60's my mother's cousin, Marva and her husband Marvin, built a new home.  He was a contractor and they built the house to their own specifications.  We watched it spring from a hole in the ground to a large red brick home.  It was not a grand house by today's standards, but for Pocatello it was a nice family home. 

One unique feature was the bomb shelter and food storage room.  The cold war was at its height and a sense of panic and doom shrouded the country.  TV stations ran directives about actions one should take in case of a nuclear attack.  People were encouraged to build their own shelters and have adequate food and water that would last several weeks.  Holes were dug in backyards and cement companies were busy.  Those with basements converted areas to serve as shelters.  If you had no basement and no money to build in your yard, you simply would have to take your chances.  My family was one of the many that would be left out in the cold when the attack came.

Marva's bomb proof cubicle was in the far corner of the basement adjacent to the fruit room.  It was the safe place that would protect the family.  With smooth gray walls a cold bare floor and no adornments, it was not an appealing place to spend even a short amount of time .  I remember thinking I would just as soon take my chances with fall out rather than spend weeks in that box. 

If the attack occurred during school hours there would not be time to reach a shelter.  As students, we drilled the duck and cover method numerous times.  Hands covered our heads, we hit the floor and crawled under our desk.  You didn't have to be the star pupil to know that offered no protection.

I made it  through  grade school and into Jr. High without experiencing a nuclear episode with the Russians.
The country moved from there to the failed Bay of Pigs invasion.  There seemed to be an attitude of tell all.  No one seemed overly concerned about sharing the facts with children.  We pretty much knew the situation and our lives continued on.  We slept at night and our spirits stayed in tact.

 I remember sitting in class listening to President Kennedy explaining, over the intercom by radio, the actions he had taken concerning this encounter with Cuba.  I had no clue what he was really trying to explain to the American people, but I felt concern and anxiety.  I knew Fidel Castro and Cuba were hot topics and were tied to Russia.  Castro was a familiar face on the evening news as was Nikita Krushchev.  Castro with his full dark beard and Krushchev's hairless head. 

The next time the inercom was used as a means of information concerning the nation was the day President Kennedy was shot.  Walter Cronkite walked us through the series of events that had transpired until in a choking voice he announced that President Kennedy was dead.  My ninth grade literature class  cried---not out of fear, but out of genuine sorrow and despair that something so unexpected could happen in America.

The next time we cried the tears were  for our older classmates that went from graduation to Viet Nam.     Next we cried for our own classmates who took their place in Viet Nam.   Now we cry as parents of sons and daughters serving in Iraq and Afghanistan  The distant from the bomb shelters of the 50's and 60's to now is really not that great.  We have abandoned those shelters and no longer hide under desks.  Today we live with the everyday reality of turmoil and strife that engulfs numerous regions of the globe.

 There is no place to hide.  The cracks are too wide and too deep to avoid or ignore.  We can blame no one individual or group for the problems that exist in today's world.  The blame game has never been a tool for repair.  It only magnifies the problem and causes greater separation.  We seem unable to learn from past mistakes and continue on the same road that we have traveled since the beginning of organized civilization.  The person with the biggest club and loudest voice sits on top until someone arrives with a heavier club and a different voice .

I wonder who has the right to swing the biggest club?  I suppose that is what we have been trying to work out for centuries.  Even the individuals who profess to be on the same side can not agree on who should actually exercise the clout.  We all think we are right so where do we go from here?  No one is willing to give up their weapon, and as a result we all just keep on flaying  the club harder.  ?

There is no clear concise answer to the world wide discontent--no easy fix.  In spite of all this, life moves forward.  Good things still happen; parents continue to want the best for their children, kind words are still spoken, service is given and people still express love.  As long as we nurture these best parts of our human side there is hope.

 No matter what part of the world we live in the majority of us share these virtue.  The hard part is remembering how we are the same--not how we are different.

storms and clouds come and go, but things continue to move no matter how darks it gets.