My brother and I were raised in Peoria, Illinois, but now we both live as far from there as we could manage. I call New York City my home, and my brother Greg and his wife Beau have settled in Clark, Wyoming, a small town north of Cody that can’t be found on most maps. The running joke in my family is when my parents muse, in relation to their children moving so far away from them, “Was it something we said?” I keep assuring them it was nothing they said, but something they did – they raised us in Peoria, a place we enjoyed as kids but shunned as adults. And although we go home to P-town for Christmas and other holidays, we do our best to encourage our parents to visit us, which they actually sometimes do. This week it was my bother’s turn to play host, so my parents and I headed to Wyoming to try country living on for size.
Make no mistake, Wyoming is absolutely gorgeous. It’s not difficult even for a big city dweller like me to understand why people flock to the rolling mountains of the greater Clark area. Every mile we drove in Dad’s SUV yielded a different view – gray hills like elephant toes, pine-green carpeted mountains, sagebrush-dappled flatlands, and glistening lakes awaited us with each turn. On our second day we traveled to Yellowstone National Park and quietly observed the local wildlife – and I’m not talking about the leathery, gun-totin’ cowboys neitha’. Elk, deer, buffalo, an osprey and a gray wolf were among the creatures we shared space with that day. We also visited hot springs, several waterfalls, a petrified tree, and saw rainbows in the Grand Canyon of the park. Each scene was more breathtaking than the next, and thoughts of leaving the smog-choked city for the clean mountain air seriously crossed my mind.
By day three, however, I had begun to think a little differently. Greg and Beau live miles away from civilization on a winding dirt road in the hills. The nearest town is Cody, one of the only “cities” we encountered in our travels in which the population was greater than the elevation (and not by much either – 8000 people; 7000 feet.) It’s a small miracle my bother has electricity, running water, and satellite television. Every morning and evening they embark on their “chores” (and yes, they really do call them that) – primarily keeping their five horses, five cats, two dogs, and two birds fed. In addition to feeding the quadrupeds there’s always a fence to mend, a pesky skunk to chase, a saddle to return to a neighbor ten miles away, or dirt-infused laundry to wash. Although they do not work on the land, the simple act of living is work. I really felt like I was living in that song Home on the Range, where the deer and the antelope play, at least until one of my brother's dogs tears after them, at which point they run away.
With the nearest neighbor a couple of miles down the road, one would assume that life in Clark, Wyoming carries with it the same blessed anonymity that one finds in the Big Apple. Think again. Isolated does not necessarily mean private – not only did my brother know all his neighbors, but he also knew what they paid for their houses, whether or not their children were home-schooled, and how old they were when they first rode a horse. Every time we passed a vehicle (read: big ass truck) on the road, my brother would give the nod, like the one school bus drivers or Harley riders give to each other when they pass a kindred spirit in oncoming traffic. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him too. I don't know what the person in the apartment next to me looks like, but Greg recognized someone in Yellowstone – a Wyoming neighbor who was up there bear hunting. People, this park is MILES across and MILES deep and touches three states - and my brother knew someone there. It was mind-blowing.
Life is beautiful in hinterlands of Wyoming, but it can also have its downsides. Other than the Billings Gazette, the townspeople don’t have much by means of newspapers, and the best place to buy groceries is, much to my disgust, a hulking WalMart the size of Madison Square Garden just outside of Cody. In a town where the points of interest appear to be the Wild Bill Museum, the Foundation for North American Sheep, and a rodeo, the WalMart is a glaring blemish on this otherwise quaint old western town. But Greg and Beau love it, and purchase everything from vegetables to blue jeans there. (Beau said the best thing about living in Clark is that no one cares if you buy your clothes at WalMart because everyone else does too.)
By day four I’d been to WalMart three times, had spent countless hours in Dad’s SUV, had eaten one too many shitty meals in town (in a land where many people kill their dinner, there’s not much culinary selection for the vegetarian), and had listened to more country music than they probably play in hell. Right around the time my father set off to buy Greg a birthday gun, Wyoming had lost its charm. I considered moving up my departing flight but realized my family would take that rather personally, which is not how it was meant. So I sucked it up and chilled with the furballs back at the ranch, caught some televised news, and enjoyed my final hours in the land of big sky. Wyoming was great, but not for everyone – sort of like New York City. Somehow my brother and I have embraced two different extremes, but we both clearly adhere to the life philosophy “if you’re gonna do it, do it right.” No suburban or middle of the road livin’ for us. It’s urban sprawl or home schooling, but nothing in between will do. Greg rides a horse to pick up his mail, I ride a subway with thousands of other people to get to work every day. As much as we love our lifestyles, we can still appreciate what each other's world has to offer. Neither of us live anywhere near a strip mall or an Olive Garden, and we like it that way. And we both have a great place to visit when vacation time rolls around.
