There are fathers everywhere glimpsing open space. Sons guessing where the focus is. Sons not guessing anything and stumbling on the answer anyway, churning up highway pavement, traveling west. Always west.
This America is a patchwork quilt of stitched-together histories tied to place, tied to dirt, tied to a boy and girl crossing borders together. Fragmented stories recast.
We skirt the perimeter of an evil looking storm near Lusk, Wyoming. It’s collected at a point of funneling clouds, flashes of lightening. Ruffled sky spews forth from this center. It is silent: just moving texture. No rain.
Railroad tracks busy with Union Pacific traffic traverse the strip mined hills. Factories tuft out plumes of flame. Last Plain, population 1, reminds us we are in the least populated state in the Union. A pile of broken bicycles litters the front yard of a slouching ranch house. Somewhere there is Indian Paintbrush, its scarlet cap bursting forth. Then I remember when I’d hop fences to nab wildflowers from strangers’ gardens, leave them on Lilly’s windowsill, toss pebbles and bolt.
I look at her as she adjusts her gold sunglasses, intent on the road. Her lips pursed, forehead furrowed.
The dead center of America, miles away.
On US-26, between Casper and Jackson Hole, there’s a gas station with tin-can-thin pumps and dials that tick away as you drain the petrol. Inside, you slap the bell on the counter, and a man emerges from the back five minutes later. He’ll have one green eye, one blue, and a belt buckle sporting two crossed pistols.
“What can I do you for?” he spits.
“Settling up for the gas.”
“Wait a minute.”
The man spins on his cowboy boot-heels, returns to the backroom. I glance at Lilly through the grit-stained windows: she’s doing jumping jacks alongside my dusty Corolla. (I put my hands up and shrug, but she doesn’t see me.) The inside of the place lacks colorful rows of candy, magazines, and other filling-station staples. Instead, the interior is a menagerie of display cases stuffed full of snakeskins, arrowheads, and knives. A door clamors behind me, hinges squeal, a thud of lock hitting latch.
“Here we go.” Belt Buckle returns.
He cradles a small black case and lays it down on the counter next to the cash register. With knobby fingers, he unsnaps the button, reaches inside, and retrieves a pair of binoculars. He slowly raises them to his eyes and spies out the window.
“Twenty-five dollars, sixty-three cents,” he tells me. His eyes remain fixed behind the binoculars.
“What?”
He lowers the magnifiers, holds them breast level for a moment before resting them back in the case.
“Machine’s broke,” he thumps a closed fist over the cash register. It recoils in a splash of rattled coins. “Got to use these binocs to see how much you owe.”
I hand over the cash and turn to leave. The bells on the door handle sing when I pull.
“Thanks, big guy,” Belt Buckle calls out to me. The door closes before I can mutter anything back.
The car kicks up gravel as we spin out, dust ghosts in the rear-view mirror.
Soon the Tetons, snowcapped even in the summer, greet us on the fringe of Jackson Hole. I think I see a buffalo next to the river on our right. We pull over to investigate. Through the zoom of the digital camera, a Grizzly Bear paws at fish in the flowing waters, batting one to the rocky shore. We watch her until she’s done with the meal and we carry on down the road, mountains cresting higher with each mile closer to our destination.
A thick construction worker in wraparound sunglasses motions us to stop, orange flag in one hand, stop sign in the other.
“Wait for the lead car,” he shouts, “It’ll be a few minutes.”
Cars pile in behind us. We roll down the windows, let mountain air expel road-trip musk. Lilly stretches her legs out onto the dashboard, presses her toes against the windshield, leaving dime-shaped smudges that’ll still be there months afterwards.
A red pickup leading a train of cars in the opposite direction settles on the side of the road, lets his flock pass. He then reverses into the field hugging the road, turns back towards where he came from. The construction worker flips the sign from stop to slow and beckons us onwards with his orange flag.
We stop at Snake River Brewery for bowls of chili, corn bread, and pints of New Delhi Freight Train IPA and Jackson ESB. We traverse the boarded walks of downtown Jackson Hole, duck into shops to try on cowboy hats. Stagecoaches carry tourists through a park whose entrance is marked by a gate made entirely of elk bones. Lilly talks me out of purchasing a plaid shirt with pearl snaps, and we continue on our way to Wilson.
We stay at a friend’s house nestled in the foothills. In the middle of the night I jolt awake unsure of where I am, dizzy and disoriented. I gulp down a glass of water. Go to the bathroom, splash water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror. I need a haircut and a shave. I turn the light off, head back to bed, tell myself it’s just the altitude that’s got my head spinning.
