I would like to put this story in the category "Only in Wyoming," but that's probably not the case. However, it's pretty close to the truth.
Yesterday Wes and I planned to go to his work barbecue out at Pathfinder Reservoir (about 40 miles from Casper). Some of the people had been there since Friday night and all day Saturday. We wait until 4 for Wes's friend and co-worker Frank* to get off work at his other job. We leave town together a little before 5.
Wes has a hand-drawn map from his boss showing how to get to the place. It's on the other side of the reservoir, where we haven't been before. It looks pretty simple. As we're driving, it seems like a lot farther than we expected to the turnoff. We finally get there (Buzzard Road—should be a clue, right?) and drive about 10 miles on a gravel road. Not bad, just a little washboard and several cattle guards. We're listening to good music (Talking Heads, Ray Charles, Dire Straits) and being silly. We're looking for the orange ribbon that the boss used to mark the turnoff.
About 10 minutes after we think we've gone too far, we finally see the ribbon. It's pink, not orange. We debate this for a moment. We turn off into a dirt two-track with sagebrush and weeds down the center. I'm driving my Subaru, since we figured it would be a gravel road, like the other roads we've taken to other parts of the reservoir. It's pretty bumpy and I take to driving with one wheel in the middle, one on a track, so the underside of the car doesn't get too banged up. There's mud in places, too, but my car does fine in mud. We drive. We drive. We finally see water, and then we turn away from it. At some point Wes and Frank get beers from the cooler.
We come across another co-worker on his way out. He's driving a small Honda and we wonder how he got it in there. Wes says, "Just keep driving. I'll wave." They don't like this guy, Jim*, because he's kind of dumb, talks about inane things and is generally irritating. He's wearing a silly hat and a big smile. He swerves off the road into the sagebrush and waves as we go by. We drive some more. It's now been almost two hours since we left town. We thought we'd be there in less than an hour.
We continue listening to music and ranting about how far it is, and how bad the road is, but we're still in good spirits. I tell Wes I hate his boss. He says I can punch him in the stomach when we get there. After a while, we come across some other co-workers. There are four or five 20-somethings, guys and girls, in a big SUV. The driver is shirtless and chatty. He tells us, "Pretty soon up here, it gets shitty." I laugh. "Really? It gets shitty up there?" They're off to get more liquor at the marina (at least an hour away, though not many miles). We continue driving (bumping).
We finally come to a gate, then do some more bumping, then drive down a steep hill to the lake. There are several trucks, some tents, a fire, assorted coolers and chairs and dogs. About eight guys, mostly in their 30s and 40s. We bring out our cooler with the meager remains of a 12-pack. This is a BYOB, food provided kind of deal. We say hi and I meet everyone, then Wes asks if there's food. By now it's about 7:30. We're pretty hungry. His boss says, "Sorry, there's no food left." Wes and I look at each other. Wes asks, "Really? Are you kidding?" His boss remembers there's some corn on the cob. Then they remember there are some hot dogs left. Then someone brings out a package of homegrown beef. We're going to be OK.
We hang out around the fire for a while, drink beer, eat sandy hot dogs and good burgers, talk about assorted things. Listen to the same Flogging Molly songs a few times, blaring from a car. Some opera comes on. Then a few random songs and, finally, country. It was only a matter of time. I have two beers throughout the evening, but Wes and Frank are drinking pretty steadily. Frank especially. Wes can easily hold his beer, but we'll soon discover Frank does otherwise.
It's dark now, and the moon is starting to rise over the water. A couple of trucks come back with the booze-runners. They bring beer, tequila, brandy, who knows what. The driver is still shirtless. Now there are a lot of early 20-somethings milling around, and the country music is blaring. The tequila gets passed around. It's around 10. I tell Wes I'm ready to leave, and he agrees. Things are going to get crazier and it's already late for us. We're standing by my car and Frank comes over, afraid we're leaving him. He's acting sillier than before. We gather our chairs and cooler, say goodbye and head back up the bumpy hill.
It soon becomes apparent that Frank is very, very drunk. We're not sure how this happened, because he didn't seem to be drinking that much faster than Wes, and he seemed fine around the fire. But he's drunk. And chatty. And obnoxious. It's dark, and late, and the road sucks, and we have 20 miles to go before we hit pavement. I pay attention to the road and Wes tries to get Frank to chill out. For two hours. In the midst of requests to stop every 10 minutes. "I have to piss. How about a smoke break? Is your girlfriend mad at me? I'm such a dick." And, fairly often, "Stop! Stop!" We think he's doing to puke, but nothing. At one point he opens the back door while we're driving, to get me to stop. I grab his arm while I step on the brakes. Afterward I lock all the doors. Then there's the stumbling by the car, the crying, some crazy laughing. Wes was really patient but kept telling him to lie down and sleep. I kept laughing, reminding myself it would be a funny story later on.
It takes twice as long to get out to the highway as it did coming in. We still have an hour until home, and we have to drop off Frank first, a little north of town. I put on some Deb Talan and hope the mellow music will calm the situation. Frank finally falls asleep when we're on the paved road. It's past midnight. I'm really low on gas because I thought it would be a short trip. There's not much out here until we get back near Casper. I'm very sober, just trying to stay focused on the road. I don't like driving this late at night. I'm watching for antelope, bunnies, idiot drivers. Wes and I take swigs from the jug of iced tea I brought. It helps.
We get back into town around 1:30. We can't remember which street Frank lives on. It's a dark, semi-industrial area and all the streets look the same. Frank is totally out of it, sleeping in the back. He grunts when Wes asks him which street he lives on. We do several U-turns and finally find the right street. Wake Frank up. Make sure he has his belt, his camera case, his cell phone. Earlier he had taken off his belt, then his shirt. He hauls himself out of the car and I see an array of sand where he'd been sitting, brought in from his many trips outside, sitting and falling on the ground.
We watch him stumble inside and then drive away. Wes says, "Well, that's one person I'll never be drinking with again." Throughout the second half of the evening, Wes apologizes to me many times. But how could he have known?
After dropping off Wes, I get home and get in bed around 2. I feel wretched: headache, sore back and shoulders, exhausted. This morning I tell Wes, "You know, some people do this every weekend." He says, "We're never going anywhere again."
*Some names have been changed.
Recent Comments