A mountain explorer traces the footsteps of cowboys and Native Americans, connecting history and landscape as he falls in love with Wyoming’s untamed Wind River Range.
When my lift dropped me on the corner of Pine and Fremont, I knew instinctively that Pinedale was my kind of place. A sleepy cow town on the high plains of Wyoming, it’s so far off the beaten tourist track that it has no bus service and lies further from a railroad than any other town in the lower 48. At first sight, there’s little here to detain the occasional passing traveler making the 178-mile road trip from Rock Springs (the former “hell-hole of the west”) to the fleshpots of Jackson on Highway 191. But – as they say – in these parts, you’ve got all the civilization you need.
Its biggest draw is the mighty Wind River Range – a 110-mile spine of Alpine mountains named after the river that is, in turn, named after the wind that incessantly blows across the vast Wyoming landscape. East of town, the high peaks hang on the horizon like a jagged frieze.
One million acres of designated wilderness; twenty-three ‘thirteeners’ (mountains above 13,000 feet); seven of the ten largest glaciers in the lower 48; more than 100 cirques; and more than 1,300 lakes. Still unencumbered by National Park status and all the infrastructure that goes with that, it remains one of the American West’s unsung natural wonders.
One way to explore the interior is on horseback, cowboy-style, on a multi-day adventure trip run by a horse-packing operation. Less formally, you can rent a pack llama to carry your gear to the heart of the scenery. Following in the footsteps of the fabled mountain men who trapped beavers here in the 19th Century, I opted to shoulder a pack and disappear into the Wind’s wildest recesses on foot to hike the length of the range, south to north.
The scenery was on an even grander scale than I could have imagined. In the Cirque of the Towers, fantastic spires – with exotic names such as Warbonnet, Watch Tower, and Shark’s Nose – formed a semi-circle of rock peaks teetering over Lonesome Lake. Further north, the mile-long wall of Haystack Peak towered over Deep Lake, where sparkling waterslides tumbled over boilerplate slabs into alluring pools.
Further north still, the islands, headlands, and sandy bays of Island Lake gave it the improbable appearance of a Mediterranean coastline. Behind it stretched Titcomb Basin, a great U-shaped trench cradling a ribbon of turquoise lakes enclosed within a horseshoe of ragged peaks.
One evening, I climbed Mount Lester opposite the mouth of the basin. From here, the pinnacled ridges that linked the peaks seemed impossibly fragile. Above the serrated skyline, not a single cloud broke the symmetry of the darkening sky. As the fireball sun waned behind me, I watched spellbound as the landscape transformed. The lakes became black mirrors, their surfaces unrippled by the wind. Lingering rays of light clung to the summits as the shades of night creep silently ever higher up rock faces and across snowfields. Patterns of light and shade dissolved into undifferentiated monochrome.
All was still; all was silent. No bird, no creature, no falling rock, no breath of wind to rustle the scant scrub. It was as though time itself had stopped. I watched spellbound, stunned into stillness as darkness gathered details. Not until the last rays of sunlight finally quit the summits, leaving only a magenta glow in the sky behind me as a testament to its passage, could I tear myself away and hurry down to my tent before the chill of the night took hold.
After two weeks in the wild, I resurfaced in Pinedale, exhausted and bedraggled, and booked into the Pine Creek motel to reacquaint myself with the everyday luxuries of modern life: a soft bed, hot water, artificial light, non-dehydrated food…The neon-lit Wrangler Café, with its homemade bagels and blueberry pie à la mode, was a gastronomic heaven. The Sweet Tooth Saloon was a smörgåsbord of sugary delights.
A small artificially-watered park and a library that boasted a treasure trove of books on the history of the American West were revitalizing haunts, but otherwise, there was nothing much in town to do or see – no tourist traps, no grand architecture, not even any back streets to explore.
That suited me fine. I was more than happy just to kick back, recharge, stroll the rustic boardwalks, gaze longingly at the now-distant Wind River peaks, and dream of simpler times when cowboys roamed the range and mountain men trapped beaver in remote river basins.
Since that first visit, I have felt the pull of Pinedale again and again and still return to reacquaint myself with old haunts, wary in case they fail to live up to gilded memories. I’m never disappointed. There have been changes, of course. The population has doubled – but still barely tops 2,000. There are more motels and more eateries. The Pine Creek has closed down and the edge of town has moved out to encompass a Best Western.
On my second visit, The Wrangler Café was still there, but the Sweet Tooth Saloon was gone. Instead, you could sink into a deep sofa at the Rock Robin and sip a cappuccino to a soundtrack of classic ’60s rock. Now that too has gone, but in its place have risen congenial little cafés like Mountain Mocha and Pine Coffee. The Cowboy Store where I bought a souvenir shirt is still there. And the time-honored Aladdin’s Cave of the Great Outdoor Store continues to be a homing beacon for the Wind River adventurer.
There’s now an Aquatic Centre and a must-see Museum of the Mountain Man, which features prized exhibits such as Jim Bridger’s rifle and a Shoshone sheephorn bow. There’s even a ranger station, which in keeping with the town’s laid-back approach to life closes for what would be its busiest time at the weekend.
There are still no traffic lights in the whole of Sublette County and the bi-annual Green River Drift, the longest-running cattle drive in the country, still closes roads to traffic as cowboys herd their charges to and from pastures. And if you’re lucky enough to arrive in Pinedale at the right time there’s an even more irresistible reminder of the past…
In trapping days, mountain men, Native Americans, traders, and hangers-on would meet once a year at a temporary encampment called Rendezvous, where pelts were traded for liquor and supplies and the living was as wild as you would expect when men (only men) had spent a year in the wilderness.
Rendezvous died out with the beaver trade more than a century and a half ago, but if you go to Pinedale in July, you may think you’ve been transported back in time.
Beside the river are pitched a couple of dozen tipis, expertly constructed from tapering lodgepole pine cocooned with taut canvas. A banner says “Welcome to Rendezvous.” Tacos fry on a makeshift wood fire. Traders in fur and buckskin sit around chewing the fat and selling Native American artifacts, paintings, and trinkets made from various parts of buffalo. There are shooting and axe-throwing contests. Young girls in buckskin dresses run around joyfully. No one seems to mind whether you purchase anything or not.
After sundown everyone sits around a huge log fire, watching the flames and swapping tales. Some play banjo or sing as the mood takes them. It’s a re-creation of a fabled era of the Wild West and to be here with like-minded enthusiasts is enough. Perhaps they have indeed recaptured the essence of a way of life that has been lost since the days of the mountain men.
The day after Rendezvous, I shouldered my pack once more, walked to the ‘Come again, pardner‘ sign on the edge of town, and caught a lift on the back of a pick-up. There was something indescribably romantic about speeding along the two-lane blacktop with the wind in my hair, the asphalt reeling out behind, and the sawtooth Wind River skyline receding into the distance.
