My father-in-law’s great aunt used to live here.
Her name was Wyoma.
She was 4′ 7″ or somewhere in there.
She was feisty.
She was NOT politically correct.
She was blunt.
She had stories… oh, my! her stories…
She wrote a book…
I love it because it is “her”.
I think it was written in one continuous sentence, because that is the way she used to talk…
But, me, the person so fond of “…” should not criticize how other people write!
She had an arrowhead collection I coveted and would have loved to have, especially a nice atlatl point made into a necklace… oooh…
People were welcome at her door, even “Bigfoot”, a huge loner known for letting chickens live in his cabin with him…
Nowadays, the boards prevent cows from breaking down her door…
There are stories here…
The ghosts of those stories live in the swaying grass and in the trickle of spring water… in the clouds that dance with their shadows across the hillsides… in the flowers that continue to bloom and fade… in the relics left behind.
In the future, I’ll share a few of her stories…
I would never presume to understand a dog.
I want to.
I read books by educated people and scientists and behaviorists and I try to.
The closest I’ve been is the other day… for a short period of time, at least.
I watched five dogs on the mountain have a tremendous day.
They dug holes and sniffed smells and rolled in a disgusting something-or-other (which smell must mean something totally different to them) and ran and dodged and ducked and drank from a mountain spring and ran and barked and played tag and dug more holes and watched us humans (briefly) and laid down in the sunshine and slept.
They begged tidbits of food from our lunch.
They asked for a stick to be thrown and it was.
They asked for a scratch behind their ears and they received it.
They laid in the shade and slept.
They chased birds and missed.
They cornered rock chucks under an old log cabin and got excited and barked and dug and tried to pull the logs off of the cabin to reach their prey (which, unfortunately for them, ended with their stupid owners forcing them to quit and LEAVE IT!)
Lastly, they loaded in the pickup and rode quietly down the mountain.
I think, right then, as we pulled through the gate, that THAT DAY… THAT DAY full of doggy activities practiced full bore and unleashed and uncollared must have been a day of which DOGGY HEAVEN must be made.
How could it *not* have been bliss?
Shooting stars cover a hillside in the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming.
Spent the day on the mountain fix fencing.
I’ve given you the details before
I enjoy it.
The bird songs.
But, boy, a hot tub would be a wonderful thing to own right now.
A cold margarita would be a nice top to the day as well.
I’m too tired to go make one… and I don’t have fresh limes anyway.
I’ll be lucky if my knuckles and shoulder aren’t hurting even more tomorrow… ah, well…
Nothing Advil won’t cure!
I mentioned my company…
Brandon and Victoria and 5 dogs were it… but the kids beat out the dogs for best photos of the day.
What do you think?
The storms that continue to dampen this section of Wyoming are often accompanied by high winds.
While we are a windy state in some areas, Ten Sleep manages to be quieter than most.
Until the other night.
Boy… when my tire swing is angled at 45 degrees… it is BLOWING.
I heard a crash… not overly loud… and being surrounded by trees… that’s not unusual.
But we found the tree this morning, laid over by my back gate.
It was a dead one we’ve cut to a height of about 10 feet… but the base had rotted and it was tipped over.
So with another storm looming on the horizon this morning… it was delegated to job of the day.
Did I take pictures?
How exciting can it be to chainsaw a tree and repair a fence?
I do want you to know it is *highly tempting* to go take a picture of my new gate, though.
It is the best it’s looked in the 20 years I’ve lived here!
But it is a simple woven wire gate, like hundreds of other wire gates in this world.
So instead, enjoy this…