GREEN RIVER, WYOMING

When people go to Wyoming, they go to the upper NW corner of the state: Yellowstone Nation Park, the Tetons, Jackson Hole, and Cody. A much smaller percentage may check out Cheyenne's Frontier Days, Devils Tower, or hunt Elk and Moose in the Big Horn Mountains outside of Sheridan--but no one goes to the lower SW corner. The main Interstate passes through, and so do the trucks--fueled up in Cheyenne, they push at 75 miles an hour to make time across a barren, alkali wasteland of bluffs, and arroyos, and oil fields.

There was a mining boom here once, and a railroad, and the historic markers note different camps of Chinese laborers who were masacured. It is a rugged and haunted past of vigilante justice, racism, and greed. The towns have almost dried up and tumbled off these wind-swept hills. There are bars for the oil men to spend their paychecks.

I know this because one summer I was hired to update the GO USA! series of travel books. I was fresh out of college, and lowest on the pecking order, so while the senior staff got all-expense trips to Hawaii, California, New York, I was stuck driving the open ranges of Wyoming, updating listings for tumbleweed motels and highway diners. SW Wyoming was my least favorite corner of the state, until I turned down a two-lane road off the interstate and drove south. The small road wound its way through the red hills for miles. As I neared the Utah border, the road began climbing into a mountain range. The sage turned to ponderosa pine. The bare red dirt became grass. I drove at least 20 miles into the mountains, climbing the twisting road, and then dropping to an open valley, with a river running through. After climbing out of the red desert, into this lush green valley, it was one of the prettiest sights I'd seen in the West.

The state park department had paved a parking lot, and built a boat ramp and rest room facility, as if expecting 100s of RV campers, tourists, fishermen, and river rafters. But that day, the middle of the summer season, I had the entire valley to myself. I was at least 50 miles from the interstate. It was just me and a warm sun, a slight breeze off the water, and nice shade under the cottonwood trees. It was past noon and the sun was high above. It was, I decided, a good time for a dip.

So I stripped and set my clothes on a park department picnic table. I waded into the cool, green water, and then dove. It was delicious.

Afterwards, as I sun-dried, I strolled over to a historic marker. (I always read ever marker because they provided instant material for the travel guide.) I was surprised. Unlike al the the others, this plaque did not speak of racial violence, or a great flood, or fire. Rather, it commemorated the first river expedition of this head waters. It wasn't Lewis & Clark, or some grizzly mountain man. It was three couples from France. It seemed so out of place--but then, I was so out of place...such a remote pocket where the vast mountains of northern Utah rise up from the high desert. I had found this place by chance. Had this first group?

They had packed their boats for an adventure, and navigated down river, headwaters to confluence, and south, until they reached the mighty Colorado. They were the first to white water this section of river, and for that the park department left a sign.

Standing naked, warming the river drops on my skin, I thought of this group. I pictured them all young, lean from outdoor activities, tanned, and smiling.

We all get youth once. I felt humbled that they had made theirs so full. Even if their legacy was now only an interpretive sign, in my mind it was the essence of an adventure with friends. I felt happy for them, and fortunate to be at the same place where they may have launched their boats.

The trip took them three months. I could only imagine setting off like that. I looked wistfully downriver as the the green water slide silently south, into deep mountains and eventually down narrow canyons. I tried to picture the group as they posed for a photo to commemorate the beginning of things. Then I turned back to my car where miles away semi-trucks barreled along the interstate.