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Wild Horse Country
Gateway to the Grand Canyon

Having spent our first winter in our new dollhouse on wheels, it had passed the “acid test” by keeping us warm through brutally cold blasts of  the wind storms that seemed endless. The blizzard of ‘49 was actually a series of storms that came in succession that gave no respite or recovery for weeks. The military, 5th Army, eventually brought the resources that broke open the roads, or at least trails, to isolated farms, helped to dig out the trains, and the U.S. Air Force flew hay-lifts with drops to stranded cattle and later, to herds of wildlife, saving many, but still, millions, yes millions, were threatened and thousands died, either through starvation, or freezing where they stood. The airlift effort included flying milk and medicine to communities that could be supplied no other way. We are told to look for the bright side of situations, but I can see none, except for the number of those who faced such danger and hardship and survived. Though trivial to the extreme, at least our furnace was kept hot enough for long enough that it thoroughly lost its new paint smell.

There was still a portion of the school year left when we were relocated to Green River, so it would be here that I would complete the third grade. And the prospects of remaining  here through the summer and starting the fourth grade in the fall looked pretty good. That would please me very much because I was fascinated with the place. I valued the prominent position the town held in the history of the development of the West, and the aura of that era that seemed to remain. What a fitting factor in my own journey through my childhood and the stage of growth I was entering! There was something of a feeling, an essence that I couldn’t describe, but definitely could experience; it was like an endorphin, and I liked it, the well-being and confidence that accompanied it. And there was the appreciation that it gave me for the things that had gone on before my time in this setting. It is this essence that still accompanies the vignettes that move through my mind, sometimes a flash, sometimes a flow, when triggered by the slightest thing: the biting sting in the nostrils from the breeze off of a melting snow bank, for instance, or sights, innumerable scenes, scents, sometimes a song, and assorted situations, catalogued in some obscure corner of my memory. With or without explanation, the simple truth is, my spirit got a lift from living in Wyoming!
 
For the sake of expediency, Dad found a space for our home in a trailer court along Highway 30, and got us hooked up and settled-in to un-pack, to complete the re-arranging and housekeeping, so he could look for an office and pursue fulfilling the needs of the company, the sooner to get the crew into the field. When the time-sheets would go in to Tulsa, they would need to show some production as well as the road-time for the move. 

Adding to the local color, the Lincoln Highway was the first transcontinental highway for automobiles across the United States, coast-to-coast from Times Square in New York City to Lincoln Park in San Francisco. You could say the era of “motorist tourism” had begun. US Hwy 30 is also a coast-to-coast highway, the western end in Astoria, Oregon, the eastern end is in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and in many locations, the alignment of the two famous roads are concurrent. Straddling one of these locations is where a small settlement, originally called “Adobe Town”, or “Old Town”, began with a stage station and which eventually, by incorporating in 1868, became the city of Green River, Wyoming.

Through seasons of boom and bust it continued to fulfill its destiny as a strategic and vital point along the nation’s migration, information, and commercial lifeline. Early steam locomotives would need a reliable supply of water and the town is located on its namesake river. Advantageous, as well, is its  location on  natural, and ancient, routes of migration  such as the Cherokee Trail, the Overland Trail, the transcontinental telegraph route, the transcontinental railroad, the Lincoln Highway and, in due time, the early day transcontinental airmail route, as well as numerous petroleum pipelines. Although the town began with the stage station and overland migration traffic, it was the Union Pacific Railroad that determined the town’s history. The U.P. originally planned to build a switching station including a railroad yard and roundhouse at the town site, but chose instead to establish the switching point 13 miles west in Bryan, Wyoming, near the Black’s Fork of the Green River. The U.P. decided against building the switching yard on land it did not own. The town’s population followed the “end of tracks”, and Green River began declining.

In 1872, drought dried up the Black’s Fork River, making the Bryan location unsuitable as a switching station. An agreement needed to be reached about using parts of the Green River town-site for the railroad facilities, and when this happened, the roundhouse was moved to its new home. Commerce, and life, returned to the abandoned buildings, railroad operations increased, eventually making the Green River rail yard one of the busiest in the nation. Construction flourished, and Green River became a U.P. town. It was still a U.P. 
town in 1949.

For newcomers to the area, or tourists just passing through, it is a photographer’s bonanza. The north side of town is bordered by the cliffs and pinnacles of White Mountain, which showcases a series of  castle-like out-cropping, adding to the white bluffs, yellow, gold, cinnamon, and rust colors, and some drama and bright accents to the city's scenery. The 6,100 foot elevation gives the clear sky the deepest shade of blue; I would say azure, others might say Persian, and some would say the color is unnatural; the frame is under-exposed, but by any name, the color is genuine! The river is lined by willow and cottonwood trees and  lush green vegetation, but beyond its flow, the surrounding desert is sparsely covered in sagebrush, grasses, and the occasional pinkish primrose.

The town became a gateway through the Grand Canyon when Major John Wesley Powell chose its river banks as a starting point for his boats and began his famous explorations of the Colorado River from “Adobe Town” in 1869 and again in 1871, though, “Old Town”, the other popular name for the community, was virtually deserted when Major Powell launched his boats into the Green River there at the start of his expeditions. Powell, at the Battle of Shiloh, lost most of his right arm. By the end of the war he was made a brevet lieutenant colonel, but preferred to use the title of "Major". He and his crew  explored the Green and Colorado rivers and the Grand Canyon, mapping the course on the second trip. Another accomplished river-runner, Norman Neville, who was likely the most skilled boatman to ever make the trip, and he did it seven times, launched an expedition from the city park on the river, in the summer of 1949. On this occasion, a monument to Powell was dedicated before Neville launched his expedition, with speeches by the governor, and other Wyoming and Utah dignitaries. There was a large turnout to see them off, and true to form, Dad made a lot of pictures, mostly color slides. Unfortunately, it would be Neville’s last expedition, as the engine on his plane coughed and quit on takeoff from his home strip, and he and his wife both died instantly in the crash, on September 19th  of that year. We were shocked and saddened greatly at the news of his death.

Dad negotiated a deal with a service station to fuel and  maintain the company trucks, and since the family-run business had a motel adjacent to it, he rented his office space from them. The family was so friendly, and the arrangement so amicable, he wound up with permission to park our trailer under a huge willow tree on a side street to nowhere that paralleled one wing of the motel, and within just a few strides from the door of Dad’s office. Mom could just about toss a pebble to call him home for lunch. The Logan’s proved to be good friends, neighbors, and landlords while we were there. Their teenaged, but “grown” sons worked with their dad in the operation of the station; an older daughter worked with her mom and the housekeeping and laundry crew. Since school had ended for the summer, a daughter my brother’s age was also pitching in. The youngest member of the family, a five year old, was usually in the middle of everything with her “shadow, playmate, and guardian / protector”, Buff, the Lassie look-alike. If you wanted to be Cathy’s friend, you first had to win the heart and favor of that big, Roman-nosed Collie!

Buff was very fluent in English as his second language. Mr. Logan enjoyed staging demonstrations of Buff’s ability as a guard-dog. Dad and I were enjoying a coke-break in the station with the three Logan men when one of these demonstrations took place. The Logan property was part of a block-wide strip several blocks long that lay between Highway 30 on the north and the U.P. switchyard on the south, with no street on the south, just an alley-way. The Logan trash bins were in that alley, and often contained empty one-gallon bleach bottles, due to the volume of laundry processed by the motel. These jugs were prized by the hoboes who converted them into water bottles, because in this arid climate, if you were going to “hop” a freight, you had better bring your water with you. These persons were usually nothing more than a nuisance, but you never knew, so Buff’s job description included putting them to flight. Buff was on the floor with Cathy by his side, affectionately straightening his ears and patting his head. Mr. Logan, in an even tone without raising his voice said, “Buff, I think I saw a “tramp” go around the corner”. The dog was immediately on his feet and streaking out the door of the station, rounding the corner, and was just a blur past the plate glass windows on the east side of the building. After a while he came back and with hardly a glance at his audience, took his place beside his little mistress.

One of the motel housekeeping staff was our “rodeo connection”. Her husband had a big white horse that he rode the few blocks east to the edge of town to a practice arena where the cowboys would be perfecting their roping, bucking-horse riding, bulldogging, and corral-fence sitting’ and cigarette rolling’. He would check in with his wife, and if I watched really closely I could tell when his conversation with her was drawing to a close. I would meander over, adjacent to his route toward the hill, and as he passed by, he would ask if I wanted to go along. He would help me up and for a while, I would be a cowboy on a big white horse! They had two sons, cowboys, that were of the “grown” teenager variety, and they spent their spare time catching wild horses. She would often visit with my mom on her break periods and they got to be friends. She told us where we could drive to an area to view and get pictures of the horses in their natural domain. To me, at that age, the West doesn’t get more exciting than that.