City of Rocks.

In south-central Idaho, not far from the borders of what are now Utah and Nevada, is a monumental place called City of Rocks. Nowadays, it is a National Reserve overseen by the National Park Service and the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation. In times past, it was a landmark through which most California-bound travelers passed after leaving the trail along the Snake River to reach the Humboldt River.

Photographs do not do it justice, as they fail to capture the scale of the rocks that give the place its name. Suffice it to say they are—to use the word in its proper sense—awesome.

We have visited City of Rocks before, but this time we traveled the Backcountry Byway from Oakley, Idaho to enter from the less-traveled west side of the park. It amounted to driving forty miles of bad road (fourteen, really, but it seemed longer) to get there, but it was worth the trip.

Despite other sightseers and several rock climbers scaling the monoliths, City of Rocks is so quiet and isolated and so little changed from days gone by that one can still imagine the wonderment of the Shoshoni and Bannock Indians who frequented the area, and the emigrants who scratched their names in the granite.

 

Where I’ve been—out with the Pony Express.

Not long ago I wrote here of a desire to visit the Pony Express Station sites in Utah’s west desert. That’s one I can check off the list.

With the able guidance and expertise of Patrick Hearty, former president of the National Pony Express Association as well as the Utah Division, Utah Division Historian, and the author, with photography by Dr. Joseph Hatch, of The Pony Express Stations of Utah and The Pony Express in Utah, we drove the trail and stopped at all the Pony stations out to the Nevada border. The road was laid out by army engineer James H. Simpson, and served the Jackass Mail, the Overland Stage, freighters, the US Army, and emigrants as well as the Pony Express.

The desert out there is still an empty place, with few—most of the way, no—residents outside of wild horses and antelope for a hundred miles. But the isolation is beautiful in its way, with blue sky and mountains and plains that stretch as far as the eye can see and beyond. The view is not much changed from what the Pony riders saw as they raced through there in 1860 and 1861. All the stations are marked, some with interpretive information. Some still show ruins and fainter traces from the stations that once stood. The photograph above shows the station site at Simpson’s Springs, where you’ll find a monument erected by the Civilian Conservation Corps and a replica of a station building erected years ago by FFA students, as well as interpretive information posted by the Utah Division of the National Pony Express Association.

The original Willow Springs Station building still stands—barely—at the Willow Springs Ranch in Callao, and houses a number of artifacts and collections from the history of the Pony Express as well as local history. Besides a tour, the owners of the ranch offered help and assistance of another kind—but that’s a story for another day.

Where I’m Going—Part 6.

On more than one occasion, going way back to my youth, I have spent time in Cody, Wyoming. But, as with many intriguing places, it has not been enough. So, one of these days, I am going back.

The Buffalo Bill Center of the West is reason enough for a lengthy stay. The Center includes five fine museums—one dedicated to Buffalo Bill, one to Western art, one to firearms, one to Plains Indians, and one to natural history. Each is worthy of hours, days, even, of browsing. And learning. For deeper learning, there are the collections at the McCracken Library. And, tucked away at the Center, is the Western Writers Hall of Fame where several people of my acquaintance, including some I count as friends, are enshrined.

You can also see Old West artifacts at Old Trail Town, join the tourists every night at the rodeo, and visit Bill Cody’s historic Irma Hotel. And there are other attractions in town and in the neighborhood.

Like many of the West’s finest places, Cody caters to the tourism trade, so some of what’s on offer is contrived and romanticized and does not appeal to me. Still, there’s enough of the real West, old and new, to make Cody worth another visit. Or two. Or more. 

 

Where I’ve been.

For the past couple of weeks, I have been traveling. I will not bore you with the hundreds of vacation photos I took except the one above.

That’s my bootprint in the sand at Acadia National Park on the coast of Maine, very near the easternmost point of the continental United States—and a long, long way from way out West where I typically hang my hat. The exact place I trod upon and took the picture is called Sand Beach. It is the only naturally occurring sand beach on the eastern seaboard north of Virginia Beach, some 800 miles—and heaven knows how many miles of coastline—away.

Been there. Done that. Didn’t get the t-shirt.

Where I’m going, Part 5.

 

    Over the years I have been to Fort Worth, Texas, a few times. But not enough. Other than a two-day stay for the big rodeo there, my forays into Fort Worth have been a couple of hours here and there while in the area on other business.
    And my last visit, whenever it was, was a long time ago. So I’m ready to go back.
    Fort Worth is a big city. But it’s a city—unlike many others I could name—that has never tried to outgrow its past as a cowtown. It takes pride in its past, and much of what I want to see and do there celebrates that past and Western heritage in general.
    I saw a lot of great Charlie Russell paintings at the Sid Richardson Museum and will make a return visit. Then there’s the Amon Carter Museum I have heard good things about. And the National Cowgirl Museum and Texas Cowboy Hall of Fame.
    And, of course, the Fort Worth Stockyards and all its attractions—even though it’s a bit touristy for my taste.
    There might even be time to find something good to eat.

 

Where I’m going, Part Four.

   

 Way out in the far northeastern corners of Utah and northwestern Colorado, just south of the Wyoming border, a lonely valley stretches along the Green River: Brown’s Park, or Brown’s Hole if you prefer. Nowadays, it is a far piece from anywhere and not all that easy to get to. But it was a well-traveled place in the Old West.
    For time out of mind, it was frequented by the Shoshoni, Ute, and Comanche. Blackfoot, Arapaho, Cheyenne, Lakota, and Navajo also visited. Fur trappers set up shop there in the 1830s, and Fort Davy Crockett opened up to supply and defend them in 1837. Ranchers followed the mountain men, wintering cattle there as well as establishing ranches.
    One of those ranches spawned Ann and Josie Bassett, who collaborated with cattle rustlers, horse thieves, robbers, and other bandits who made Brown’s Hole an outpost on the Outlaw Trail that ran from Robber’s Roost to the south and Hole in the Wall to the north. Among the most renowned outlaws who hid out there were Butch Cassidy and his Wild Bunch and, later, the fugitive Tom Horn.
    Despite an enduring desire to go there, I have yet to set foot in Brown’s Park. One of these days…

Where I’m going, Part Three.

    

    For several years now I have wanted to visit Las Vegas.
    Not that one.
    I have been to Nevada’s Sin City more times than I care to remember, and only revisit when there’s a reason—say a rodeo, or a conference, or, in the past, family. The city’s main attractions hold no attraction for me.
    I’m talking about the other Las Vegas.
    Las Vegas, New Mexico, is of interest to me for its historic importance. It was a waystation on the Santa Fe Trail, for example, and played a role in the Mexican-American War and the Taos Revolt. And over time it has hosted Indians, Spanish colonists, cowboys, outlaws, lawmen, railroaders, and other pivotal figures in the history of the West.
    Later, movie and TV folks showed up, and still do from time to time.
    I once got within about 100 miles of the place when approaching from the north, but took a left turn for Amarillo. I once got within 50 miles when approaching from the south, but took a left turn for Albuquerque. When visiting Glorieta Pass while doing Civil War research I came within 40 miles, but u-turned for an engagement back in Santa Fe.
    One of these days, I will make Las Vegas my destination, and I will see the sights on both sides of the Gallinas River.
    And the city lights, such as they are.

Where I’ve been.

 
    A while back, most of our family stole away for a week in a cabin in the woods. I took my computer along, and used some of the time to finish up a novel, but that was out of the way in a couple of days and it went back in the bag.
    With no internet service, I did not check my e-mail for more than a week. As near as I can tell, nobody missed me. Cell phone service was spotty, but since I am one of the last men standing without one of the infernal machines, I hardly noticed.
    We visited a few Old West historic sites, and did some sightseeing. And we did a lot of sitting around, which was nice. A bull moose stopped by one day and hung out in the back yard for a couple of hours. The black bear who visited another evening chose not to stay.
    It was good to get away. Most of the plans we’d made for the year got canceled for safety’s sake, so it was nice to find a safe place to spend a different kind of time together—and alone.

Where I’m going, Part Two.

    As is the case with many places I want to go, I have almost been to Chaco Canyon in New Mexico.

    We have driven Highway 550 through northern New Mexico, which passes to the east of Chaco Canyon. Likewise, we have been to Shiprock and other points to the north. And we have been (and will go again) to Canyon de Chelly, which lies to the west, in Arizona.

    But, despite wanting to, the time has never been right to venture out into the New Mexico desert to visit one of the most remarkable places anywhere. Over a period of some 150 years or more, Ancestral Puebloans built up numerous complex structures from sandstone blocks and timber. Some of the buildings contained hundreds of rooms, and were not equaled in size or scale on this continent for centuries. Many of the structures in Chaco Canyon were built in alignment with solstices and equinoxes and other orientations of the sun and moon, as well as with distant landmarks.

    Historians and archaeologists believe lengthy drought and, perhaps, warfare, led to the abandonment of Chaco Canyon. But no matter why they left, the people of Chaco Canyon left behind a place like no other.

    I would love to see it.

    And I will.

 

Where I’m going, Part One.

A few days ago while watching a movie I heard a snippet of “Never Been to Spain” by Three Dog Night. It was written by the late, great, Hoyt Axton and was a big hit back around 1971.

The song, as they sometimes will, got stuck in my head. And it set me to thinking about all the places I’d like to go but have yet to see.

As the song says, I’ve never been to Spain. And although I would not object to seeing Barcelona play at Camp Nou, a trip there isn’t really on my list. The fact is, most of the places I long to visit are much closer to home.

For example, there’s Death Valley.

I have visited places north, south, east, and west of there, but have never seen Death Valley. I fully intend to go there one day. Judging from photographs and reading, it’s a stark, harsh, barren place. Some people don’t appreciate such beauty, but I have come to. One can never imagine that dirt and rocks come in so many colors until you see the deserts of the American West.

And, to imagine the suffering and hardships—and the joy—experienced by the Indians, the explorers, and the travelers who visited there in days gone by is inspiring. Especially when you realize they looked upon the same scenery you see today, and it is relatively unchanged.

Death Valley, here I come.

One of these days.

            

Where have you been?

My travels of late can’t begin to match country singer Hank Snow’s list of stopovers in the classic 1962 hit, “I’ve Been Everywhere.”

Still, I haven’t been sitting still.

In late September I spent an enjoyable couple of days spouting off about creative nonfiction, poetry, historical fiction, and Western writing at the Idaho Writers League annual conference. I have presented at several IWL conferences over the years, and it’s always a pleasure. LaDean Messenger, president of the Pocatello chapter, ramrodded the event and made it a success, just as she has in years past when it’s been Pocatello’s turn.

In early October, I made my way across the Salt Lake Valley (not always easy) to the Salt Lake Community College main campus for the two-day League of Utah Writers annual conference. Not quite as intimate as the Idaho event (with more than 400 attendees), but I still enjoyed speaking to aspiring and accomplished writers on improving prose by employing poetic techniques, writing opening lines that grab readers, and writing poetry.

The following weekend found me 100 or so miles from home at the west campus of Snow College in Ephraim, Utah, for the Write Here in Ephraim conference. Another enjoyable event, where I got to hang out with writers and teach a workshop on using humor in fiction as well as one based on the popular “Lies They Tell Writers” posts that appear here from time to time.

I haven’t been everywhere, but that’s some of the places I’ve been lately. Like my old Daddy always used to say sometimes, “Everybody’s got to be someplace, so you might as well be somewhere.”

And here I am.

Road trips.

If I were to wake up tomorrow and discover I had become wealthy overnight there’s not much I would change about my life.

Except one thing. I would travel. A lot.

There are many, many places around the American West I have yet to see but would like to. There are Civil War sites in the Southeast. Things in New England I’ve missed out on. I’d like to go back to England sometime, and Australia beckons, but other than that I would be content to stay within the States—mostly those Out West—save an occasional foray into Canada and Mexico in pursuit of history.

Most of my travel would be behind the wheel of a car. I like road trips. My wife tolerates them. She has what she calls “carcolepsy”—a condition that puts her to sleep when a car exceeds 40 miles an hour. She doesn’t think she misses much. Me, I like most everything I see through the windshield.

Way back when, there was a short-lived television show I liked called Then Came Bronson. It starred actor, songwriter, and singer Michael Parks as he rode around at random on a motorcycle. I still hear the theme song he wrote for the show in my head. The first two lines, in particular:

Going down that long lonesome highway

Bound for the mountains and the plains

Riding the Range with Rawhide Robinson.

Soon we’ll be setting out for the Llano Estacado and an adventure with Rawhide Robinson. As announced earlier, the novel in which he stars, Rawhide Robinson Rides the Range, is the winner of this year’s Spur Award for Best Western Juvenile Novel from Western Writers of America.

We’ll leave the Wasatch Front, cross paths with the trail Dominguez and Escalante blazed as well as the Old Spanish Trail, head east through the Colorado Rockies past Doc Holliday’s grave, travel south beyond Pikes Peak to connect with the Santa Fe Trail over Raton Pass, then southeast to the XIT Ranch and Dalhart, Texas, on to Amarillo and the Frying Pan Ranch, south past Charlie Goodnight’s Palo Duro Canyon, then on to Lubbock and the annual WWA convention.

It’s a Wild West journey Rawhide Robinson himself would be proud of. But I doubt we’ll experience the kind of extraordinary adventures he did. You are invited—encouraged, even—to ride along with Rawhide Robinson as you read about his escapades in the award-winning novel, suitable for grown-ups and young adults alike. You can get it through online booksellers and it’s available through your local bookstore.