20
A VISIT TO THE GOVERNOR'S MANSION
Mike and Jane Sullivan had been fans of our artwork before he became governor of Wyoming. I told Jane when she extended the invitation that we didn't have appropriate clothes for a formal visit and because of our diet had difficulty eating out. That didn't faze her. This was going to be an informal weekend, no dignitaries, nobody but us.
We arrived at the Governor's Mansion in late afternoon, and after giving our name at the gate, the guard waved us through. They were at the door waiting for us. After a tour of the premises we sat down to dinner with them, their daughter and her new husband. Mike delivered a prayer with just the right amount of humor so as not to offend anybody while we all held hands around the table. The salad had been picked from Jane's garden, sopapillas made by her cook, who had been given the weekend off, and red wine. After dinner Mike couldn't wait to chauffeur us over to the rodeo grounds for Steve to see his cowboy T-shirts being sold in a booth run by the company handling them. The Cheyenne Rodeo was in full swing and it was revealing to walk around with the governor, without his protective detail, and watch how people related to him. "Hi, Mike … Hi, Governor," all very friendly, accustomed to seeing their head man mix with the masses. A drunk cowboy unexpectedly spilled some beer on Jane as he careened by, unapologetic. Jane graciously overlooked it while Mike continued to please the passers by. A little reality thrown in for good measure.
After Mike and Jane retired to their bedroom and Steve to ours, her daughter and I were left in the kitchen talking about our pasts. For the first time I was in the presence of another adoptee, alone, so we could say what we wanted. It was fun sitting on the countertop, late at night, talking about something we both never got to talk about so easily. This might have been part of the reason for Jane's invitation.
Suddenly Jane appeared in the doorway in her nightgown wanting to hear what we were discussing. When she asked if she was intruding, I told her that while it might be more difficult to talk in her presence, adoptive moms needed to know. The fact that I had no information about the circumstances surrounding my own birth surprised her, and she suggested that there might be a way to find out some- thing through political channels. We finally hugged and parted for our respective rooms.
Our bedroom was exquisitely decorated with indigenous items from the state; books by Wyoming authors, rocks and geodes from the surrounding strata, tiny baskets and bowls handcrafted by Native Americans and flowers, both fresh and dried. The linen was silken and soft, the towels and bath mat thick and luxuriant, beautifully embroidered with the Wyoming state seal, and all toiletries to cover our every need. I walked around the room unable to sleep. It was all so remarkable and regal. The curtained full-length windows opened to a well-groomed garden and lawn, treed for privacy, and even though we were in the middle of the city, one experienced a calm, country feeling.
We left after a casual breakfast. As we crossed the middle of the state, so un- like driving I-80, the sun came out over the Platte country. Low buttes and high storm arches sizzled with lightning all the way to the Wind Rivers. We had a lot to
discuss on our way home.
The beginning of September had been overcast for days. It was too late in the season to postpone our trip in the Winds, a new area, the Scab Creek entrance, the second lowest in the range and one of the most strenuous. The sun was shining as we stopped in Pinedale for a trowel and two pounds of Jonathan apples, the first of the season.
It was cool at 11:30 a.m. when Elizabeth and I started up the steep hillside and continued to climb the three laborious miles to Toboggan Lakes. At Little Divide Lake under a few clouds, we lunched on a log, our legs dangling weightlessly. Past Lightning Lakes summer changed to fall and sweatpants replaced our shorts. I've never hiked the Winds in June or September when there wasn't snow.
Just beyond the lakes the mountains came into view and finally the south fork of Boulder Creek where a rough wooden sign pointed to Dream Lake. It had been a long day and I understood why this was not a popular trail.
Elizabeth quickly found a spot and our tent went up before the first raindrops appeared. After dinner and washing up, we collected twigs for a fire and made our way back to the tent in the dark. It was too beautiful to sleep so we built a fire to keep warm, sat on a rock and stared at the peaks. Far across the lake we could see the flicker of another fire through the trees. It was after 10:00 p.m. when the wind picked up and turned cold. After smothering the fire we climbed into our down bags and, through the tent opening, watched the embers glow. While talking, I could hear Elizabeth's even breathing and realized she had fallen asleep. At these times I could see her as a little girl with no cares in the world, no bears in her thoughts, no sisters on her mind. Warm, quiet, comfortable and still, just as I liked it to be.
It was light at 7:00 a.m., the sky, blue, and clouds hung around the peaks. No stiff muscles. Amazing! We explored the Dream Lake environs, walked towards Bonneville Basin but decided we needed a whole day to do it justice and returned to the tent for lunch. With our down jackets and books, we made our way to a narrow sandy beach we had passed on our morning stroll, and read while a beaver floated about. Suddenly a distant sound disturbed the silence. This was sheep-grazing country and there they came, swarming over the far slope with two cowboys alongside.
The soporific sound of sheep droned in the distance while we enjoyed macaroni and cheese under a secure, cerulean sky with a few cloud shadows crossing distant peaks, dissolving and leaving clear blue. We built a fire, the only way to stay outside in the cold, and watched the firmament fill with starry galaxies. A hooting owl during the night came closer until it sounded as if it were right outside the tent and then receded gradually into the distance.
Our third day began with too much oatmeal which we ate anyway. While washing our dishes at the creek we met Sybil from Salt Lake wandering around looking for the trail sign. She had been in the northern Winds for eight weeks and had left her partner two days ago with their tent and most of their food. It was because of his temper, she said. She was happy to meet some women on the trail. The men she met wanted only to pamper her and treat her like a woman. She wanted to hitch a ride to Salt Lake and we told her that she would have the best chance out of Big Sandy.
It was warm with scattered clouds as we passed Sand point Lake and began the four miles to the massive Middle Fork. The moleskin on my heel blisters bothered me so we stopped and as I pulled it off, to my horror, my skin stuck to it. Never having had blisters before on a hike, I gazed at the gaping red holes, thinking about the miles ahead. Elizabeth cut a bagel shape out of thick moleskin and strapped it over the holes with a Band-Aid. It worked.
Clouds were building at our backs as we climbed the 11,200' divide surrounded by Mt. St. Michel, Dragonhead and Pronghorn Peaks. A flash of lightning and my concern became conscious. We changed to warmer clothing and gloves as we descended the narrowing valley among yellow buttercups and purple fleabane, and finally our ponchos under a light rain. Dove-colored clouds hid the hilltops. Elizabeth lowered our wet food bags and we fell into the tent, happy to be off our feet. The rain stopped. We feasted on couscous and lentil-vegetable curry and after washing our dishes by the creek, hung our food, built a fire and sat close, drinking hot peppermint tea. We