The Place Where People Fall in Love

bigpinkheart“I just fell in love.” I can’t count how often the story ends in those four words, when I ask people how they came to be in Dubois. Sometimes “we” is substituted for “I.”

Joe and his wife were rounding the corner at the main intersection for the first time when one of them said, “This looks like a good place to retire.” And so they did.

Dorothy and her family got stalled here with car trouble on the way to Yellowstone. After a week at the campground, they returned to build a second home. Much later, as a widow, she lived here year-round.

We know many instances of young women from elsewhere who fell in love with a cowboy and ended up living here. I wonder whether the handsome young man was only part of a much larger infatuation.

I’ve also heard “I just fell in love” from a Millennial who moved here with her boyfriend, and from the mother of an eight-year-old boy who cried when leaving town after a week’s vacation. The family moved here a few months ago.

pigroast4I know not one but two couples who traveled the entire nation in their RVs looking for a place to settle, and wound up living in Dubois. One of the couples had lived here before, looked everywhere else, and then came back.

What is it about this place? The charm of the small village in the midst of this vast magnificent wilderness is what takes your breath away at first. What grabs you later and holds on? The welcoming kindness of the people, flavored by their spirits of self-assurance and independence.

We still have to be pioneers to live here (but that’s a story for another day). You sense it once you get to know the townspeople. It’s the same lure that always drew people to the West. Remarkably it survives in Dubois, intact.

It was the vast, empty spaces that won me over first. Airlifted out of a stressful job in the busiest of big cities, I was wonderfully unprepared for what I would find at the Lazy L&B.

I could ride a horse or easily climb up a draw to the top of a mesa, from which I could look out forever without seeing another human being, or even a structure. And I had never before seen anything to compare with what I was looking at.

lwlazylbWhen I went home I took along cuttings of sagebrush, which I kept in an envelope. Now and again I’d open it to sniff the fragrance, which always made me wistful.

Our courtship with Dubois was more gradual than some. We came back to the Lazy L&B several times, and at one point I took a photo looking up the draw from the river. I took it to a shop on W. 23rd St and had them enlarge it into a poster. Ever after, at several successive jobs, it hung directly across from my desk in my office. I’d look at it when the office politics got too intense.

Once, when my husband had time to kill while picking up our daughter from a wilderness program, he took a look at some real estate here. He called me back in New York with what I thought was a totally crazy idea. Years later, when the son who came along as a toddler on our first trip to Lazy L&B was in college, I surprised him by suggesting that return to Dubois and investigate it as a place to live rather than just visit.


We stayed in town that time. I got my hair done, and listened. We went to Happy Hour at the Rustic, and listened. We went to church, and listened.

At the end of the weekend, much to my astonishment, we had bought a house.

I had been infatuated for decades. Then I fell in love.

© Lois Wingerson, 2017
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Small-Town Info Central, 2017

Our online news source: a new Facebook page.

discardedtoysIf you want to sell stuff in Brooklyn, you’d put it on Craiglist and hope somebody legit would be interested.

Or on a nice day, you’d have a tag sale (we called them “stoop sales” because the front porch of your brownstone is known as a stoop). It was a lot of work to put all the items out in the hope that people would buy what you didn’t want.

Lots of passersby would cluck their tongues, remark that they were downsizing too, and walk on past.

Here in Dubois, the thing to do has been to post an ad in the Roundup, the weekly stapled package distributed by the VFW. (Popularly known as the “poop sheet.”)

roundupYou can put a little notice in the For Sale section, on the tightly packed front page, for free. Or you can make a flier about your tag sale, drop off 402 copies at the VFW (why 402? Don’t ask), and for a small fee it will be distributed to stores and offices around town along with everything else stapled to the front page.

We never miss the chance to pick up the Roundup, because it’s fun to see what all is going on. However, new technology has created a robust competitor. Facebook is already the place to go to keep up with friends here, but it’s also quickly becoming our newspaper (by another name).

Someone created the invitation-only Facebook page called Dubois, WY-Area Classifieds in October 2014. It now has 1,504 members — larger than the year-round population of Dubois. The word “Area” in the title is construed broadly: Many of them are from out of town, from Shoshone, Ethete, Riverton, even as far away as Rawlins and Rock Springs. I think lots of people look at it not so much to see what’s for sale as to see what’s going on.

duboisclassifiedsWhat’s really going on, I mean. Not just what you see in the Frontier.

It goes way beyond items for sale, but those are interesting of themselves. This week we have Black Baddie heifers, a 10-year-old gelding, and under ISO (in search of) someone looking for a backhoe. Not long ago we had a Barbie doll collection, and there are usually some Western or heavy-duty outdoor clothes on offer.

There are event announcements (the new children’s choir, a Bible study group, the snow princess contest at the Rustic Tavern, a spray tan party). And there are  items of a more personal nature: A photo of a baby in a snowsuit, with a wish that everyone will be safe in the snow, and an appeal from someone moving to town who’s looking for a place to rent.

The replies are often as engaging as the posts. For instance:

“Anyone here in town selling Girl Scout cookies yet?”

duboisclassifieds2           “Need a fix!”

“Order online!? Where?”

My favorites are the posts about lost animals, because of their human interest appeal and their immediacy. In this one, a woman in search of a lost cat has shown us a gallery of her dogs as well. (That blue heeler looks like he needs a job.)

Some time ago, I saw a post from someone out Crowheart way whose heartbroken boys had just lost their dog. Someone replied quickly that some friends of theirs had just posted about finding a similar dog trotting up the highway while they were driving over toward Jackson.

Next I saw, the family from Crowheart had posted thanks and were heading west to meet up with the other folks. I hope it was the right dog!

© Lois Wingerson, 2017

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Wyoming Women on a Winter Detour

Getting around a roadblock in the wide open spaces is no small matter.

rawlins10:45 AM: The state trooper was adamant, like they are. “I’m reopening it at four.”

We sat dumbfounded, looking at the gate lowered across the highway just north of Rawlins. We were five female friends in two cars, en route home from a meeting in Cheyenne,  stopped dead with about 200 miles still to go.

We knew there were major snowstorms up north. But nothing here hinted at a reason to close the only northbound road for many miles around. There was scarcely a breath of wind, a lovely blue sky, and a mere dusting of snow.

Back east, I tried never to stand still for a road stoppage. In a New York City traffic jam, I’d peel off to the right and take any back street until I found a way through the grid. Out of town, the next exit off the Interstate always leads to some random country road that quickly leads into a network of small roads that eventually leads home.

Here in Wyoming’s wonderful wide-open spaces, there are far fewer options. You don’t take a detour lightly.

getaroom11:00 AM:  “Get a room,” texted my husband from Dubois, where it had been snowing steadily all day. “Before they are all gone.” Of course I complied, but I would cancel it shortly.

The dear man was completely powerless in the situation. I was held benignly hostage by my friend Cathy, who had let me park in her driveway in Riverton and hitch a ride to Cheyenne. The decision wasn’t mine to make.

12 PM: We went to lunch, to wait and deliberate. There we met a man who had just come through southbound on that same highway. No snowpack whatever, he told us. Clear all the way, except for a massive rogue snowdrift. He had barely sneaked past before they closed the highway to start plowing it out of the way.


We watched our phones. We checked the highway alerts obsessively, hoping the road would reopen at 1 PM, not 4. We looked for workarounds.

Google Maps showed no easy dirt-road detour around that gate, and no good northbound option anywhere nearby.

Someone checked the weather radar. “There’s a huge storm, stalled right over Dubois,” she said. “It’s like a stripe that goes across Lander, but that’s moving on. Over Dubois, it just sits there.”

What amazed me, in my passive circumstances, was the cheerful, unflappable nature of the decision-making. Back east, your greatest peril in a snowstorm is the other drivers, but these people know the rules: Go slow, don’t turn quickly, try not to brake. We’d get through this together–maybe not without some trouble, but without harm.

1 PM:  We hit the highway, in the wrong direction. They had decided to venture on in convoy, in case of trouble, westward toward Rock Springs–a 100-mile diversion on I-80, and then a drive northward over South Pass. That’s well-known as the first mountain crossing to close in our area whenever the winter weather gets dicey, but all the apps suggested that South Pass was still passable. Only the road to Dubois was dicey.

3:00 PM: We turned northward off the Interstate at Rock Springs with a few hours still left to go and that pass to cross. Here, the road was fine. Cathy did her best to keep up with  our friends, who were trying to making up for lost time.


We kept up a cordial chat about business, politics, and memories. In the car ahead, one passenger was writing an article on her laptop. The other took a nap.

Sure enough (trust the apps!), the road north from Farson wasn’t bad at all, just packed snow. Even South Pass wasn’t scary. Just snowy.

The skies were gray, but not threatening, and the sights out the window were ever more lovely the farther we came. Cathy kept seeing bald eagles. I marveled at the broad white vistas, as fresh as a new sheet tossed across a bed, and at the Christmas-card conifers.

5:00 PM:  We tooted farewell to our friends at the turnoff in Lander, and reached Riverton just before dark. Cathy kindly offered me her guest room.

“You won’t believe the snow here,” my husband said, when I phoned to let him know we were safely north. “It hasn’t stopped snowing for two days, and it’s still snowing really hard. Let me know when you leave Riverton in the morning.”

9:00 AM:  I set off for Dubois under bright blue skies, on a dry highway. The road was clear to the Lander turnoff, gradually more snow-packed toward Crowheart, and then dusted with unpredictable clouds of lightly blowing snow.

downtownwinter020217_2Just beyond the Red Rocks, a herd of bighorn sheep skedaddled across the road in the swirling powder in front of me. I braked in time, and then smiled. Welcome home.

10:45 AM: It was snowing lightly when I reached Dubois. “For the love of God, make it stop!” said a friend I saw at the Post Office.

Two or three feet of new snow greeted me alongside our newly plowed driveway. My hard-packed snowshoe trail to the neighbor’s house had vanished completely. In places, the buck and rail fence seemed about to disappear.

wintergaragesnowsculpture2I looked out the front door at bedtime to find a new work of art in the garage light.

They say this is the worst snow in about 40 years. Every conversation seems to begin with how much you think you got and how long it took you to get out.

It’s not politically correct to say so in town just now (and I guess herewith I’ve blown my cover), but even for all the shoveling and plowing and knee-deep trailblazing, I love this world.

It was beautiful on my long journey home, and it’s even more beautiful here.

© Lois Wingerson, 2017
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Today’s “Fix” for My Temptation

Studies show we just feel better out in wilderness. Lucky Dubois!

pinnaclesDriving up-mountain this morning, my husband mentioned an article he had just seen in the Wall Street Journal. Nothing about executive orders this time–unless (and I’m dreaming now) it’s an order from executives to their direct reports to get outdoors and take a walk at lunch hour.

After “good morning,” the first thing I had said today was “Can we go snowshoeing?”

I’d just looked out the window as I walked toward the kitchen. Especially on a day like this one, I simply have to get outdoors. It’s like an addiction. I’m beginning to figure it out.

I read the Wall Street Journal article after we returned home. People feel better and do better the more they spend time outdoors, it said, and ideally, outdoors somewhere in the countryside.

“Many experts agree that there seems to be a dose curve for the benefits of nature,” it read, under the headline ‘To Fight the Winter Blues, Try a Dose of Nature‘. “In general, the more time you spend in nature, the better you will do on measures of vitality, wellness and restoration.”

Pulling up at the trailhead, we found to my delight that the trail had been freshly groomed. A smooth new highway in the snow wound through the unoccupied campground, and we would be the first to travel it.

groomedtrailfallsWe ambled through a silent forest. The view ahead was a palette of four colors. The trees that waved above us were, of course, forest green. Beyond them, the sky was an uninterrupted swath of deep periwinkle–except for a contrail high above, which the wind had spun into a ribbon of lace. Each step drew us into the shadows of deep purple and the snow, which was of course pure white.

I had brought along hand-warmers and toe-warmers, but they stayed in my pocket. Eventually I shed my hat and my gloves, even though a stiff wind would blow up now and again to chase the loose snow around. It never fails to amaze me that I get warm while snowshoeing, even on the coldest days.

After a while, we heard voices and a motor. It was the volunteers from DART (Dubois Association for Recreation and Trails), returning from their grooming run. I stopped and kissed them both on the cheek, to thank them for coming out early to do this work. Of course, they’re getting their outdoor fix as well.

gymBack when I worked in an office in Manhattan, it was my habit to spend lunch hour at the gym whenever I could. I’m a firm believer in the many benefits of regular exercise (and it helped that I kept reading about them in my job as a medical editor).

The benefits of just being outdoors took longer to dawn on me. After I while, I began taking long random walks at lunch hour instead. I thought I was just enjoying the bustle of the city and the diversity of its people. But it always seemed I would head for a pocket park or for a wide view across one of the rivers.

Being outside in the city is better for your well-being than staying indoors, said the article, but country or the wilderness is best. Many city people may avoid going outdoors, it added, “because a chronic disconnection from nature causes them to underestimate its hedonic benefits—that is, how much it will contribute to their happiness.”

When I telecommuted from Dubois, I used to work from 7:30 in the morning to 3:30 in the afternoon, during the office hours of my coworkers back East. This gave me the delightful prospect of a hike in the woods each day after work. I’m afraid I used to gloat about it.

I’ve heard friends say that they just feel happier here in Dubois, although they’re not sure why. For myself, I know that I’m happier when I’m able to hike outdoors every day, even — and maybe especially — in the dead of winter.

snow2The benefits of exercise and exposure to nature aren’t the whole story. Numerous studies have shown that sunshine itself acts as an antidepressant. The duration and intensity of sunlight have a direct effect on the rate of production of serotonin, the chemical messenger in the brain that causes depression if it’s in short supply.

Is it any wonder I get blue around Christmas time, when there’s so little sunshine? Or that I’m so happy here in the summer, when the days are so long, the skies so clear, and the sun so bright?

“Regional and national parks, wild coasts and wilderness areas are the places where we can best reflect and recover from the stress of work and the news,” the article concluded. (Perhaps our distance from the East Coast is not only the factor that shields us from the post-election stress of 2017.)

It ended with a quote from the great nature writer John Muir: “Come to the woods, for here is rest.”

© Lois Wingerson, 2017
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Nail File: Getting Glam, Dubois vs NYC

tammyssalonI dropped into Tammy’s new salon again for a manipedi. (I’m the daughter of a Nebraska farm girl; I learned the term only a few years ago in New York City. It means manicure and pedicure.)

Three other women were already in the salon when I got there, two of them getting new hairdos from Tiffany, and the third present apparently just for moral support or for fun.

Although I hadn’t met any of them before, they welcomed me into their friendly conversation, the kind of chat women everywhere have when they’re kicking back. We  moved from fresh-vegetable delivery services to the latest about Melanie’s young husband and his medical treatment in Denver, and on to what kind of shops we would like to see  in the new storefronts that are replacing the burnt-out Mercantile.

We need something like the original Mercantile, everyone agreed: A place to buy good jeans and strong boots, you know. Carhartt jackets. Maybe another place that sells local handmade crafts, like Sandy did in the pop-up shop over Christmas, as well as sewing and craft supplies.

I never used to get a manipedi in Dubois. Here, my feet are in boots all the time, and since I play mandolin and fiddle, I have to keep my fingernails very short. Anyway, who wants a manicure when you go hiking every day?

640px-fifth_av_14st_bk_jehI would wait till I got back to New York, where manipedis are essential to normal grooming if you don’t want to feel like white trash. Back in our Brooklyn neighborhood, there’s literally one nail salon per block. They’re even more prevalent than Starbucks.

In there, you wouldn’t exchange any words with the stranger flipping through InStyle at the next station. The only conversation took place with your manicurist. “Choose color. Square or round? File or cut?”

Sometimes I would try to strike up an actual conversation with the young woman working so intently on my hand. (Or, more embarrassing, my feet. Visions of Jesus and the disciples would come to mind, and the implications of servitude.) The conversation often failed, because the young woman spoke so little English.

Most of the clients are fairly affluent. Nearly all the manicurists in New York City are recent immigrants from Asian countries, most of them in their teens or early 20s. They wear name tags that say Nancy or Mandy or Susie, but you know that’s not the real name. It’s there in the hope that you can remember them when you come back. But who does?

A few years ago, I read an article in the New York Times about abuses in the nail salons that made the relationship even more awkward. It reported that some salon owners charged high “training fees” before a young woman would be allowed to work there, that many of the employees earned only tips, not  salaries, and that usually they lived crammed several to a bedroom, in basements or wherever.

I’d sometimes ask my manicurist about her working conditions, but who knew if she was telling the truth? You wouldn’t dare to ask about their living conditions.

Tammy, the manicurist in Dubois, is somewhere near my own age. With the demeanor of an ancillary health professional, she discusses the physical state of my keratin and my cuticles: why I shouldn’t cut cuticle (infection risk), whether I’m going to lose the nail on that finger I slammed in the car door (probably).

nailsGiven the ugly smashed nail (it makes Tammy’s tummy hurt to look at it), we decide on wacky dark teal polish that looks close to black. As she works, we discuss how she came to open the salon.

Tammy used to own the coffee shop downtown. She sold the business because she wanted something easier to leave behind when her husband gets around to retiring. She noticed that there was no manicurist in Dubois, so she got herself trained, got a certificate, and opened the shop.

The wacky blackish manicure lasted only a few hours. I ruined it putting on my snowshoes later that afternoon. Oh, well. I’m more the kind to just wear that ruined nail, or a Bandaid.

© Lois Wingerson, 2017
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Snowstorms in the Real West: Whiskey, Outlaws, and More

Nah, that was nothing this week. Think about snowstorms of the past …

driveway011217After three days of whiteout and steady snowfall, we woke up this morning to a crystalline vista beneath blue skies–just as the forecast promised.

The snow crunched and glistened as I tramped my way out to the car, parked at the far end of the driveway near the highway, like so many others.

In town, people were all smiles, freed again to buy groceries and pick up the mail. We traded stories about being snowbound. Wives grumbled about men too slow to clear the driveway. All the talk was of snow: snowshoes, snowplows, snowbanks, snowdrifts.

The old-timers say they haven’t seen a snowstorm like this in 30 or 40 years.

Last night at bedtime I gazed out the window, mesmerized at the brilliant, bleached-out scene beneath the full moon. Watching the clouds clear away above the white slope rising beyond the valley, I began to think of O.M. Clark, buried somewhere right out there.

The first settler in this area, O.M. Clark staked his homestead claim in that very creekbed, sometime in the 1870s.

drift101217To the old homesteaders like Clark, this was just the way it was in winter. They had no weather apps to warn them of what was coming, either.

O.M. met his end during just such a long winter storm in 1910, as Esther Mockler recounts in her oral history Recollections of the Upper Wind River Valley.

Sometime in the winter of 1910, after a snowstorm had lasted for two days, neighbors noticed that no smoke was rising from O.M.’s cabin in the valley. Someone saddled up and rode over, to find Clark dead in the cabin, and frozen solid.

O.M. had been feeling poorly for some time, and every time he went to Lander he had been stocking up on whiskey for his own wake. Notified of his death, five neighbor men came out to the cabin, shaved and dressed his body, placed it on a plank in a storage shed, and brought wood back to the cabin to build his coffin.

Intent on honoring his dying wish, the men also retrieved the whiskey from the cave where O.M. had stored it.

That night they built a coffin, played poker, and drank O.M.’s whiskey. The next morning, they trudged uphill to the spot O.M. had chosen for his grave. The ground, of course, was frozen.

They hacked away all day, taking breaks for more whiskey. By the time they had finished, it was too late to bury the body.

The next day, when they tried to drag the coffin uphill through the deep snow on a sled, it kept sliding off and heading back downhill. Eventually they gave up and returned it to the shed.

By the third day, the whiskey had run out, the men were sober, and O.M. Clark was finally laid to rest.

For the families of laborers who cut railroad ties in these mountains in the first half of the last century, snow was an important fact of life. They lived and worked in it all winter, and sent the ties downhill in its runoff in the spring.

tiehackcabinMeanwhile, they might have to dig their way out of the cabin each morning to get to work and school. (This shows what remained of one tie-hack cabin last summer.)

In December 1937, the Riverton Review reported that all of the remote tie hack communities above Dubois were snowed in. “From now until spring, the residents will have no way of leaving their homes other than by skis or using horse-drawn sleds. There is considerable rueful dismay because the snow came so unusually early this year.”

The skis were no gleaming, curved fiberglass runners, by the way. They were slats of sanded wood, sometimes lined with animal fur to make it easier to get back uphill.

One of my favorite winter stories, also from the Mockler oral history, features our local outlaw and rancher, Butch Cassidy. It also involves one of the original loggers, a local homesteader named Hank Boedeker, who lived alone at the time in a small cabin remote in the mountains near Dubois.

butch_cassidy_mugshotAt work one day in the middle of a very cold winter, Boedeker was trapped under a rolling log and injured so badly he couldn’t mount his horse. Cassidy came along the trail and helped him back to his cabin, Boedeker said. Cassidy stocked the cabin with food and firewood, cooked the meals, and stayed until Boedeker was well enough to work again.

In 1894, Boedeker was one of the guards who accompanied Cassidy to prison in Laramie, where he served a term for stealing three horses. When they reached the prison after a long and difficult trip, Cassidy was sent in alone to report to the warden.

“That’s a hell of a way to deliver a prisoner!” the warden said.

“I just wanted to prove to you that there is honor among thieves,” Boedeker replied.

© Lois Wingerson, 2017
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City Girl Spends Holiday Week in Winter Wilderness Wonderland

wintersunriseHolidays in the city were crowded with strangers and the nerve-jangling noise of false holiday cheer in background music. Here, there was the crunch of snow, and abundant visits from animals we seldom see, who for a change came down to where we live.

It seems to be the time of year to count creatures. With the hunters gone, Wyoming Game & Fish has been out scouting for deer, and reports that the deer herd in Dubois is healthy and growing steadily. (We could have guessed; they seem to own the highways, to know how to look both ways, and often strut across with the you-slow-down-fella insolence of New York jaywalkers.) The mule deer population outnumbers the town’s by 50%.

A new pair of (human) friends who are also spending their first full year in Dubois stayed outdoors all of New Year’s Day in Crowheart  counting birds, as part of the Audubon Christmas bird count.

“It was wonderful,” my friend said the next day.”We saw 20 different species, and a lot of waterbirds I’d never seen before, as well as bald and golden eagles and two kinds of hawks.”

audubonThis was the second Audubon Christmas bird count in the area; another one took place a week before Christmas.

I see that the Audubon web page features a child from Wyoming.

The large four-footed beasts may get more press, but Wyoming has been in the forefront of protecting birds. It was the first state in the nation to adopt legislation to protect songbirds, according to an article in last month’s Wyoming Wildlife.

I too have been keeping track of birds. Here’s my unofficial count:

  • One hawk, seen today soaring just above the riverwalk in the town park. “Where’s he going?” asked my companion.
  • Three ducks, who startled me as much as I startled them while walking beside the river. (Despite all the snow and subzero temperatures, the river is still warm and steaming, thanks to an upstream geyser.)
  • Many geese, seen grazing along with the cattle and the deer in the field just west of town.

mooseOn Christmas night, after playing Yahtzee with some friends, my husband gasped as he walked out the door ahead of me. Strolling past in the driveway was a huge, young moose.

He ambled silently past with the arrogant gait of a teenager in ski boots, ignoring us completely.

I didn’t have a camera or the presence of mind to take a picture, but Ree Brown Beavers of Wind River Property Group did the other day, when a similar fellow came into her back yard. He looks a lot like the one we saw.

You don’t normally mess with moose, and I’ve never seen one so close.

Another impressive visitor had turned up a few days before Christmas, early in the morning. We heard an unfamiliar, repetitive noise coming from the valley. It took us a while to spot him.

aspensA lone wolf stood facing west, toward this barren aspen grove, howling piteously. We assume he had been tossed out of his pack and was out in search of a new mate. It’s that time of year for wolves.

We don’t mess with those critters either, and this is the first wolf I have ever seen here. We don’t ever hear them, either, but we hear about them, and not often in a sympathetic way.

This fellow did tug at my heart strings, but those were not the ones he wanted to reach. After a while he gave up and trotted on up the valley.

© Lois Wingerson, 2017
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