“I have never been to Wyoming,” my bride spoke firmly into her texting machine. Cousin Kelli had been sending us glorious photos of their recent visit to that state and Katie was sounding jealous. I dared intervene. “You’ve been there,” I said, softly so as not to be recorded into her message. "I got a ticket."
This is why I keep a blog. A historic record to augment failing memories, I can tell you lots of things about our past, as long as I can find anyone interested in it. Our Wyoming visit is a prime example. In fact, a permanent record in the Wyoming Highway Department will attest to its veracity. As does my blog.
I take you back in the Way Back machine to Tuesday, January 26, 2016.
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Caught. Fined. Released. |
When compared with yesterday, today was almost perfect.
Heading west and alone on a dry sunlit highway, the miles flew past as we gently changed altitudes, curving undisturbed through pristine landforms, occasionally gasping at a vista so wide it seemed to reveal the curvature of the earth.
We drove softly into a day spread with sheets of blue and white so clean you’d think God was making his bed for a stayover in Wyoming.
The Silver Fox Steakhouse website said their highly-recommended restaurant in Casper would open at 11 am for lunch. Today, two very prompt seniors had to shake on the door handles a bit to get them to open up on time, but were glad they did. Kathleen chose a wonderful homemade chicken pot pie and Stan the tenderloin salad; they shared the hot fudge sundae that lured them in the first place. It looked just like the picture on the web site.
Speed limits can vary widely in this sparsely populated state, ranging from 65 to 80 per. Driving 80 is great fun and can be habit forming, especially when you have the road all to yourself. There’s a gorgeous stretch of two-lane highway south of Casper that eventually rises to the Continental Divide. Then just east of Muddy Gap, a section of highway spreads out as flat and wide and straight as the Salt Flats. For some reason, it is clearly posted at a mere 65 miles per hour.
With distant snowcapped mountains to gaze at, it was easy to let the big old Lincoln out of the barn a bit. Didn't notice the actual speed. Trooper Mike, tooling along in the opposite direction on behalf of the Wyoming Highway Patrol, did. He adroitly performed a textbook reversal of direction — a skillful move reluctantly appreciated through the rear view mirror of the Minnesota miscreant.
Yes, it was almost a perfect day.
Pleasantries and information were exchanged. It was agreed that Stan will be sending $67 to the State of Wyoming, which seemed more than reasonable for a low-altitude flight over endless prairie.
Ah, January 26. An almost perfect day. “Did you remember that your mother died exactly a year ago today,” Kathleen reminded?
“No, I didn’t,” Stan responded ruefully, still thinking about the ticket. “Darn. I could have used that to get some sympathy with Trooper Mike.”
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Yes, Katie. We have been to Wyoming.
