In June, I undertook a week-long expedition across Wyoming, which I’d never visited. What little I knew of it (as sparsely populated and ranch-filled, with a wonderful national park), I gleaned from pop culture. So when friends invited me to join them in Sheridan, a charming burg in the north-central part of the state, I jumped at the chance. Soon, I was planning a solo road trip west to Cody, then on through Yellowstone and down to Jackson Hole. While my visit to Sheridan was lovely, it was my adventure traveling alone that brought home Wyoming’s truth: that this unbroken land of savage beauty is our country’s most magnificent and should be experienced by all.

 

 

 

 

 

Day One

After bidding my friends farewell, I set off toward Cody. I take Route 14, which climbs through the Bighorn Mountains, rambling through pine forests in lower elevations fog-laden and mysterious, on peaks drenched in snow and sunshine. The sky becomes a deep, clear blue I’ve never before seen, and just when I think this land can’t hold another surprise, the topography changes. Suddenly I’m in a desert, lush from spring rains. Ahead, I glimpse what look like red rock canyons, bringing to mind the Southwest. This is Wyoming?

My disbelief increases after I enter Bighorn National Recreation Area – nps.gov/bica, (307) 548-5406. There, 1,000-foot cliffs tower above a meandering river. Never having been to Arizona, I find it difficult to imagine a canyon grander. Though awe-inspiring, the vista cannot compete with the wild mustangs I spy roaming Pryor Mountain Wild Horse Range, which lies within Bighorn – pryormustangs.org, (307) 548-9453. Strong and stout, with gleaming coats and incurious gazes, they are regal beyond compare. It’s all I can do to tear myself away and continue west, to Cody and the Irma Hotel.

 

Day Two

Built in 1902 by Wild West showman Buffalo Bill Cody, the Irma Hotel still retains its charm, particularly the dining room, which sports not only the famed cherry bar given to Cody by Queen Victoria, but also a mammoth chandelier crafted from antlers, lots of animal trophies and a prime-rib dinner hearty enough to perk up the weariest traveler – irmahotel.com, (800) 745-IRMA. The simple guest rooms are plenty comfy, so I’m well-rested as I head out on the Shoshone River.

My escorts are the good folks of Wyoming River Trips – wyomingrivertrips.com, (800) 586-6661. They offer a number of expeditions; I opt for the three-hour Lower Canyon of the Shoshone. The mild rapids are interspersed leisurely, leaving opportunity to chat with my affable guide, who’s happy to answer questions about the area’s wildlife. Among other facts, I learn Yellowstone is filled with bison, not buffalo, and the latter do not feature humps.

My rafting trip has left me just enough energy to attend the Nite Rodeo, a cherished Cody tradition for 75 years – codystampederodeo.com, (800) 207-0744.  For two hours, I sit munching popcorn as I watch bull riding, steer wrestling, team roping and barrel racing. I groan at the clown’s corny jokes, gasp at the spills the bareback riders take and am grateful that I’ve finally had a chance to attend this, the most quintessentially American of competitions.

 

Day Three

Today I dedicate to the Buffalo Bill Historical Center – bbhc.org/home, (307) 587-4771.  I’d been warned to plan to spend hours touring it, but am still amazed by its size. Five museums in one, the Center boasts the Cody Firearms Museum, a massive collection of guns; the Whitney Gallery, a spectacular Western art exhibit; the Draper Museum of Natural History, devoted to Yellowstone’s diverse flora and fauna; The Plains Indians Museum, a beautifully realized exploration of this country’s original peoples; and the Buffalo Bill Museum, which traces the life and times of the American legend.

I’m most moved by the Whitney Gallery and the Draper Museum, perhaps because I will spend the next day exploring Yellowstone. Seeing stirring portraits of animals I hope to encounter, learning of their habitats and unique habits makes me more anxious to leave behind civilization for the wilds of one of America’s greatest parks.

 

Day Four

I’m up early, arriving at the northeast entrance of Yellowstone National Park around 8 a.m. – nps.gov/yell, (307) 344-7381. Upon entering, I’m rewarded with a sight that brings tears to my incredulous eyes: a mother moose tending her baby. They aren’t far from the road, but I’d have missed them entirely if not for the photographer snapping shots of them. Grinning widely, I continue on, keeping my eyes peeled for animals as I enter the Lamar Valley.

Soon they are before me, some so close I can almost touch them (bison lumbering past my car, an elk trotting alongside the road), some further afield (two coyotes frolicking in a pasture and a black bear munching leaves from a shrub). It’s a veritable parade of beasties, and these feral visions make my spirit soar. Unlike so much in life, Yellowstone lives up to the hype. It’s more magical than I’d dreamed.

So, too, is the view from Spring Creek Ranch, where I’ll bunk my last days in Wyoming. I stand on the deck of my villa, regarding it, wide-eyed, the verdant valley of Jackson Hole spread out below me, the Tetons rising eternal beyond. This is the same vista I encounter over dinner at The Granary, the resort’s exquisite eatery. As I consume steak so tender it might forever spoil me for any other, I realize this landscape could well be the world’s most majestic. I’ve been here just a few hours, but I’ve already fallen in love with Jackson Hole.

 

Day Five

The feeling grows as I drift down the Snake River with Dave Hansen Whitewater and Scenic River Trips – davehansenwhitewater.com, (800) 732-6295. Past my raft sweep the Tetons, the young range of the Rockies that are among the planet’s most photographed mountains. I’d driven through Grand Teton National Park – nps.gov/grte, (307) 739-3300 – on my way to Jackson Hole, and those jagged, snow-drenched peaks took my breath away. They continue to do so, though they now compete with eagles flying overhead and scores of white pelicans perched on small islands.

As we disembark, it begins to rain, but I’m determined not to forgo the latter portion of my paddle to saddle voyage. I head out to the Willow Creek Trailhead, where I meet Bob Barlow, proprietor of Jackson Hole Pack Trips and Trail Rides – fishjacksonwyo.com, (866) 505-7007. He helps me onto my horse, and off we ride into the Bridger-Teton National Forest. Through meadows dotted with silvery sagebrush, we climb into aspen groves and piney woods, the Tetons standing silent guard. When the rain comes harder, Bob suggests we dismount to wait it out under the shelter of evergreens.

In a comfortable drawl, he tells me of his great-granddaddy, who homesteaded near Sheridan. We talk of Bob’s backcountry guide service, and I begin to dream of a trip into the Wyoming wilderness 60 miles from the nearest human. I realize that I am riding with a true American cowboy, of the kind we can only imagine back in the bustling east, and am grateful for the time I get to spend with him.

Eventually, seeing my joy at riding past slopes dotted by elk, under skies graced by red-tailed hawk, Bob asks me if I’d like to cross Willow Creek, swollen with rain. Without hesitation, I agree and we ford it once, then again. The current is strong, but my horse’s steps are sure and I know I’m safe. Finally, after hours, our ride must come to an end. Exhausted, wet and sore, I have just spent one of the best afternoons of my life.

 

Day Six

I awake tinged with sadness. Today is my last in Wyoming, though one final adventure awaits. This morning, I’m going to fly with Jackson Hole Paragliding – jhparagliding.com, (307) 690-8726. It’s something I’ve never before done: jump 3000 feet from a perfectly good mountain, strapped to a pilot, under the canopy of a parachute. The good news is that I’m flying with Scott Harris, one of JHP’s owners and a long-time paragliding enthusiast.

We take a truck up the switchback trail behind Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, the sun shining strong. Scott sits a helmet on my head, tucking me into my harness. The parachute is unfurled behind us. He explains that when the time comes I must stride firmly toward the edge of the drop. The chute will fill with wind and we will soar into the sky. He tells me to take deep breaths. I do, but quiver still with apprehension.

And then we are lifting off and I’m in the air, thousands of feet above the earth. I scream with more joy than fear as Scott guides us over the valley. It’s surprisingly peaceful – at least until he begins turning us in tight spirals. Just when I think I can’t stand it anymore, it stops and we gently land. Scott asks me what I think, and I holler “I want to do it again!”

But I can’t. It’s time for my massage at Solitude Spa, in Teton Mountain Lodge, just steps away from where Scott and I landed – tetonlodge.com, (800) 631-6271. If there’s a more perfect combination than following paragliding with a pampering massage, I don’t know what it is. Under my therapist’s strong, capable hands, the adrenaline fades, slowly replaced with deep relaxation. It’s the ultimate in pleasure, really – moving from exquisite tension to total tranquility.

And I suppose it’s the perfect way to end my time in Wyoming, though as my plane takes flight, I am not soothed. This wild, free place has claimed me like no other. I yearn already to return.

 

by Jill Gleason