Magical Thinking

Bighorn National Park. 

Yesterday, I know for certain, I will remember for the rest of my life. I drove to the mountains with my newfound friend, Jeff, who is a photographer from Ohio. We are both interested in trying to understand the sense of a place or a landscape. While I have grown to love the rolling hills that surround the residency, I feel an undeniable pull toward the mountains in the distance. I am a certified New England autumn snob and couldn't imagine it could be equally beautiful elsewhere in the states. Against the faded yellows and whites of the Wyoming landscape, the yellows and oranges of the birch trees and maples seem equally vibrant as the colors of New England.  Since arriving here, I have been reading a John McPhee book about the geology of this area. Supposedly Wyoming has one of the most diverse arrays of different geological phenomena in the world. This was clearly illustrated as we drove up the winding streets, ascending the mountain range. The terrain and vegetation continuously shifted with surprises around bends in the road. If I remember correctly, some of the rock formations were made 3 billion years ago. I cannot even begin to wrap my head around this number.

Partner in crime, Jeff.

We drove through the mountains, over the pass and descended into a canyon. Jeff told me a story about a Native American man who was serving as a tour guide, maybe in New Mexico ( I might have the place wrong). He would always ask for permission before taking a picture of something, in case it was forbidden to do so. Sometimes the chief would say that something could not be photographed but instead, "this one is for your memories." Yesterday there were countless things I experienced that I couldn't capture through the lens of my camera or with my sketchbook and I had to remind myself, this one is for my memories.

Sense of scale. My car versus rocks.

Lunch spot at Meadowlark Lake, storm clouds forming.

We stopped at Meadowlark Lake where we found a spot on the rocks to eat our lunches, assembled from the spectacular leftovers of dinner from the night before.  Rain clouds were forming over the mountains. We waded into the icy cold water and stood in awe of this magical place. How could this be real? We took countless side roads, one of which led us to a pale green field of grass overlooking the canyon. Some of the rocks were intense hues of reds and pinks. We stumbled upon birch tree forests, countless deer, and black shiny cows blocking the road. As we drove up a windy gravel path, our view opened up to dozens of cows grazing and resting in a parking lot, behind the signs labeled "Parking Spot" and "No Hunting".

My favorite birch tree forests.

The storm.

Parked cows.

The rain lifted and the day ended atop rolling hills dotted with cattle and a rainbow arcing across the sky. When I checked my camera at the end of the day, I had somehow only taken a few photos. I thought I had taken so many more. This trip was for my memories: the clean air, the animals, the variety of rock formations, a long conversation without any pauses, the kind you have when you're excited about forming a new friendship.

End of the day.

Back at Ucross, all of the residents made a camp fire and smores near the artist studios. We intended to play headlamp croquet, but the cold night air kept us close to the fire. We did wander away from the fire once to traipse into the wooded areas and collect the dried out remains of a deer. One by one, people returned to their dorm rooms, and I was left again with Jeff and Luc. The three of us share living quarters and have formed an unlikely trio. I love our conversations and am so grateful for how often they make me think in a different way or laugh until my eyes water and I am doubled over. Jeff leaves in two days and I wonder how the dynamics will change. Will it be like a three legged stool missing  a leg? The evening usually wraps up with the 2/3 of a mile walk through the fields back to where we sleep. Again we were overwhelmed by the stars and the white band of the Milky Way. At this time of year, the Big Dipper sits low in the sky. It looks enormous near the horizon and we agreed that it looked like a lighted sign for a diner.
I am savoring my time here. I already feel rejuvenated and optimistic about things to come. When I was a kid, I thought that the world was a magical place. It has been nice to have moments here that make me think that maybe that 6 year old kid was right.