The eternal gaze of the Snowy Range, part of the larger Medicine Bow Mountains, keep a watchful eye over Saratoga, Wyoming. It's gold medal trout streams draw fly fisherman, novice and expert alike from around the globe. The year round healing waters of it's natural hot springs extend an open arms to all. Many a weary cowpoke or adventurer have found the largest of exhaling "Ahhhhhh" moments slowly lowering themselves into these soulful pools. 1690 folks who still appreciate and cling to the simple pleasures of life live here. And, for my money, this is also where you will find the finest hotel on earth. The Saratoga Hot Springs Resort.
I had been on the road for 4 days now. Or was it 5? The further west I continued on, the more intense the recurring dilemma of each morning became. There was not enough sand in my hourglass, or perhaps i just didn't like the pace at which it was passing from orb to orb. No matter. Beyond my control. The snow and ice covered roads of the Yukon Territory, and beyond that, Alaska, that lay ahead allowed no time to stop long and smell the roses or more appropriately, to dance with the tumbleweeds. The 29th of November was a hard deadline. This left me 7 days to knock down 2500 miles. Final destination, Fairbanks, Alaska.
The small wooden desk in my room at The Saratoga Inn, sat just at the bed's end. It’s front left leg just a bit shorter than the other three, created a bit of a wobble. All pieces perfectly weathered, it seemed the ideal place to sit and write...forever. The perfect cup of coffee, as is any ground and poured by one’s own hand, begged me to stay. It’s scented plume, the perfect mix of chocolate and floral notes put me under their spell. Even I, a novice author, so new to the wordsmithing trade, could pencil out something worthy of the parchment to which I was sharing my thoughts. Just outside my door, fire already ablaze in the library's massive stone fireplace, it seemed at any moment, great authors from days past or perhaps a half dozen cowboys, tired from the “drive” might saunter in.
I imagined my welcoming them and offering a bribe. Fresh coffee in exchange for me being allowed to sit in their midst. Not so long ago, years for me, a second, less than a second in the time span of the mountains looking down into this valley, I had ridden my two wheeled “horse” over Snowy Range pass from Centennial, Wyoming. A couple Moose, mamma and calf, (the first I had ever seen), slowed our progress off the back side of the mountain that day. Eventually into the valley, the view stretched endlessly in every direction. I may as well have been the first to ever lay eyes on it. Awestruck was a word properly used to describe the moment. Not easy to tears, I could feel them welling up. Such a place I had dreamt of and now it was before me. No homes, power lines, nor any other signs of man other than the stretch of road I stood, one leg down, the other still clipped into the left side pedal. It was a view that had been enjoyed, just as it was now, just as it was then.
I can’t be sure if it was 2 or 30 miles from the base of the mountains to Saratoga, doesn’t really matter other than to give you some scope of it all. The miles passed with ease. Time was less relevant in this wild, yet untamed place. One got the sense that it existed in a more natural space, marked by snows and thaws more-so than days and nights.
Natural hot springs, a Main Street that still seemed more suited to hard pack dirt versus asphalt and an old west style kindness awaited us. Truth told, I was in love with the place before I ever laid eyes on her.
Checking out of the Saratoga Inn came much too soon. Returning to the place had so quickly rekindled our love affair. It seemed a shame having to put her in the rear view mirror again so soon, our romance once again set ablaze.
Swinging the large wooden doors open, the over sized wrought iron handles a bit cold from the sharp winter winds that blew on the other side, a crisp “good morning from the “Snowies” welcomed me to the upcoming day. If so blessed, I would return again, ideally sooner than later, but most certainly, not soon enough.
Next stop, Missoula, Montana
To your dreams, to ALL our dreams,
Steve
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