Islands in the Prairie
Day 28, June 24, 1988, 8 a.m. Written in the lounge of the FBO at Brees Field, while waiting for Alva Jones to arrive in his 1941 Interstate Cadet to take me to Rock Springs, Wyoming.
From Boulder, Colorado my immediate goal yesterday morning, was to get on the west side of the Rockies, into Utah. If there's one thing I've learned about mountain flying on this trip, it's that there aren't very many old aeroplanes with enough power to get over them in the heat of the summer.
It was my umpteenth phone call of the day to try to find my next ride, hopefully into Utah, the next logical state to check off my list. My almost permanently crossed fingers gripped the receiver on the payphone inside the FBO lobby.
"Fly you to Utah? Can’t do it," the voice of Pat Mosier told me, "Not in my airplane, anyway. But I can take you up north to Wyoming where there's a low spot in the mountains to cross."
“Wonderful!” I said.
Four hours later, after Pat got off work, we were on our way northbound in his twenty-nine year old, Cessna One Fifty, circumnavigating 40,000 foot-high thunderstorms, clearly defined within huge cylinders that stretched from the earth, upward to the top of the sky—something that you don't see in the east. The humid air that surrounds the storms out east never allows for such clearly-defined storms as does the dry air out here in the west.
There was a tall storm cylinder to the northeast about twenty miles away, one due north—maybe fifty miles off, and one to the west—a guess of eighty miles away. Between them you could see two or three hundred miles into the distance. Maybe it wasn't quite that far, I don't know. But anyway, over northern Colorado and southern Wyoming, I saw farther than I've ever seen before in my life!
An hour into the flight, just northeast of the town of Laramie, Wyoming we found a low spot of the Laramie Mountains. Pat’s 100 horsepower Continental engine put-putted us steadily toward the crevice in the ridge. The altimeter showed that we were 8000 feet above sea level. We judged our altitude above the ground through that mountain pass in the ridge to be maybe a hundred or two hundred feet even if it looked like only 25 feet. It was a thrilling sight as we approached and passed over the crevice in the steep, grassy mountain ridge.
Just over it, we could see Laramie ten miles to the southwest, lying there on the flat ground like an island in the vast, desolate sea of prairie land. The visibility was still incredible as we began our descent in towards the town. It was unsettling to be able to see so far in all directions, yet unable to see any other towns or settlements within that vast picture that had just availed itself to us on the west side of that ridge. The reality of the isolation of Laramie was unexpected and somewhat alarming.
The long, newly-paved black and white asphalt runways of Brees Field stood out from the surrounding dust-colored prairie and we noted how far away it was from Laramie, the town it served. The airfield also looked like an island, located about five miles west of the town. There was nothing in between it and the town, and nothing past it on the other side—nothing except the two-lane road that connected the airfield to its town. The road reminded me of the long bridges in the Florida Keys that connect the otherwise isolated islands to one another – only no water here. From above we could see cars and semi trucks heading out of downtown Laramie, past the island airfield and down that road into due west nowhere.
Our landing was at sunset. While tying down the little silver and red One Fifty, we watched beautiful, silent lightning activity from the storm that chased us on the other side of the mountain we'd just crossed. In the opposite direction, the dark red sunset and high white pink and yellow cirrus clouds put on another show. Looking at the worsening weather all around, Pat opted to stay overnight on the ground in Laramie, and head back to Boulder in the morning.
The young line crew guy, whose name was Victor was reading the av-gas pump meters and locking up the airport office doors. We asked him if he’d give us a lift into town and he gladly obliged taking us in his girlfriend’s hot rod. Down the nearly empty two-lane, five-mile drag strip into Laramie, Victor demonstrated the power of 440 cubic inches on foot-wide tires with no sheriffs or deputies in sight. What seemed like 14.68 seconds later, we were downtown and dropped off in front of "The Cowboy Bar and Dancehall."
At 8 p.m., still light out, it was too early for much dance activity, but we could see that "The Cowboy" was a good honky-tonk to return to later. In the meantime, we explored the rest of downtown Laramie and found amongst other great old-style stores, what had to be the best used bookstore anywhere. The deep and narrow, old store was packed full with treasures at bargain prices.
Pat, being a scientific type, became fascinated with a turn-of-the-century engineering manual he found tucked away on a shelf. He paid the man a mere $4 for it and looked for more finds. I found a beautiful, tall Victorian oak cabinet with drawers filled with antiquated maps and charts, but couldn't figure out how I'd fit the cabinet in my luggage, so I had to pass it up. We stayed as long as we could, enjoying the store until the owner said that he'd need to be getting some sleep before the morning, so we took the hint and left.
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