September 14, 2012

WE LEFT WYOMING FOR UTAH TODAY, and I thought Carole would appreciate a nostalgic parting song. She has always liked my singing. I decided to sing a couple of verses of “Goodbye Old Paint,” but realized that I only knew a couple of lines from that old western classic. My planned serenade ended when I read the lyrics to “Goodbye Old Paint” on the Internet; they were as unintelligible as the lyrics in a Chuck Berry song. When I apologized to Carole for not singing that venerable old song, she said: “Bruce, we are not leaving Cheyenne; we have never even been in Cheyenne.” Carole has a tendency to be too detailed oriented at times.
 

Our destination for the day was Vernal, Utah, a place where thousands of fossils and bones from prehistoric animals and reptiles have been uncovered. Carole has always been interested in dinosaurs and has given several presentations to school groups on dinosaurs. Still trying to impress her after all these years, I told her that I began my study of dinosaurs at an early age. In fact, I admitted, most of what I know about dinosaurs I learned in those far off days.

As usual, our drive was along a road which gave us ample opportunity to view the rugged mountains and deep basins between Rock Springs and Vernal. During one 60 mile stretch, we observed wild horses and prong-horned antelope; but did not see a single building. (I am going to have to look up the differences between basins, canyons, valleys, washes and arroyos.) There were no pullover spots when we saw the horses and antelope, and I didn’t want to be one of those goofy tourists who stops in the middle of a mountain road to observe something they deem interesting.

At one point, I knew that we were viewing a basin because a sign told us that we were looking down into Uintah Basin. One viewing site gave us pause. It was entitled Uintah Forest; yet, there was not a tree in sight.

At another scenic overlook, a sign said that the valley below had some extreme temperature changes: from over 100 in the summer to lower than 30 degrees below zero in the winter.

We stopped at a dam along the Green River, and were told that we were just in time for an hour guided tour of the mechanics of the dam. Whenever I am confronted with the opportunity for a tour of a factory or any other place that is mechanical in nature, Mies van der Rohe’s maxim that “less is more” jumps to the forefront of my mind. I could have handled ten or even fifteen minutes, but an hour was out of the question. Content with viewing the dam from the outside, we continued on our way.

When we arrived in Vernal, I spotted a sign which read, “Why are spear-fishermen discriminated against?” I pondered the question for a minute, and made a mental note to check into the issue. After getting our bearings, we made our way to the Utah Field House of Natural History, a place similar to but smaller than the Field Museum. Its focus was on things that had been dug up in the area. Accordingly, there were displays of fossils and old bones along with recreations of long-ago animals and reptiles. There was even a short film where a paleontologist excitedly explained that, after several years of digging, he had found two small bones which fit together.

The most difficult part of the day was still ahead of us. We checked into our motel, and looked for a place to eat. Most of the restaurants we have encountered in the small towns out west cater almost exclusively to the hoi polloi.  Neither Carole nor I will ever be accused of being gourmands, not for us those snooty restaurants where the waiters walk very slowly, have an arrogant look on their faces and call salads “suh-lads.”   However, we were getting tired of eating hamburgers and prowled around the town looking for some place, other than a franchise, where we could eat.   We eventually settled on a place.  After reading the menu, Carole ordered a hamburger complete with iceberg lettuce.  I ordered “guy rows,” the local pronunciation of gyros.  Those franchise places are starting to look pretty good.