We woke in the shade of the Fire Department of Carbon County that had been our ad hoc campground the night before. A wedding anniversary spent in some of the emptiest lands we could envision was nonetheless a welcome holiday.
Jimmy at the 3 Forks Muddy Gap Service Station sold us our coffee beverages and filled us in on what we could expect down the road, then returned to training his fill-in employee for an upcoming absence. People have written their names on every exposed surface in the store and so we did the same in brown permanent marker vertically beside the candy bars.
Our first divergence from the established touring route led us east across an empty expanse toward Casper, Wyoming where one of Adele's friends from college lives. We traded the fancy maps from Adventure Cycling for a standard highway map of the state we had found in Twin Bridges, Montana.
The riding was flat and the winds were against us slightly but not oppressively. We passed the site of Devil's Gate, a cleft in the rock wall near a place where Mormon pioneers had rested on their flight to Utah, pulling their possessions in handcarts for the want of a horse. Over the ridge we found Independence Rock where travelers westbound historically knew they were on track for good weather in the passes if they had arrived by July 4. The pioneers had carved their names into the rock for perpetuity; we simply doused our heads and clothing with water at the tap where water flowed freely after twenty miles of parched and dry desert.
The highway climbed gently after the rest stop, not enough to discourage us all at once, but rather to spread that discouragement evenly over the entirety of the journey. Dead animals generously littered the shoulder, unfortunate deer mostly, who couldn't avoid a collision with a vehicle and were now slowly becoming one with the soil again.
We crested the high point of the highway near Alcova Reservoir and coasted down to the RV park and general store at the bottom of the gill. Tar patches over cracks in the pavement were soft in the direct sunlight and our tires would catch into the ruts with an alarming jolt if we were not careful to avoid them.
We sat in front of the store swatting flies and eating our impulse buys: corn chips flavored to "ranch" and tall cans of iced tea. Bearded local James regaled us with tales of the area and inquired to our status and direction while licking a strawberry ice cream cone. He talked steadily until we stood to continue our journey.
Going was easier after we hit the irrigated farmlands east of Alcova, if only because there were signs of civilization. We stopped at the Platte River to dip in and cool ourselves, a refreshing cool after a warm day. Water evaporated from us with alarming rapidity and we rode on again.
Construction had torn up the road approaching Casper and we waited for the flagger's sgnal (in Wyoming, it seems the flaggers are required to wave an orange flag as well as hold a stop/slow sign, which is an additional responsibility to those we have seen thus far) before we rode through clouds of dust over packed gravel against an increasing headwind. The highway was transitioning to a 4-lane ordeal after happily existing as a 2-lane for years.
Casper's west entrance is blocked by an enormous pass. The climb was not steep but the wind consistently blows from the east, and our gears were shifted as low as possible. The water in our bottles was warm again, good for the body but not quite refreshing for the spirit anymore. We worked hard to complete the climb.
We've been resting at Joe and Marie's home near the Platte now for several days, enjoying the benefits of a roof overhead, friends, food, and laundry. Soon we'll depart south for Laramie and Fort Collins.
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