Whooping it up in Wyoming

It was the Bicentennial Fourth of July Weekend (and my 14th birthday) and Mom and Frank decided to load up some of the kids and the dog and head to Wyoming. They were always big on spontaneity and the kids were up for an adventure, too. The problem was that there is no such thing as a vacant hotel room in Jackson Hole on the Fourth of July weekend, let alone the Bicentennial or my birthday. We found that out upon arrival.

We rolled into town with suitcases and duffle bags in hand and stood stymied in the middle of Town Square wondering what to do. The sheriff happened by and Frank asked if there was any place for a family of six and their dog could stay for the night. The sheriff mentioned that there was a guy who had a room above his house where we could crash but that was about it. “All right!” Frank said and we headed up the street.

The room was just a room. It was tiny and had one bed and lots of floor space. We threw our sleeping bags on the floor then headed out for our big night on the town. Rather, Mom and Frank had a night on the town, each kid was handed a handful of money and told to fend for ourselves.

Mom and Frank headed for the Million Dollar Saloon— a place they had always heard about and was one of the few bars in the west they had never set foot in. Ray and David took off to the park with Scamp. Mimi and I opted for something more cultural. We strolled down the wooden walkways ducking in to an occasional gift shop filled with bronze cowboys and dreamcatchers. We ended up in a little restaurant and ordered a couple of hamburgers and milkshakes. When we were finished, we walked back to the Million Dollar Saloon where Mom and Frank were whooping it up to a bluegrass band. They gave us another wad of cash and the bum’s rush.

Next to the burger restaurant, there was The Pink Garter Playhouse. “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” was playing that night. Having an entire evening to kill, we bought tickets and went inside to take our seats. That show was my first exposure to live musical theatre and I couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face. The feisty leading lady, the small but rambunctious orchestra, and the brilliant scenery sent this budding theatre queen to the moon and back. I held onto the program and the memory of the dreamy leading man for years to come.

Mom and Frank eventually decided it was time to get back to the kids and staggered up the street to our room. They walked up the rickety steps only to find the place completely empty. No kids, no dog. Just a bunch of rolled up sleeping bags. They scratched their heads, looked at the clock and went back out to the street to find the four missing kids and terrier. Then, off in the distance, walking up the street toward them, here they came. It looked like that classic scene from “High Noon”, but it was closer to twelve midnight.

The next morning we posed for a quick photo in the park under the antler arch then  headed for Yellowstone.

***

Yellowstone National Park was just like everything I had seen on the postcards—majestic Old Faithful, the bubbling mud pots, the lush forests—we even saw a lone black bear. Our family spent the better part of the day exploring the park by car and on foot until it was time to find a room.

In West Yellowstone, we found the Mammoth Lodge. It was a cavernous log building filled with all the trappings you’d expect from a western hotel. Antler chandeliers, metal trout lamps and plenty of wildlife taxidermy. The only thing they didn’t have was a staff. Turns out that everyone was on strike that weekend. There was one solitary man running the place who showed us to our room and gave us some pointers on what to do in the area.

One of the suggested activities was Movie Night. All of the families staying at the lodge sat on the floor that night and watched “The Attack of the 50 Foot Woman” along with a collection of old commercials from the ‘50s and ‘60s. It was a hoot. But by the time it was over, we were all sound asleep on the wads of blankets and piles of pillows. 

The next day, we headed south for home, stopping in Twin Falls for the night. Mom and Frank dropped us off at our room and headed downstairs to the hotel bar. We were left with nothing but an ice bucket, a bunch of Shasta soda pop and a TV. “Willard” was on—a horror movie about a wimpy guy and his bunch of nasty pet rats hell-bent on revenge. It scared the bejeebus out of us and we took turns running down to the bar to get Mom and Frank to come back to the room. Eventually, they did but the movie had since ended and by then we were deep into our nightmares.

***

Morning hit—and after pancakes, we loaded up the Suburban. Mom and Frank in the front; Mimi and I sat in the middle seat; David, Ray and Scamp were in the back. By the time we had reached the Utah border, Mom and Frank were puzzled by all the strange looks other drivers were giving us as they passed. Some pointed to the back of the car, others just gave Frank the stinkeye. Frank pulled over to see if there was something wrong with the Suburban and walked around to the back of it where he found David and Ray doubled over in laughter. They had been showing a piece of paper out the window to the passing motorists that said “Help! We’re being kidnapped!” We actually could have been by someone else on that trip, but our less-than-doting parents would probably had never noticed.

As Frank told us years later: “Don’t blame us for the way you kids were raised. We were at the bar.”