Day 39: Lander to Jeffrey City, Wyoming

Between Lander and Rawlins lay two days and 130 miles of vast, windswept prairie with few stops and minimal services. I stocked up on supplies before leaving Lander, but as per my usual MO, I drew out my break until noon; and suffered through the worst heat of the day to make up for the late start.



After several hours of fighting the wind, my legs gave out. I looked for a shady resting place, and found a dry creek bed lined with trees, but it was so full of red ants that I didn't dare stop moving. Instead I leaned my bike against a fence post and crouched in its meager shade. Normally I would've napped after eating, but the elements were inescapable, and I returned to the road with a heavy belly.



I walked for several miles. I was put in the mind of old westerns in which riders sometimes walked alongside their horses, and imagined Clint Eastwood and Eli Wallach chasing each other across these sere plains.


Sometimes the bike and I need some time apart

Though the immense vistas were inspirational, the grinding wind and heat blunted me of all my smart-aleck comments, whimsical notions, and fond reminiscence, left me with nothing but the drudgery of pedaling. And so, please enjoy this series of images without comment...











The midway point between Lander and Rawlins is tiny Jeffrey City, population 106. I was determined to reach it by sundown, and I arrived there just as the last pinpoint of sun dipped below the horizon in my rear view mirror.



There is a motel in Jeffrey City. I'd been warned, by my map, and by a woman in Lander, that it might be unattended. Sure enough, I found the office door locked, with a plastic bag pinned to it that contained a faded old note instructing would-be guests to call the local bar to check in.



The bar phone was answered by a guy named Tony. I told him I was outside the hotel office and wanted a room. Tony said, "Isn't he there? He should be there," never indicating who "he" was, but giving me "his" phone number.



I tried the new number, and let it ring. While it rang, I tried motel room doors. All of them were unlocked, and every room empty. The first four rooms I tried were trashed, filled with mattresses and water heaters and lengths of pipe, and I wondered if the motel was out of business after all. The phone continued to ring. I hung up and continued my examination. The remaining rooms were all vaguely acceptable.



I hung around in the lot, kicked the dirt, watched the sunset clouds. After waiting for a half hour, I took the room furthest from the road and office. If anyone arrived, I wanted to see before being seen. I showered off all the road grime, ate dinner out of my supply bag, and settled in for the night, trying to ignore the fairy tale quality of my circumstances. In the morning I made my room up as if no one had been there and slipped out like a wraith.