One More For The Road

[{"type":"text","text":"Trying to convince someone that Chick-fil-A is not fast food...."}]

One more for 1 9 25

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

<title>One More For The Road: Thursday, January 9, 2025 | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Trying to convince someone that Chick-fil-A is not fast food....

One More For The Road: Thursday, January 9, 2025

 Trying to convince someone that Chick-fil-A is not fast food....

Kerry Drake

Wyoming Life

This is a cautionary tale about bad choices, including one I made on the night of Aug. 1, 1985, when the 

 became one of the worst natural disasters in Wyoming’s history.

My first bad choice: Ignoring an early afternoon forecast that declared a severe thunderstorm warning was in effect until 8 p.m. 

It was undeniably risky behavior, but the reward seemed promising — a night away from Cheyenne and my job as editor of the Sunday Wyoming Tribune-Eagle, which was second only to the Casper Star-Tribune in state circulation.

I can’t recall why this particular Thursday was any rougher on my psyche than any other day, but 41 years later my only excuse was the feeling I had to escape for a few hours and visit one of my favorite pastimes.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Guilty Pleasure"}]

That guilty pleasure was the one-hour trip to the Loveland, Colorado, dog track, where I could kick back, study that night’s racing form, eat some questionable food that was the biggest gamble of the entire experience, and be back home by midnight.

If I could end the night with a few more dollars in my pocket than I started, all the better. It was an addiction, to be sure, but one that didn’t seem to be an inherent risk to my health or wallet.

The later it got at work, the more nervous I became that this excursion just wasn’t going to happen. 

It was raining hard when I headed west on Lincolnway to the Interstate 25 entrance, but I felt reassured that the nasty forecast was for Cheyenne and the immediate vicinity, and I would soon be miles away.

As I got closer to I-25, though, my blue Pontiac Sunbird seemed to be the epicenter of a storm that was outpacing the speed of my windshield wipers. About a mile away from where there would be no turning back, I turned back and headed toward downtown. 

Maybe a movie would put me in a better mood.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Floating Down The Street"}]

But a not-so-funny thing was happening right before my eyes: my car was literally floating down the street, and I had no control over its movement. 

Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic, which turned out to be natural when the entire city had been warned not to be doing exactly what I was doing.

The one thing I knew was that I did not want to be traveling further east, because the flood I would be running into looked more intense up ahead.

At this point I couldn’t actually steer, but I tried to will my car into a parking lot at the intersection of Lincolnway and Warren Avenue by hoping I could somehow stop this crazy thing.

The steady stream took me back west, but I missed the parking lot and wound up half on the street and the other half on the sidewalk in front of a record store I wished I was inside. It was one of my favorite places in Cheyenne but was closed, I realized, because no sane person would be on this block.

I wasn’t floating anymore, which was the most positive spin I could put on the experience. I wasn’t comforted by the fact that I had missed the first race, all because I hadn’t left work on time.

It was at this point I noticed water was filling the inside of my car. 

The options seemed bleak: I could get out and get soaked trying to find nonexistent shelter, or I could stay inside and wait out the storm.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"That was another bad decision. "}]

The floorboards were soaked and water kept pouring in. I crouched on the driver’s seat, but as the water rose to the level of my radio and glove compartment, I realized that my electrical system was fried, and I would never be driving this car again.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Abandon Ship"}]

My only recourse was to abandon ship, so I tried to open my door, but the water pressure was too great and it wouldn’t budge. 

I tried to frantically bang against the door with my shoulder, but nothing happened. With the car no longer running, there was no way to open a window and climb out.

It would have been bad idea No. 3 of the night, but I actually searched for something to smash the window, which would likely have left me wet and bleeding. Where was I going to find this mystery tool to free myself anyway?

At this point, I had what I can only describe as my mortality moment. 

All I could think about was that I didn’t want to die in this car and how much I wanted out, even though what sounded like the biggest hailstones I’d ever heard were pummeling my Pontiac.

So, I kept trying to slam into the door until my mysterious force would suddenly meet head on with an unmovable object and get me untrapped. After a couple more tries, I was happy to discover it worked — until I got outside and felt the coldest water I had ever experienced, and I was slogging around wondering what to do next.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Open The Door, Mister!"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"A quick glance around was not reassuring. "}]

At the other end of the parking lot was a brand-new white truck, and though I couldn’t tell from that angle if anybody was inside, it was high enough off the ground that I trusted it wasn’t taking on much water, if any. 

Eould someone open the door? That seemed iffy at best.

If you lived in Cheyenne in 1985 and had the good sense not to be outside in a flash flood, I doubt if you have ever felt the pain accompanied by baseball-size hail striking every part of your body while desperately trying to get from point A to point B.

I read news accounts later that put the size of the hail at 2 inches in diameter, but I swear it was actually bigger than a baseball, and there was a kind of inverse hope that took over my brain and body. Every step was painful and chilly, but I promised myself that if I could just get into that truck, my life would improve 1,000%.

I reached the truck and pounded on the door as hard as I could, and the startled man behind the wheel reached over and let me in. I seem to recall he gave me a jacket because I was still shivering like crazy.

We spent the next hour waiting for the storm to stop, trading life stories as only two survivors of a totally miserable night are wont to do. 

He told me he was the owner of a construction company, and seeing how nice his truck was, I believed he was probably good at his job.

I told him that if I’d only been able to get on the road a bit quicker, none of this would have happened to me. The dog track had called its siren song, and instead of hitting a healthy exacta bet for a decent payday the only thing that kept me from feeling like a total loser was getting out of my damned car by myself.

When someone saves your life from baseball-size hail, it’s only natural to show some gratitude and at least remember his name. I can’t do that. In fact, I think it was gone from my memory bank by the flood’s first anniversary. 

Still, as crappy as the day was, it was an experience I’ve used to judge how everything is relative. What was a terrible day and night by every criteria one might judge it, it was also a life-affirming one. 

I’m mixing gambling metaphors, but I had dealt myself a bad hand and lived to tell about it.

The driver graciously drove the two blocks to the newspaper, and I sought refuge in the fact that my co-workers at The Wyoming Eagle had survived the flood, too. 

I was half-expecting they would be putting out an extra edition — all six of them, by themselves — until they recounted how 911 had gone down and the only communication was listening to the police scanner.

What the editor and his staff knew was that there were at least several deaths, but no one knew exactly how bad things were or that the banks of Dry Creek had overflowed and trapped people inside their cars with no possible escape.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"No Extra Edition"}]

The word had come down fairly early in the evening to the newsroom: there would be no late press run or extra edition because the paper they had just printed wasn’t likely to be delivered for a few days as the city tried to pick up the pieces and move on.

I knew that I’d be busy for the next two days, getting copy and photos for the Sunday edition so we could try to make sense of this community disaster. 

My photographer and friend Fred Yates and I decided to drive around downtown so he could shoot pictures of some of the broken windows at stores. The receding flood waters still glowed from the blinking lights at intersections.

But there weren’t any people walking the streets. Our last stop was at the Mayflower Bar on 17th Street, which was my second-favorite place to be that wasn’t a dog track or poker game.

The place was having a flood party, and there were about 50 souls gathered to wet their whistles and recount their evenings. 

Fred and I ordered beers — they were free! — and listened to one of the managers talk about how even though part of the bar was flooded shin-deep and the patrons were drenched to the bone, everyone was indeed in pretty good spirits.

Fred drove me the six blocks to my third-story apartment, where there was no flooding. I turned on a Denver TV station that was broadcasting a special live report, even though it was after midnight.

I stared at the screen and saw something so surreal I had to laugh. There was my Pontiac, nearly by itself on Lincolnway, tilted on the sidewalk, right where I abandoned it to flee to safety and live to tell this tale.

Kerry and Cheyenne 1985 Flood Hail accumulation following flooding in Cheyenne Wyoming USGS via Wyohistory org 8 1 26

<title>‘I Didn't Want To Die In This Car’: Trapped In Flood, Journalist Almost Became The Story | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Kerry Drake was planning a quick trip to Colorado on the evening of Aug. 1, 1985, when he was suddenly trapped in his car by rising floodwaters in Cheyenne. "My car was literally floating down the street, and I had no control over its movement," he writes.

‘I Didn't Want To Die In This Car’: Trapped In Flood, Journalist Almost Became The Story

Headshot of Cowboy State Daily's business and tourism reporter, Renée Jean

Renée Jean

Business & Tourism

Another of Wyoming’s legacy ranches is hitting the market after nearly a century of stewardship. The T Diamond Ranch comes with a front-row seat to the Black Hills, as well as history to match.

It’s tucked into Crook County just a few miles from the South Dakota border on a 433-acre spread where trout streams, 

red bluffs and Wyoming tax laws all come together for a $5 million asking price.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Deep Historic Roots"}]

Aerial photos of the property show Lower Redwater Creek meandering through, with pine-studded hills and red-rock cliffs in the background. The ranch is part of an operation that was founded by the Matthews family, who trailed into Wyoming from Texas, first settling near Gillette in 1888 then expanding outward to Sundance and Spearfish. 

In Spearfish, the family is known for the Matthews Block, which includes the Matthews Opera House, a vibrant community arts center.

T Diamond Ranch is one-fourth of a larger ranch the Matthews family owned. It includes the 1930s farmstead and dairy, along with other working ranch structures. These are not relics. They are part of what is already a working cattle ranch rated for about 50 head. 

With an existing lease in place, there’s an immediate income stream.

But it’s not just the original farmhouse and ranch structures that come with this property. There’s a 7,500-square-foot mansion as well, built In 2001.

“They spared no expense when they built it,” Hayden Outdoors listing agent Kerry Englemann told Cowboy State Daily. “It’s just a beautiful, beautiful place.” 

The home was built with entertaining in mind, so has expansive gathering spaces in addition to three bedrooms and seven full bathrooms. Large windows frame a sweeping view of the scenery, including creek bottoms below. 

The interior is finished with warm wood, high-quality appliances, and multiple fireplaces. The price competitive compared to other areas with the kind of outdoor recreation the Black Hills offer.

“This would probably be $20 million in Jackson Hole,” Englemann said. “We sold a ranch down the road there last year for $2.5 million, and it had no improvements to the property, so no residence and no working ranch headquarters.”

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Where The Trout Live"}]

With few neighbors nearby, and easements that protect the character of all four of the original ranches that were part of this cluster, the new owner will feel as though they’ve found a private sanctuary, he said. 

“It’s rough country, it’s Wyoming country,” Englemann said. “But when you get down to the running water, it’s just beautiful. You have those rugged red bluffs and the contrast with the green riparian area, with all the things you want to see as a country boy.”

Water is a highlight on this turnkey ranch, with substantial, long-standing water rights that support about 125 acres of riparian and irrigated hay bottom along Lower Redwater Creek. That supports one to two cuttings of grass and grass legume hay every season, he said. 

Two registered wells serve the headquarters, providing water to both residences, as well as for domestic stock use. There’s a permanent stock water pipeline easement delivering year-round stock water to the southern grazing units. 

“The highlight is the running water,” Englemann said. “The Redwater Creek — in South Dakota they call it Redwater River — is just beautiful. Those riparian areas are just lush, and there’s trout swimming.”

It’s the kind of fishing many people travel hundreds of miles to find, Englemann said. Lower Redwater Creek runs the length of the property, offering cold, clear trout water starting about 100 yards from the mansion’s backdoor. 

Hay bottoms and timbered draws create wildlife habitat too, attracting whitetail deer, mule deer, turkeys, and elk, who roam freely from the nearby Black Hills National Forest and creek corridor, as well as plenty of upland birds that work the field edges and frequent the creek, Englemann said.

The ranch is also situated to access the Black Hills in both Wyoming and South Dakota, but it comes with a much lower tax bill than its neighboring state. 

“I don’t know what the exact percentages are, but when I look at properties that are similar to my property in South Dakota, my tax bill for that property is somewhere around $7,000 to $8,000 a year,” he said. “And if you go across the border to Wyoming those taxes might be around $1,200 a year. So it’s a huge discrepancy in terms of property taxes.”

The range of outdoor recreation opportunities includes horseback riding, hiking, mountain biking and backcountry skiing. The historic mining town of Deadwood, Devils Tower, Spearfish Canyon, Black Hills National Forest — all are within a half-hour or so drive. 

Rapid City, a regional hub with medical specialists, an airport with flights to Denver and Dallas as well as seasonal routes to Chicago, Las Vegas and Orlando, is 63 miles away. 

Noncommercial recreation on the ranch is protected in perpetuity by a conservation partnership, ensuring the property’s open-space character and ranching heritage remain intact.

T Diamond Ranch 35 Aerial primary residence and grounds from above adjusted 1784821086 scaled 8 1 26

<title>T Diamond Ranch, Legacy Black Hills Spread, Hits Wyoming Market For $5 Million | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Another of Wyoming’s legacy ranches is hitting the market after nearly a century of stewardship. The T Diamond Ranch in Crook County comes with a 7,500-square-foot mansion, trout streams, scenic red bluffs, and a front-row seat to the Black Hills.

T Diamond Ranch, Legacy Black Hills Spread, Hits Wyoming Market For $5 Million

Kolby fedore

Kolby Fedore

Around Wyoming

For nearly 60 years, Vern Palmer has been obsessed with Wyoming license plates.

The 90-year-old Big Piney man has spent decades roaming old ranches, forgotten dumping grounds and dusty corners of Sublette County looking for pieces of Wyoming history most people would walk right past.

[{"type":"text","text":"It all started with his oldest son, Jim."}]

Together, the two spent weekends crisscrossing ranches, hunting for rusted treasures hidden beneath the sagebrush. Along the way they uncovered old bottles, antique tools, barbed wire, weathered signs and hundreds of Wyoming license plates.

Today, Palmer's collection includes every Wyoming license plate from 1914 to the present, along with every Sublette County plate issued since county numbers were added in the early 1930s. He's also just four states shy of collecting one plate from all 50.

[{"type":"text","text":"But after six decades of searching, there's one he hasn't yet found."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"The elusive 1913 Wyoming license plate."}]

"I do think that it's around Big Piney somewhere," Palmer said. "I found the 1914 plate pretty close to my home, but I have not found the 1913."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"A Family Tradition"}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Jim likes to remind people that, technically, he started the collection."}]

As a boy in the late ‘60s, he began picking up old license plates in remote places of the Upper Green River Valley. Before long, his dad was just as hooked.

Summer weekends often meant disappearing into the middle of nowhere with no guarantee they'd find a thing. Palmer rarely bought license plates. Nearly every one in his collection came off the ground.

"He just liked going through old dump grounds looking for old treasures," Jim said. "Old glass ... old artifacts ... tools that you wouldn't find anymore. He just had a passion to find those things."

[{"type":"text","text":"That passion eventually spread to a third generation."}]

His grandson, Joel Florquist, remembers countless summer days wandering through the country with his grandfather.

"A lot of times we didn't find any," Florquist said. "But a lot of times we did."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Before Modern Conveniences"}]

Long before he became Wyoming's unofficial license plate historian, Palmer grew up on a Colorado farm where life looked different.

The family raised cattle, horses, hogs and chickens. They grew vegetables and fruit. His father worked as a carpenter.

[{"type":"text","text":"There was no television, no refrigerator and no indoor plumbing."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"His mother washed clothes in an irrigation ditch using a washboard."}]

When electricity finally reached the farm, the power company installed a single light bulb in the middle of the house and one electrical outlet.

"We didn't have anything to plug into it," Palmer recalled with a laugh. "But it was kind of nice to sit under the globe and do our schoolwork because it was a lot better than the lamp we'd been using."

Florquist said he believes those early years explain why his grandfather never looked at the world quite like everyone else.

"He grew up with not having a lot," Florquist said. "So you took care of what you had so it lasted longer."

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"He Valued People"}]

Neighbors knew who to call when a pickup wouldn't start or a car broke down.

After serving in the military and transferring to Big Piney with El Paso Natural Gas in 1960, Palmer built a career as a mechanic before supervising the company's garage.

[{"type":"text","text":"Then he'd go home and fix somebody else's vehicle."}]

"He went out of his way to help people," Jim Palmer said. "He never wanted to do it for credit or recognition. He loved people, and he wanted to make sure they were taken care of."

[{"type":"text","text":"Palmer didn't just see value in old things."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"He saw value in people, too."}]

To him, almost everything deserved another chance — an old license plate, a broken-down car or a neighbor who needed a hand.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"He got joy out of life by being able to help others,\" Jim said."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Every Plate Has A Story"}]

Ask Palmer about license plates and you'll quickly discover they're much more than stamped pieces of metal.

[{"type":"text","text":"They're tiny time capsules."}]

He can explain why Wyoming's 1944 plate was made from fiber instead of steel because of wartime shortages, why early Wyoming plates stretched nearly 16 inches long before they were standardized in 1958, and why every county still carries the same number it was assigned nearly a century ago.

[{"type":"text","text":"He'll also tell you why Sublette County wears the number 23."}]

When Wyoming assigned county numbers in the early 1930s, they weren't random. Counties were ranked by their assessed property valuation at the time, and Sublette landed at No. 23. The rankings stuck, and so did the numbers on the license plates.

[{"type":"text","text":"His collection includes roughly 650 license plates."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"\"When I hold one,\" Palmer said, \"I see the history.\""}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Curious About Everything"}]

Long before Neil Armstrong ever stepped onto the moon, a young Vern Palmer told his teacher that one day people would walk there.

[{"type":"text","text":"In 1969, Armstrong did just that."}]

"He always thought God's creation was amazing," Florquist said. "He wanted to know more."

[{"type":"text","text":"That curiosity never faded."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Jim said his father didn't become an avid reader until he was about 65."}]

Now he reads two or three nonfiction books a week simply because he still wants to learn something new.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"'Throw That Telephone Away'"}]

[{"type":"text","text":"\"Dad hates the dot-com era,\" his daughter, Tammy, said with a laugh."}]

For Palmer, that means more than smartphones or computers. It's the gradual disappearance of face-to-face conversations, handwritten letters and the chance to simply talk to another person.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"Throw that telephone away,\" Palmer said matter-of-factly."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"Then, after a beat: \"Throw that computer away.\""}]

His son says Palmer misses the days when paying a bill meant talking to a person instead of navigating an automated phone menu.

[{"type":"text","text":"\"Relationships were valuable to him,\" Jim said."}]

Family members believe Palmer's habit of staying in motion — hiking abandoned dumping grounds, working on cars, gardening and always finding another project — has helped keep him remarkably healthy well into his 90s.

Today, he spends much of his time tending a garden, working with his hands and turning leftover license plates into clocks. 

After oxygen made it difficult to spend long hours in his garage, his daughter built him a small workspace in the living room, where he's made more than 150 clocks for family and friends.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Still Looking"}]

Palmer still believes the missing 1913 Wyoming plate — the state's first official metal license plate — is waiting to be found.

The year before, Wyoming motorists were simply assigned a registration number and expected to make their own marker.

"It was your responsibility to put something on your car with that number," Jim said. "It could have been a piece of painted wood. A lot of people had a leather license plate made, but horses used to gnaw them off of the car, believe it or not."

[{"type":"text","text":"For years, doctors tried reminding Palmer that age catches everyone."}]

[{"type":"text","text":"\"Well, you're getting old,\" one doctor told him."}]

"Dad would just get upset," Jim recalled. "He'd say, 'I'm not getting old.'"

[{"type":"text","text":"His oldest son isn't surprised."}]

"He had too many things that he wanted to do, and not enough time to get them all done," Jim Palmer said. "He just loves life."

Vern Palmer inset 8 1 26

<title>90-Year-Old Big Piney Man Has A Wyoming License Plate From Every Year, Except One | Cowboy State Daily</title>

For nearly 60 years, Vern Palmer has searched Wyoming ranches and forgotten dumps for old Wyoming license plates. At 90, the Big Piney mechanic has a Wyoming license plate from every year, except one. Palmer says he's not giving up his search.

90-Year-Old Big Piney Man Has A Wyoming License Plate From Every Year, Except One

CHEYENNE — If you were trapped in the deadliest flood to ever hit a Wyoming city, Judy Brayton was exactly the kind of hero you’d hope would find you.

When she came home to Cheyenne’s eastside Lakeview addition on Aug. 1, 1985, the Wyoming National Guard medic saw the field behind her house had become a river. 

“Six people were floating in water over their heads, grasping at tree limbs and trying to stand up (on) a van that was slowly sinking,” she told reporters the next day.

Brayton and three of her Guard co-workers quickly went into action. A makeshift hospital was soon set up in a neighbor’s garage. 

“I asked for blankets and I bet I got 50 of them,” she recalled.

Brayton said six men who were chained together and tied to a front-end loader swam to rescue victims. 

“People were shining the headlights of four-wheel-drive vehicles on the scene, and another man in a motor boat searched the water for other vehicles,” the medic said.

For two hours, Brayton stood in waist-deep water, talking to and aiding victims. When they were brought into a garage for medical assistance, Brayton said she kept calling out their names, like a roll call, “To give them hope and let them know they’d be OK.”

People mounted rescue efforts in other parts of the city but were having a difficult time reaching those who were trapped in their vehicles in Dry Creek in the northern part of the city, normally a dry drainage basin.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"‘Opened Up a Faucet’"}]

Cheyenne Mayor Don Erickson, who recently turned 89, was in charge when the city experienced the 

 in 1979, and then the 1985 flash flood, which ranks with the blizzard of 1949 as one of the state's greatest disasters.

During a news conference in his office the day after the flood, Erickson came up with a quote that made national news with its metaphor about the freak storm. 

“It was like someone opened up a faucet right above our city and kept it open at ultra-high pressure,” he said of the deluge that dumped more than 6 inches of water in just hours.

Then and now, Erickson also praised Cheyenne’s volunteer spirit. 

“It’s not only volunteers for Frontier Days, which had 3,000 volunteers,” he said. “The entire community was affected. We had neighbors working night and day to get the hail and water out of these basements, especially for our seniors. It was up to the rafters!”

A dozen people, all Cheyenne residents, died in the flood. All but one drowned: Don Shanor, 67, director of the Downtown Development Association and retired educator, had spent the evening trying to bail the water out of his home.

One of the last things he said, according to his family, was to tell his grandson that he felt like he was trying to run uphill with a heavy bucket. After Shanor went to bed, he died of a heart attack.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"About 70 people were hurt."}]

Stalled thunderstorms hovered over the capital city and dropped 6.06 inches of rain between 5 p.m. and 9:30 p.m. That’s half of Cheyenne’s annual rainfall.

Beginning at 1:30 p.m., the National Weather Service issued a severe thunderstorm watch until 8 p.m., but it was quickly upgraded to a severe thunderstorm warning.

By 6 p.m., hail was falling and getting bigger. 

On Aug. 1, 1985, Cheyenne was pummeled by a massive storm that unleashed a wall of water killing 12 people and causing more than $65 million in damage. The 65,000-ft thunderheads stalled over the city unleashing tornadoes, hail and unprecedented flooding.

One More For The Road: Thursday, January 9, 2025

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