Same Guys Dancing

[{"type":"text","text":"George Strait -- I Can Still Make Cheyenne"}]

Same guys dancing 9 19 22

Cowboy State Daily is Wyoming’s largest newspaper with Wyoming’s most experienced journalists. 

<title>Saturday Morning Dance Party: George Strait -- I Can Still Make Cheyenne | Cowboy State Daily</title>

George Strait -- I Can Still Make Cheyenne

Saturday Morning Dance Party: George Strait -- I Can Still Make Cheyenne

 George Strait -- I Can Still Make Cheyenne

Headshot of Cowboy State Daily's managing editor, Greg Johnson.

Greg Johnson

Crime & Courts

Public Safety

CHEYENNE — The fire was so intense, Paul and Alexandra Trujillo said it felt like they were standing in front of a blazing campfire.

They were instead in Paul’s truck on Del Range Boulevard just behind Sam’s Club in north Cheyenne watching from the road as a huge apartment complex under construction burned Tuesday afternoon.

In the next 15-20 minutes, Paul and his daughter were mesmerized by the intensity and ferocity of a fire that consumed the building, a garage next to it and sparked a grass fire.

“We literally watched it from the beginning,” Paul told Cowboy State Daily. “It was 15-20 minutes from start to collapse. It spread to the garage in between the two buildings, and it also started a grass fire.

[{"type":"text","text":"“That whole area, just stay away.”"}]

Paul said the in-progress apartment building is in the Ridgeview Apartments located at 2025 E. Carlson St. just off Converse Avenue between Sam’s Club to the south and Storey Boulevard to the north.

While he saw a window open from the inside in the apartment building next to the one that burned, Paul wasn’t sure if it was finished and occupied yet.

What he was sure about is that the fire burned incredibly fast and incredibly hot.

“Oh my gosh, we were back by Sam’s Club and you could feel the heat like you were standing in front of a campfire,” he said.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"A Window Opens"}]

“I was worried, because there are two sets of apartments there that they’re building,” Paul added. “We did see a window open, and when you see a window opening and that fire’s going on, I was worried somebody might be in there.”

He didn’t see anyone come out, “But we did hear some explosions coming from the building,” Paul said. “And the first thing we saw was the (construction) crews running around with their yellow vests on.”

Paul said he and Alexandra watched as firefighting crews started to arrive and search for fire hydrants to hook up to. But from what he saw, he didn’t observe any hydrants and watched as they fought with water from a ladder truck and a couple of pumper trucks.

Because the fire had spread so quickly throughout the unfinished building, it appeared firefighters were concentrating on nearby structures to keep the fire from spreading, Paul said.

“They were just trying to keep the fire from spreading, because that building was a total loss,” he said. “They were putting water on the other unit, and the garage, but the garage burned anyway.

[{"type":"text","text":"“I couldn’t believe how fast it spread.”"}]

Along with a heavy response from Cheyenne Fire Rescue and other agencies, the Tuesday afternoon fire also wreaked havoc with traffic in Wyoming’s capital city.

Cheyenne police and Laramie County Sheriff’s Office deputies directed traffic away from the area of the fire response, which also is one of the busiest sections of the city. That caused massive traffic backups around the Frontier Mall south to Pershing Boulevard.

“Road closures are in place … please avoid the area while crews work to contain the fire,” the Cheyenne Police Department in advised a statement about the response. The agency later added that the roads had reopened.

The firefighting effort was still ongoing at the time this story was published.

This is a developing story and will be updated as more information is available.

Cheyenne fire 5 26 26

<title>"Total Loss": Witness Says Fire Ripped Through Cheyenne Apartment Building In Minutes | Cowboy State Daily</title>

A fire tore through an under-construction apartment in north Cheyenne on Tuesday, burning so hot and intense it was “a total loss” in minutes, a witness said. “You could feel the heat like you were standing in front of a campfire,” he said.

"Total Loss": Witness Says Fire Ripped Through Cheyenne Apartment Building In Minutes

Leah Veress

Outdoors

[{"type":"text","text":"“Leah, get up. The horses got out.”"}]

I burrowed my head deeper into my sleeping bag against the cold, feigning sleep. Outside my synthetic-filled cocoon, my tentmate was shuffling around, unzipping her sleeping bag.

In the distance, a creek was roaring, and horses were whinnying, and dull bells were ringing.

“You put the bells on the mares,” Matt, a contractor who grew up locally, explained to me the previous day. “They’re the trouble makers. If they get out, the rest will follow.”

[{"type":"text","text":"Like a queen bee, I had thought."}]

Suddenly, I was fully awake. Shit, the horses got out! Deep in the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, dozens of miles from the nearest road, two days into a five-day trip, the horses and mules were our only way to pack out our camp.

I threw open my sleeping bag, pulled on my jeans, grabbed my headlamp and bear spray, and crawled out of the tent.

Despite the darkness, camp was alive with motion. Tent doors flew open, riding clothes were thrown over sleepwear, and saddles were slung on the remaining horses. I clicked my headlamp to the highest setting, blinking hard to adjust my eyes to the low light and shake the sleep from my mind.

Two horses and two mules came into view, tethered to trees by their lead ropes. That left eight animals missing. Lights scanned like spotlights as horses whinnied and the mules brayed, casting an eerie, wail-like sound into the darkness.

As Matt and Antonio, a seasonal outdoors worker, mounted their horses to track the escaped equestrians, the outfitter turned to me.

[{"type":"text","text":"“Stay here and watch the animals in case any trouble comes.”"}]

Two days earlier, our posse of five mules, seven horses, an outfitter, two contractors, a nurse, an outdoorsman, and a reporter embarked on an extended weekend pack trip.

New to horseback riding, having taken a multi-year hiatus from the backcountry, and largely unfamiliar with my companions, I was immediately overwhelmed with a deep appreciation for their company, keen to learn as much as I could.

Most members of the group had worked for the outfitter at one point, spending a summer taking dude rides or a fall guiding hunts in the Absaroka-Beartooth. Cumulatively, they had more than a century of experience. With no dudes on this particular trip, they were afforded a unique opportunity to let loose, exchanging banter and stories freely.

Food packed into Yeti coolers and Milwaukee Packouts, tents and personal items loaded onto mules, horses saddled, bridled, and ready to go, we set out on the 20-mile ride into camp around 11 a.m., three hours after our target departure time.

“I hope you all brought headlamps,” Hazel, a life-long outdoorswoman and practicing nurse, joked.

As the miles wore on, I got to know Cherokee, the 10-year-old paint I was riding.

The cadence of her stride set the pace of my day. As we passed lakes and paralleled streams, the reflection of the sunlight glimmered with every step she took.

I watched as her ears twitched and tail swooshed, shooing away early-season mosquitoes. I noticed the way her sides flared out as we rode up ridges, and the snorts she released to clear the dry, dusty air from her nostrils.

I sneezed in tandem. I learned to anticipate the way she leapt over streams, favoring dry land for the muddy trail most of the other animals trudged through.

As we rode in, the outfitter narrated, sharing personal and historical anecdotes about the route. He had been riding in these mountains twice as long as I had been alive. His stories chronicled the time Teddy Roosevelt spent in the wilderness, the history of resource extraction in the area, and childhood stories that echoed with the ring of universal human experience.

He led a string of five mules with one hand, and the reins of his paint gelding Cabaret and a Coors Banquet in the other. Every time the string would stall, he’d kick up Cabaret.

“I’m not even upset about the mules stopping,” he said. “I’m just pissed it’s spilling my beer.”

Packed in the panniers were three boxes of wine, and two 30-packs of Coors.

Matt rode ahead of the group, scouting the path where the trail fell out. When my borrowed Stetson hat blew off my head for the umpteenth time, and I started rolling my saddle getting back on after retrieving it, he looped back, ensuring everything was OK. He rode this way the whole trip, scouting and keeping everyone together, offering me horsemanship tips over the five days.

By the time we arrived at camp, nestled between a mountain ridge and a swollen creek, the sun had started to descend, and the air temperature fell.

As we dismounted and started to untack the stock, the outfitter walked over to me, his back bent permanently 10 degrees forward from a lifetime of riding, and showed me how to take off the bridal, the cinch, and the breast collar, hands on autopilot from decades of repetition.

“Always unbuckle from the left,” he said, looping and tying the cinch strap like a necktie. “And put your saddle blanket upside down on top of the saddle so it can air out.”

I nodded, making mental notes I later translated to my journal. In this same way, I learned how to tie the quick-release knot necessary to tether her lead rope to a tree (always at neck height or higher), and how to bridle and saddle Cherokee.

Any time I faltered, someone was there to help, offering demonstrations and heuristics.

Once the horses were brushed, untacked, and put to pasture behind an electric fence, camp was erected, illuminated by our headlamps.

Orange, yellow, and green tents stood in the conifer forest like presents under a Christmas tree, packed close enough together to provide perceived protection in grizzly country, but spread apart far enough to create a semblance of privacy.

By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag, the day had stretched over 18 hours. Stomach full of chili reheated over a camp fire, legs and back sore from riding, and my heart happy to be in the backcountry with good company, I drifted off to sleep.

Over the next three days, we cooked all of our meals over an open fire: Corn, potatoes, steak, eggs, hot dogs, pasta, Jiffy Pop. Blue and white enamel cookware was charred black by the soot and washed with murky water retrieved from the creek.

By day three, we had built a second ring. One for talking around, one for cooking over.

[{"type":"text","text":"“Less pressure on the chefs,” the outfitter said."}]

Stumps, cut from felled trees with hatchets, rocks, and a single REI pop-up chair surrounded the talking ring, each a chamber for smoke roulette.

As conversation drifted from shared memories to political beliefs and everything in between, laughter permeated the air, infectious and heavy. Hours passed this way, with the campfire burning steadily, fueled by a seemingly never-ending pile of deadfall, blanketing our dust-covered clothes in a comforting aroma of smoke.

As the week lumbered on, we trekked to nearby lakes, waterfalls, and ridgelines, riding single file, weaving through the landscape like a condensed centipede.

With no cell service and limited charging opportunities, our phones transformed from universal tools into cameras and jukeboxes. Temporarily entirely relieved of the worries and responsibilities a tower connection carried, I contentedly diverted my attention to the people, animals, and space immediately around me.

As we explored the mountains, valleys, meadows, and waterways, I found myself overwhelmed by gratitude. Gratitude for the head on my shoulders and the earth beneath my feet. Gratitude for the people around me, their humor, banter, and willingness to share their wilderness experience and expertise with me.

On day three, we rode to an alpine lake, dipping into willow-blanketed meadows full of bear claw-marked trees, before climbing to snow-covered lodgepole stands. For lunch, we ate sandwiches: PB&J, bologna, turkey, Velveeta, and drank filtered river water.

I watched as Larry, who had moved to Montana from New Hampshire a decade ago and never looked back, and the outfitter fished for cutthroat, one brandishing a spin rod and the other a fly rod.

“I’ve caught eight,” Larry touted, less than a minute after hitting the water.

“That’s OK, pal,” the outfitter called back, holding his spin rod. “One of these days we’ll teach you to count.”

As they fished, Hazel and Antonio read, lazily sprawling out on dried grass.

“I hope there aren’t ticks up here,” Hazel said, resting her book on her lap, pages spread, spine up.

[{"type":"text","text":"“Don’t say that word,” said Antonio, half-joking."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"“Tick, tick, tick,” she taunted."}]

I laughed and rested my back against a felled tree, settling my weight into the dirt below. As ants crawled up my arms, I watched them, making no motion to swat them away. I pulled open my journal and started to sketch the lake.

My pen traced the contours of the landscape, filling the page with ink. I reveled in the warmth the unobscured sunshine cast on my face. Closing the book, I tilted my face upward, and drifted off to sleep.

Despite cold evening temperatures, late nights, and early mornings, the trip brought some of the best rest I had experienced in months. Between being lulled to sleep by the steady roaring of the creek, eating hearty, fire-cooked meals, drinking fresh water, and filling fleeting moments with laughter, this experience felt like a turning point.

[{"type":"text","text":"Exactly the direction I was pivoting toward, I still don’t know."}]

Before this trip, I had spent fewer than 10 cumulative hours on horseback. It had been years since I had been in the backcountry, and even longer since I had felt this level of adoration for the wilderness. Here, I was surrounded by people who made the outdoors their life, and stock that knew these mountains like the back of their hooves.

In this company, in a camp surrounded by sage, pines, glacier lilies, shooting stars, bears, deer, bison and wolves, I found comfort. It was their confidence, good nature, and competence in the backcountry that kept me calm as I stood watch in camp after the horses broke down the electric fence and disappeared into the night.

Nestled next to a Douglas fir tree, keeping a careful eye on the four remaining animals, I watched as the sky slowly turned forget-me-not-blue against the gray mountain ridges and valleys.

Beside me, I heard a snap. I jerked my head up, my headlamp catching the eyeshine of Wrangler, a 12-year-old bay quarterhorse. As her head lurched toward me, I groped at the air, missing her lead. She beelined down the trail, and across the creek, following the other escapees to a meadow that lay beyond.

[{"type":"text","text":"The outfitter’s words echoed in my head."}]

Resigned to my watchpost, I waited. The symphony of chaos continued around me, swirling like a storm cloud. Horses and mules snorted, pawing the ground anxiously as the creek our camp shouldered roared, angry and swollen with spring rainfall and runoff.

Slowly, color returned to the earth as first light careened down the ridgeline into camp. As I flicked off my headlamp, the faint ring of bells returned, followed by the clomping of hooves against dirt and rock.

[{"type":"text","text":"“We got ‘em,” said Matt, leading a string of mules."}]

I checked my watch. 5:36 a.m. Just like that, it was all over, less than 40 minutes after it began.

“We should let them loose to graze,” the outfitter joked, signifying that the danger had passed.

For the remainder of the trip, the livestock were tied up at night. In this way, I learned that horses sleep standing up.

“If they’re confident they’re safe, they’ll sleep lying down,” Larry told me. “They’re prey animals, and they always want to be ready to run.”

He kept his horses in a corral on his property. He said it took them months to feel comfortable enough to sleep laying down.

By the time we rode out on the final day, the coolers and packouts were lighter. Clothes were saturated with dust, grease and smoke. Animals were well-grazed on native grasses that blanketed the meadow serving as their temporary pasture.

Anticipation for the trip’s commencement rested heavy on everyone’s chests.

The ride out took more than 10 hours, culminating in a steep climb back to the outfitters. Tired, sweaty, and hungry, we untacked the animals, moved them to the corral, unpacked the mules, loaded our cars, hugged goodbye, and dispersed, like ashes in a campfire pit.

[{"type":"text","text":"The names of the horses have been changed to protect their identity."}]

Horses 1 5 26 26

<title>'Tonight The Horses Sleep Standing Up': Lessons From Five Nights In The Absaroka-Beartooth… | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Suddenly, I was fully awake. The horses got out! Deep in the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, dozens of miles from the nearest road, two days into a five-day trip, the horses and mules were our only way to pack out our camp.

'Tonight The Horses Sleep Standing Up': Lessons From Five Nights In The Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness

Heinz mark

Mark Heinz

Wildlife

At roughly 2.5 years old, a female grizzly called Miracle is at the age where most bears are just striking out on their own.

After losing both of her siblings to a male grizzly’s attack last spring and then splitting from her mother at an unusually tender age, Miracle has been on her own for nearly a year.

She was spotted Sunday in Grand Teton National Park, passing through the same spot in the Colter Bay area where she’d been seen almost a year to day prior.

It’s one of a few appearances that Miracle has made so far this spring, and she appears to be in good health, wildlife photographer Marcela Herdova told Cowboy State Daily.

“She survived the winter all on her own which is really great,” Herdova said.

Hanging out near Colter Bay Village might have been what initially brought trouble to Miracle, her siblings and their famous mother, Grizzly 1063.

But on Sunday, Miracle didn’t seem to have in any interest in hanging out around Colter Bay; she was apparently using it as a shortcut between wooded areas, Herdova said.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"2025 Controversy"}]

Last spring, park officials hazed Grizzly 1063 and her three yearling cubs, trying to get them away from the settled Colter Bay area.

In mid-May, two of the three cubs were killed and partly cannibalized by a male bear, the National Park Service (NPS) reported. 

Some claimed that the hazing separated 1063 and her cubs, making the cubs more vulnerable and contributing to their deaths. 

The NPS reported there was no evidence that the hazing had separated the bears prior to the cubs’ deaths.

The last yearling initially went missing but was spotted back with Grizzly 1063 a few days later. That surviving yearling came to be called Miracle by admirers.

After a brief reunion, Miracle and Grizzly 1063 split again, apparently for good.

Miracle returned to the Colter Bay area, and in July 

 by wildlife officers and released in a remote area.

Bear experts at the time gave her a reasonably good chance of surviving the winter. It’s unusual for grizzlies to separate from their mothers as yearlings – that usually doesn’t happen until the cubs are at least 2-years-old.

But it isn’t unheard of for grizzly yearlings to make it on their own, biologists noted.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Coming Full Circle"}]

With Miracle looking robust and full of energy this spring, odds are that she’s learned what she needs to know to continue making it on her own, Herdova said.

And Miracle apparently knows better than to hang out in settled areas, she added.

Herdova caught a brief video clip of Miracle moving through the Coulter Bay area at a brisk pace, apparently showing no interest in stopping to check things out.

As for why Miracle and Grizzly 1063 separated last year, Herdova speculated that it might have been because a male bear was trying to mate with 1063.

So, 1063 might have driven Miracle off partly to pursue a new mating opportunity and partly to keep the yearling safe, she said.

Male grizzlies will sometimes kill cubs in hopes of mating with the mother bear.

And that scenario might add up, because this Spring Grizzly 1063 has a litter of the COYs (cubs of the year), Herdova said.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Following Patterns"}]

Grizzly researcher Lana Ciarniello of British Columbia, Canada, told Cowboy State Daily told Cowboy State Daily that it’s difficult to surmise exactly what happened with Miracle.

There are some instances of mother grizzlies splitting from yearlings, in order to mate again, she said.

One female grizzly she’s observed in Canada follows that pattern of running younger cubs off, then mating, Ciarniello said.

Most cubs split from the mothers between age 2 and 3, she added.

And in some rare instances, cubs might stay with their mothers until age 5, she added.

As for Miracle high-tailing it along the same route that she was seen almost exactly a year earlier, that tracks with typical bear behavior, she said.

Bears establish regular “travel corridors” so it might make sense for quick dash through Colter Bay to become part of Miracle’s travel route, Ciarniello said.

“They don’t just walk randomly through the landscape,” she said.

Ciarniello noted that female grizzlies usually have smaller ranges and more predictable routes than males.

“Males need to encompass much larger ranges, looking for multiple females to mate with,” she said.

“And his route is going to be less predictable, because it’s determined by finding a female in heat,” she added.

Miracle the bear 5 26 26

<title>Hooray! Miracle The Young Grizzly Survives Winter, Shows Up At Colter Bay | Cowboy State Daily</title>

After losing both of her siblings to a male grizzly’s attack last spring and then splitting from her mother at an unusually tender age, the young grizzly named Miracle survived winter on her own and showed up at Colter Bay on Sunday.

Hooray! Miracle The Young Grizzly Survives Winter, Shows Up At Colter Bay

Jen kocher

Jen Kocher

Wyoming Life

Around Wyoming

The last beating was the worst. Her trafficker dragged Kelley Marshall by the hair out of the hotel room she shared with her toddler daughter and into his.

Marshall had learned to go still and take it; crying or fighting back only made things worse. 

The beatings were almost daily, but this time was different. She’d broken one of his cardinal rules.

He hit her like she was a man, she said, all the while threatening to kill her. It went on for hours.

First, he held her head under the bathwater. When that didn’t work, he poured alcohol over her body and said he was going to light her on fire. 

He changed his mind and choked her instead until she went unconscious.

“I really believe that he thought I was dead,” she said. 

Marshall’s trafficker seemed surprised to find her still breathing when she finally came to. 

He told her that since she was still here, she might as well get out to the track and make some money, then kicked her out of the hotel room.

Off she went in her ridiculously short skirt, low-cut top and fishnet stockings — the same uniform she wore out on the streets, whatever the time of day, whatever the weather.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Last Day"}]

How had she gotten to this point, Marshall wondered? 

At age 25, it felt like she’d lived a lifetime. She heard her dad’s voice, the same refrain that played on loop in her mind: she was no good and would never amount to anything.

It turned out he was right, she thought as she hobbled down the dimly lit street in San Diego with her face and head swollen to twice its size and bruises covering every inch of her body.

A patrol car drove slowly past her, braked, then backed up. A door opened and two familiar faces got out. 

“We almost didn’t recognize you,” one police officer said. They wondered if she was ready to give up the life.

Marshall knew that if she went back, she’d be dead. She was ready, no matter the short-term risks and costs.

Her trafficker was arrested and she and her daughter, who was not trafficked, were placed in protective custody. 

That was Marshall’s last day on the streets, a fresh start from which it would take her nearly two decades to recover, beginning with the understanding that she had not chosen to sell herself for sex, but had been trafficked by men who claimed to love her.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Invisible Chains"}]

One of the lessons Marshall imparts in telling her story is that most people in the sex trade did not arrive there by choice, they were coerced. 

In her case, that coercion came wrapped in professions of love wielded against the vulnerabilities of a girl who had grown up in a violent home where her father had sexually abused her.

The chains holding victims are often invisible, she said.

Had she not been rescued — twice, it turns out — by well-meaning police officers who understood the dynamics of trafficking, then she would likely still be on the streets or dead.

Another key lesson that Marshall hopes to impart is that people can play a huge role in helping to stop sex and labor trafficking by recognizing the signs and reporting it to authorities. 

This is why Marshall channels her own experience into educating others as a training specialist and survivor leader for 

 a national nonprofit that prepares truckers, law enforcement, truck stop employees, port workers and other individuals and groups to identify and report human trafficking. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Billion Dollar Industry"}]

Human trafficking, like any other criminal enterprise, relieves heavily on transportation to thrive. 

As such, interstates and highways serve as vital arteries for traffickers who may be just passing through the state or purposefully targeting Wyoming’s rural and urban communities. 

Like Marshall, victims are often ferried to places under coercion and threats. 

One study by the National Outreach Survey on Transportation found that 81% of survivors questioned used transportation during their recruitment while 76% used transportation during the course of their exploitation. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"It’s a money-making business. "}]

In fact, human trafficking is the world’s fastest growing criminal enterprise with an estimated global profit of $32 billion, according to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

It’s also a crime that’s happening in all communities, including in Wyoming, said Louis Greek, training specialist for TAT.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Hard To Guage Problem"}]

Beaten and turned out to turn tricks, she was on track for a violent death when eagle-eyed cops recognized she was being trafficked. “People think it doesn’t happen in rural states like Wyoming, but it does,” trafficking experts say.

Saturday Morning Dance Party: George Strait -- I Can Still Make Cheyenne

In case you missed it

More in Same Guys Dancing

Saturday Morning Dance Party: February 28, 2026

Wednesday Morning Dance Party: July 23, 2025

Saturday Morning Dance Party: Dierks Bentley -- 5-1-5-0

Friday Morning Dance Party: Cream -- White Room

Most read