Great to be spending some quality time out in Wave Country again this summer.
Wave County is anywhere far enough out in the boonies that when you meet an oncoming vehicle, the driver acknowledges your existence with a wave, a nod of the head, even a simple raised index finger on the steering wheel. And you respond.
Sometimes you go first. Or you both wave at the same time.
Sometimes you don't get a response, and you wonder what's wrong with that cranky character, anyway.
The wave is a recognition that we're both way out beyond where the buses run, and at any time that questionable left rear tire could go flat, or your water pump could give up the ghost. With a 14-year-old pickup, could be anything.
That simple wave, nod, or lifted finger acknowledges that if that happens to someone I see along the road, I'll stop and see if I can help. Folks have cell phones these days, but service is spotty in Wave Country (see below).
One time I was about 100 miles from Cheyenne in the Snowy Range, on a gravel road leading into the Medicine Bow National Forest, when I saw a big Lowes delivery truck, pulled over, and the two delivery guys were helping an older couple fix a flat tire. I've felt good about Lowes ever since.
You won't be left out here to starve, and your miserable bones picked dry by turkey vultures and coyotes, if there are enough folks like this around. The wave is the tip-off.
Oh, there are some sourpusses who don't return the wave, and I've noticed most are out-of-staters. When I lived in Craig, Colorado, for three years, and had green plates on my pickup, I didn't get many return waves when I ventured back into Wyoming. “Greenies” don't get much love up here.
I'm told that folks don't tend to wave in California, because they're too cool, or the guy you wave at might have a secret marijuana plot out in the woods. A wave could spark trouble.
Which says a lot about the difference between California and Wyoming.
Up in our neck of the woods, the roads finally opened up this year right when they've been opening up for the 44 years I've been summering in the Snowy Range – the week before Fathers Day. That's when the winter accumulation of around eight feet of snow has melted away into straggly drifts suitable for not much more than cooling a six-pack of beer.
It's a long wait to get in, and come September, you can get snow at any time. One year it snowed up on the pass above us during the annual Labor Day picnic. Short season.
So far, we haven't gotten a visit from our problem bear this year. Last year, sometime over the prior winter, he pried loose a piece of siding to get at some spices in a built-in wall cabinet. I fixed the siding with screws, instead of nails. Our bear apparently does not have a screwdriver.
That bear made a pest of himself last summer, tearing down hummingbird feeders, chewing holes in the water heater chimney, and biting clear through a can of dark green Rustoleum paint left out overnight on my picnic table. At one point Game and Fish tried to trap him, but couldn't, which was good news because bears that hang around cabins tend to get euthanized.
We've never left food or garbage out, but this year even the hummingbird feeders come inside at night, and aren't up when I'm away.
A fox is a regular visitor. And last week I spotted a ferret darting under the cabin. We see plenty of deer, and the occasional moose. I've heard elk every fall, but have never spotted one.
Cell phone service is spotty and getting worse. Seems like with every improvement in the system, the service up there gets worse. Many more improvements and we'll be back to the days when you had to drive 22 miles to Elk Mountain to make a call.
So much for progress.
One evening last week I was gazing into the fire when I noticed movement in the woods beyond the fire pit. It was a young buck in velvet, gazing back at me.
Pretty wonderful.
Great to be back.
