Wyoming to Utah to Boise

This morning we woke from a hard sleep to the telephone ringing. 6:15am. It was the desk clerk, and he was with a police officer who wished to see us downstairs. We were both up and dressing right away, hoping the dogs were just barking and fearing it might be something more.

Cathy was out the door and down the stairs before I was, and by the time I exited the hotel into the cold Wyoming morning, the sun had just poked up, and Cathy and the cop were walking back toward the building. Everything was fine. Someone had called to say there were some dogs in the back of a U-Haul that were barking. They were concerned--understandably so. Really, we've been more troubled by people who didn't question what the hell we thought we were doing than by those who did. And this, plus a good deal of mud and mess, is what he saw back there:
















As I approached the officer was telling Cathy about his own pets, 2 dogs and 2 cats. Then he wished us good luck and said he'd call ahead to the State Troopers to let them know we were coming through. A very pleasant man.

So, awake as we were, we got down to business. We moved the truck to the back side of the parking lot next to the hotel, behind the pharmacy next door, and started the long work of letting the dogs out for their morning constitutional. It was cold and muddy, but just knowing (or hoping) that this would be the last time we went through this ordeal kept the mood lighter. Even the dogs seemed to know it, as they seemed less anguished and more in tune to the routine. They also put up a little less resistance when being shoved back into their crates.

Still, though, by the time we were done we were caked with mud and smelling none too great from the 2 cages that needed cleaning. One of them, a skinny black labby dog, waited until his turn was next before he let loose. If only I'd let him out before the dog in the crate on top of him. He was so close! How torturous for him, though, to hang on until he couldn't hang on any longer. Poor guy. This is the dog in the crate on top of him:



We call him Big Head. He's horribly cute.
















We went back up to our room and cleaned up a little, grabbed some coffee and a McDonald's breakfast (I know, I know), and hit the road. We had a long way to go, but our spirits were lifted by getting to Rawlins alive the previous night and the thoughts of getting home this evening. All that stood between us and home was about 9 hours of driving.

Unfortunately, we had to start this off in Wyoming. The wind was brutal as ever, though at first the roads were relatively dry. As long as we headed into the wind we were ok. But when the wind came from the side, everything changed. The truck lunged and bucked its way across I-80, keeping its grip on the road but making me think we would tip at any moment. It was pretty bad, and made me wish we had lots more weight in the back of the truck. The higher we got, the thicker the clouds got, and by the time we hit the next pass we were in hard-blowing snow and ice, visibility down to about 100' or so. It was rough, but the surface wasn't slippery, and I crept along about 55mph and kept my eyes forward and my chest pinned to the wheel.

The next pass was not so bad, and when after a few hours we rolled through Rock Springs, we knew we had but one big one to go. We'd heard lots about how horrible the pass into Utah was, and it was indeed windy and crowded with trucks driving at their usual and annoying accordion hill-climb style, crawling up the hills then flying down them, playing leapfrog with me for a good hour.

On the way down from the final pass, we crossed into Utah, and the effect on the weather was all but instantaneous. The wind slowed to near-zero effect, the traffic thinned a bit, and the scenery turned from bleak to beautiful, the red rock and jagged peaks tipped with snow making us feel much better about the world.

We felt so much better that Cathy brought old Flat Stanley up into the cab to better enjoy the ride. Up with us, he was an entirely different dog. This little shepherd mix, who in Kansas at the Pizza Hut I was convinced wouldn't survive to Colorado, was alert, bright-eyed, engaged, affectionate, and interested in every single thing that passed the windows of the truck cab. He kept trying to lick Cathy's face, and kept trying gently to get to me in the driver's seat, but C kept control of him and eventually he sat on her lap and just stared out the window.

This is Flat Stanley:
















It was a long though uneventful haul across Utah, and I've never been so happy to see the Welcome to Idaho sign. It was hard to believe we were so close. The miles dragged by, taking forever, our eyes fixed firmly on the horizon and our hometown looming in the distance.

We got to the shelter in Boise about 6:30pm. There was a news camera truck in the parking lot, but the place was closed, so it took us a while to get someone's attention, and for them to open the doors. They late shift crew took the truck around back and started to unload. We just sort of stood there, not really knowing what to do with ourselves.

The folks from the shelter were taking the dogs off the truck, removing the crates, cleaning, putting dogs in cages inside. Everything was under control. But we couldn't leave. We helped unload, we helped put them in their new temporary homes, and we stood around a lot, wondering what to do next.

Our frieds Will and Chuck were there, Will to help us out and give us a ride home, Chuck to help out and take a hound home with him. Trina, as she's now known, was one of our favorites, a skinny young female hound with a front foot that had broken and healed wrong. But, by all indications, she's headed for a great life. And, she's already had her first experience with snow!
















As you can guess, the thought of at least one of these dogs going to a home with people, especially these people, hopefully starting a new life, has made us very happy. But still, it was hard to leave there. It was hard to grasp that this long intense trip was now over, and that these dogs were no longer our responsibility.

But, we did eventually leave and go home, and were duly inspected (and then snubbed) by Gus and Henry. God, did they look fat.