MEDICINE BOW, WY
(June 8, 2004)

Forty minutes of driving a two-lane hilly road deposited me at the entrance to Medicine Bow, population 274. What a mess. Several old low motel buildings now boarded up and filled with storage. There is a dairy bar and a market. The gas station is boarded up with a For Sale sign tucked in the dirty window. Was this a mistake? The park ranger had suggested this 92-mile stretch of old Highway 30 as a break from the monotony of I-84. Even on the local two-lane highway the speed limit is still 65. It's 6:30 p.m., many miles from my departure from Buhl, Idaho, at 7 a.m.. The truck had been marvelous, pulling the trailer up the long grades with ease. I was weary, sore of knees and ankle. The expansive scenery countered the monotony of the radio.

I had stopped to take a photo of a road sign pointing to Hanna, Wyoming. My wife's name is Ruth Hanna, a Lebanese last name from her previous marriage. Being her professional name, she kept it. I wondered how it was that a tiny Wyoming town took such a name.

Once in Medicine Bow, I saw that there was a motel that was still open, judging by the lit neon sign, although only two trucks were parked in front. Then, 100 yards into town, I came to my destination: The Virginian. It is an old hotel, named after the novel by Owen Wister, published at the turn of the 20th century and dedicated to Teddy Roosevelt. Much of the story takes place in Medicine Bow. I looked at the hotel. Three stories, cut stone, with new paint and roof – quite a contrast to the other beat-up buildings around it. Behind the stone building was an attached building with modern motel units.

Getting out of the car, the wind almost blew me over. "Wind swept" is an understatement. Across the street, a new museum occupies the former train station, with Owen Wister's cottage immediately next door. (Was it moved there?) The Virginian is clearly the only action in town. The first door was blocked. The second led to a vestibule between the saloon and the restaurant. To keep from getting caught in the wind, the screen door had a strong bungee cord tied to it, causing it to slam with a bang. The five or six people in the dimly lit bar didn't look up at my entry into the vestibule. On the door of the bar is a quotation from the book: "When you call me that, smile." The book was made into a movie, and a TV series.

The dining room has copper tiles on the ceiling, a diner-like counter, one booth, and several formica tables and chrome-legged chairs. I asked about a room. "One person one night?" Yes. "We have one modern unit left, with TV and shower, or a room upstairs, with bath down the hall." "I don't need a TV. Upstairs is fine. How much?" "Twenty-eight dollars." "That'll do." "Go upstairs to the second floor, turn left, second door on the right. Room 3." "I'll get my stuff."

Out at the truck, I saw a vision straight from the movies. A cowboy came out from one of the motel units and walked over to the bar. He had a battered, black, wide-brimmed hat, round at the top. Around his neck was a big kerchief, tied in back. His gray shirt had seen better days. Over his jeans and above his boots were a pair of weathered chaps. His skin was like leather. I couldn't tell if he was Mexican or just very tanned. His hair was straight, shoulder length.

I took my bag up the stairs into a different century. The walls were covered with brocaded wall paper. The stairs and railing were well-preserved oak, probably original. The carpet had a jute-like pattern, which fit right in. Furniture ranged from the 20's to the 60's. All of the doors were open, indicating not many occupants for these rooms. Each room was small, with a high bed, a dresser, a small table, a table lamp with fringed shade,, and a sink. No closet, just a few hooks on the doors. Over them were draped a single white towel and a white wash cloth.

Depositing my items in Room 3, I checked out other rooms. Room 5 had a canopy over the bed. The curtains are all a crocheted-like material, with a heavier curtain over them. The electric switches were still the old push-button kind. Ceiling fixtures were simple tulip-bulb glass with about 40-watt bulbs in them. None of the rooms had a single electrical outlet. There was one added in the hall, with a conduit mounted on the outside of the wall. Probably for vacuuming. I used it to charge my cell phone.

At the end of the hall was the Owen Wister Suite. The door opened into a small hall. To the right was an office room, with heavy red curtains, several red-velvet settees, a coffee table that was out of place. In the far corner was an oak roll-top desk. The door from the office led into one of the bedrooms, and beyond, to the private bath and the second bedroom. The rooms were small and dark, but not musty. As the ceilings are tall, the sprinkler system was installed by running a network of copper pipes visibly, along the ceiling. Somehow, it fits.

At the other end of the hall was a second smaller suite, with a sitting room, bedroom and private bath. Later I learned that the small suite was $48 per night and the large suite, she thought, was $70. Apparently she hadn't rented it recently.

I ate in the dining room. Most of the menu was beef. The halibut steak I ordered was grilled until tough. Terri, the young waitress, impressed me. She was a good worker. She was friendly and efficient. Did she live here? Perhaps she was part of the family that owns the Virginian. They must be the gentry of the town.

A quick walk revealed the whole town, with a post office and library (open Monday 10 – 1 and Wednesday, 1-6). There was a note on the community bulletin board thanking people for coming to the pancake breakfast fund raiser for the new museum. There were a number of mobile homes, some small frame houses, and one or two modern houses, one of brick and quite large. There was a small laundromat, a junk store, a garage, and the previously described businesses (dairy bar, etc.).

To record this experience, I went to my room (with my blueberry pie to go, for my late night snack) and got my laptop computer. I sneaked into the Owen Wister suite and sat at the oak desk. When I pushed the chair back, it fell apart, with the seat almost falling to the floor. Oops. So I moved to the sitting room in the hall, opposite the stairs. The wallpaper gave the period look, but the furnishings were a mish-mash. I sat with the notebook computer in my lap. After a few minutes, two men came up the stairs, looking at the rooms. They continued to the third floor. I didn't look up. On the way down, they stopped at the sitting room. I discovered that it was a young man and the cowboy. Still had his hat on.

He said, "I was just born in the wrong century." I replied, "It's your basic 19th century computer parlor." They looked at me as if I were speaking Greek. So I said, "It feels incongruent to be sitting in this parlor, typing into a computer." Cowboy looked at me for a moment, and then said, "The only use I could see for those things was for a boat anchor." "A boat anchor," I replied, thoughtfully. They turned and walked back down the stairs.

I purchased a paperback copy of The Virginian and read the first 30 pages or so. It turns out that Owen Wister wrote extensively abut the West. Later,on the Internet, I found a book with the exchange of letters between Wister and sculptor Fredrick Remington.

Across the street, trains rumble past every 40 minutes or so. There is no crossing barrier, so the engineer blasts the horn long and loud. I thought it would keep me awake, but I was wrong. Life is not easy here, nor has it ever been. I feel blessed. I guess I won't buy the old gas station and move to Medicine Bow.

In the morning I ate breakfast and headed east on Highway 30. It was only 7:30 a.m. but I found that I was already sleepy. Not one to drive in that condition, I stopped at 8:00 a.m. and pulled off the road. I opened my windows so the wind could blow through, then I lay across the front seat of my truck, using a roll of paper towels for a pillow. I slept for 20 minutes, and lay there, awake, for 15 more. Finally I continued my journey towards my next stop, Denver.

See Denver.