June 12: A week in a cabin in western Wyoming, south of Yellowstone, is major bonding for my border collies, both to each other and to me. It is blessed quiet here, which is something I don’t have at home on the west side of Denver. I lock the screen door at dusk so they can’t run out, but can still hear the coyotes yipping to welcome the night.
Beau used to love this cabin. There is a clear water stream not even 100 yards to the east. In the summer and fall he used to go back there and just lie in the stream, letting the water flow around him. You never saw a happier dog.
Jess and Ridge and I are doing so much hiking that when dark gets here, I am ready for sleep, and often sleep way past the 5:30 AM sunrise.
There is a definite feeling of comfort to be in a locked and secure cabin in the middle of grizzly country. I have had my share of stress-filled nights sleeping in a tent up here. A cabin is fine.
June 13: We finished our morning walk, a long trek that took a couple of hours, and now we are sitting at the cabin during the midday heat. At my feet are two very content, very tired border collies.
When people think of hiking in grizzly country, they often imagine a place of constant, high-stakes danger. The reality is different. You rarely see a bear. They generally know you are there well ahead of time and quietly disappear into the timber long before you arrive. I still keep canister of pepper spray in my back pocket, but lately, I can feel my body becoming much more relaxed when we head off-trail.
A large part of that peace of mind comes from the fact that both border collies are wearing their e-collars. They act as an invisible leash, giving me the immediate ability to stop them if their hunting or herding instincts try to override their training. I rarely have to use them. Ridge did get a small reminder this morning to leave a duck alone in a pond, but he is incredibly sharp, as is Jess. He will remember the lesson for next time.
#wyoming #winegarholewilderness
#ashtonidaho #grizzlycountry #bordercollies
(I love these dogs)
June 14: Once you get used to solitude and are able to handle the loneliness that comes with it, it's not a terrible life.
The border collies and I get up in the morning, and before I eat breakfast or have coffee or anything else, we head out on an adventure. A couple of hours later we come back to the cabin. I feed them breakfast, mess around on the computer a little bit, and then around noon all three of us take a nap so we'll have the energy to do it all again later in the day.
It's a life immersed in wild nature and canine companionship. These dogs and I love the wilderness. We love being out there together, seeing what is around the next bend in the trail or beyond the next ridge. And we love each other. That's really what this life comes down to.
#bordercollies #wilderness #wyoming #cabinlife
June 15: Today a wildlife officer and some helpers came and released a problem bear about 150 yards south of the cabin - a black bear. I went down and talked to them a while since I really haven't talked to anybody for over a week. He said there is a lot of wildlife around and eventually I'll see them; I think he was talking about the bears (grizzly).
I always make a campfire in the evening and sit out there with the dogs waiting for the coyotes to howl. They were real close tonight. That's an excitement my dogs will probably never forget.
June 14: "Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it." - Mary Oliver.
Last night, right after I arrived at the lake, a loon called. I waited until well past sunset, hoping to hear it again and maybe record it, but no such luck. Absolute silence.
Loons are not like songbirds that call over and over. Their calling seems unpredictable and inconsistent, something I discovered firsthand.
This morning, though, we went back to the lake, and within five minutes of stopping, several loons began calling again and again. What an amazing thing to witness. After all that waiting the night before, suddenly the lake was alive with their voices.
The morning was so still and quiet that the loon calls seemed impossibly loud, echoing across the water. Jess and Ridge came over and settled against my legs. I think the calls startled them a little. They had never heard anything quite like that before, and honestly, neither had I.
____________
"The sound is both beautiful and unsettling, a reminder that we are only visitors in their ancient world." — Paul Johnsgard, ornithologist
"The long, mournful wail of the loon across a glassy lake is the ultimate expression of wilderness solitude." — Arthur Cleveland Bent, ornithologist
"The tremolo of the loon is a functional warning, yet to human ears, it sounds like an outburst of pure wildness." — Edward Howe Forbush, state ornithologist of Massachusetts
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This country has so few visitors that even on the weekend I only see a few people. And every time I have visited a lake I was the only one there.
#northernwilderness #commonloon #bordercollies
June 17: Ridge gets really calm on the water, just like Beau did. He sat at the bow with his paws on the side of the kayak (cute overload!) and later didn't make a sound while two loons called and swam close to us. (wait for it)
Jess is the opposite. She loves the water so much that for the first fifteen minutes she keeps shifting positions and I have to counterbalance her or we're going in. She settles down eventually, but it takes a while.
I kayaked with them for three days in a row on this lake, and I was the only one there all three mornings. Each day I took the dogs out separately, then today I went back out alone without them. The kind of morning I come to these places for. (the photo at the end is me smiling 😁 )
#mountainlake #commonloon #lakekayaking #bordercollies #kayaking
June 20: I think what made last Thursday night at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in Jackson so explosive was the ten days of maximum solitude that preceded it. I had just spent a week and a half in a remote wilderness cabin with my dogs, tucked between Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons—a wild country ruled by grizzlies, wolf packs, moose, and the lonely wail of loons. By the end of it, I was entirely starved for human contact. I was ready for some life.
Getting presentable for the dance hall required a bit of logistical maneuvering. First came a deeply needed shower, made trickier because I had my border collies, Jess and Ridge, along for the trip. You can't leave your dogs in a truck during the summer heat, so I tracked down a multi-level parking garage on Simpson Street. The concrete shade kept the truck cool, allowing me to slip away to the Teton recreation center for a quick rinse.
Then came the footwear crisis. I had planned this entire night but somehow managed to leave my western boots back in Denver. I marched into the Jackson Boot Barn only to find that smooth-bottomed boots with anything but a broad toe were completely out of stock. Even worse, my standard size refused to slip over my feet. I had to buy a size larger, compensate with thick socks, and lay down the cash for the broad toes. They are far more popular now than I realized, which makes sense, considering I'm still accustomed to the black, low-heel Justins my daughter Amy won for me in a Father's Day coloring contest at Miller Stockman back in the nineties. I didn't know how the new leather would handle the floor, but after the very first song, the worry vanished. I forgot I was wearing them.
The first woman to dance with me was exceptionally talented. When the song ended, I told her so. She smiled and mentioned her background was in Lindy Hop. I told her I'd learned Lindy in Denver and liked to transition from a country triple step into a swing frame without missing a beat. "I noticed that," she said. Later in the evening, when the house band struck up a cover of Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire, she sought me out again. At the final chord, I looked at her and said, "I could leave right now and be happy." She looked back and said, "Same for me."
For three hours, the room was pure, high-energy momentum and maximum joy. Word around town was that Thursdays brought out the locals, and on that floor, I felt like a fascinating novelty. These sweet women hadn't encountered someone my age who knew how to flawlessly lead a triple step, a two-step, a waltz, and a slow blues. Once I danced with one woman in a group, her friends would immediately line up for their turn. I was more than happy to oblige.
What set me apart from the crowd was the way I switched between stationary swing dances and the traditional, counter-clockwise progression around the floor. That styling is a direct throwback to the 1990s, learning to dance at the Grizzly Rose with my ex-wife, Janet. I honestly can't recall if Janet and I ever danced together at the Cowboy Bar. The memory mimics the blurry, beautiful nights we shared at Cassie's in Cody during our Wyoming vacations, blending a perfect night out with the high-country wilderness. I remember one specific night at Cassie's when the band played a heart-stopping rendition of The Sound of Silence on a steel guitar. The frontman introduced it by saying the track perfectly captured the heavy, isolated feeling of a Wyoming winter.
Maybe that memory of the Cowboy Bar belongs to a later chapter—after the marriage ended and I was settling into my new skin. I distinctly remember bringing two lady friends, Sharon and Beverly, there on the final night of a Yellowstone trip before we drove back to Denver. Beverly was completely spellbound; it was her first time inside a true Western dance hall. I'm glad I shared that with them, but my days of making women happy for longer than the duration of a song are long gone.
I would probably still be dancing with Janet today if she hadn't walked away. Long marriages require constant, heavy adjustments, a truth she has likely encountered in her second one. I was never a man to give up; I was entirely ready to bend and change to hold us together. But when she met me at the judge's chambers to finalize the divorce, and then waited outside just to give me that final, parting kiss—it altered the trajectory of my life forever. I could never bring myself to get seriously, long-term attached to a woman again. I am perfectly open about the fear I carry: the fear of letting someone in, only to have them cut me free again.
Instead, I chose a different rhythm: maximum solitude balanced by maximum celebration to drive away the loneliness and the blues. That is the story of my life now.
Later that Thursday night, I walked up to a table of four attractive women who looked to be in their thirties. I asked the one closest to the floor to dance. She wore a light summer sundress, her blonde hair falling past her shoulders. We shared two dances. I kept my leads patient and clear. She smiled the entire time, take-your-breath-away beautiful. When the second song proved a bit more rhythmically difficult, I told her she handled it wonderfully. She thanked me, and just before she stepped back to her friends, I looked at her and said, "You are really gorgeous."
She was. And I consider it an absolute honor and a thrill that she chose to stand up from that table and share her time with me. My life has shifted, certainly. There are no more long-term relationships on my horizon, but I am not a man who is afraid of women. I am a great lover of women. They remain the most amazing creatures on this planet.
#cowboybarJacksonWyoming #countrydancehall #triplestep #wyoming #bordercollies
I don’t even know if single is the right word anymore for a 74-year-old man.
Single sounds like something young people say when they are still looking, still hoping, still imagining all the possible turns their lives might take. At my age, the word feels a little too light. Maybe the better word is alone. Maybe it is left to myself. On harder days, maybe it even feels like left behind.
But I don’t know that I care much what anyone calls it.
The truth is, I live my life as it is. I spend my days and weeks up in the mountains with my dogs, walking trails, sleeping in cabins, listening to wind in the trees and coyotes after dark. I have the kind of quiet that many people say they want but could not actually live with. My border collies keep me moving, keep me laughing, keep me connected to the world in a way that does not require many words.
Then, when the end of the week comes, I clean myself up, put on my boots and hat, and go to the honky-tonk.
There is still music. There are still bright lights and hardwood floors. There are still sweet ladies who will take my hand for a dance and smile at me like I am not invisible yet. Maybe that is part of what keeps an old man alive inside. Not romance exactly, not in the old way, but something close enough to remind the heart that it still works.
So maybe I am single. Maybe I am alone. Maybe I have been left to make peace with my own company.
But I am not discarded.