“WYOMING”
A late dispatch from the snake river
It’s midnight in my apartment and I’m a little bit tipsy, swaying over an empty duffel bag and googling ‘can rattlesnake bite through sneakers.’
In a few hours I fly to Jackson Hole, Wyoming and I aim to be prepared. On my way home from the bar, I read an account from a book of cowboy stories that made me nervous. In this story, a woman got caught out by a rattler while nude sunbathing at a swimming hole she’d ridden to alone with her horse. When the snake approached the woman was sprawled out on a blanket, suddenly frozen in place by the telltale sound of the hissing rattle. Luckily, her Colt .45 was laying close by and she was able to slowly reach towards it, inch by inch, and then draw— blasting the snake’s head clean off with a single shot. This was in 1926.
Another story from the book claimed that, at one point, there were so many mosquitos in parts of the valley they would sometimes kill horses. To stave them off, one old ranch hand supposedly developed a ritual involving 2 quarts of whiskey, 24 hours and a friend that would make you completely immune. After he went through with it several people swore to have never seen him bitten again.
Of course, these are just stories. According to the internet there are no rattlesnakes in Jackson Hole, and thanks to a years long mosquito abatement program, conditions are much improved for humans and horses alike. Apparently the valley is modernizing.
What I know for sure is that I’ve been invited to a special event, the one hundredth year anniversary of a small family ranch that used to be big. I know there will be a full moon bonfire for old timers to gather to tell stories and sing old cowboy songs about the Old Days, a tradition going back decades. I know the ranch is beautiful and abuts the Snake River. Mostly, I know it’s way too sticky hot in Brooklyn to turn down an August trip to the Mountain West.
I also know something that few others do; that this year’s bonfire will be the last. The ranch will not make it to one hundred and one. Jackson is changing, and this will be my last chance to glimpse a particular slice of history while it’s still happening.
Sneakers will have to do as I don’t own boots anyway. I pack my book of stories, and long pants to guard against mosquitos, and try to get a few hours of sleep.