James and I headed due south to Salmon, ID, though some beautiful country. We ended up on highway 28 through the great American West, not another car to be seen for an hour, let alone gas.
Alpine, WY, was overrun with tourists headed to Yellowstone. We followed 89 south to Afton. It’s a strange town. Perhaps in the past it aspired to a mini-Jackson Hole. Now it is somewhere between a hunter’s staging town and a burger stop on the way to Yellowstone.
The first motel we pulled into was jammed with pick up trucks, crammed in front of little log cabins. Not a soul to be seen. Eventually we came upon a guy smoking a cigarette, who told us, “We’re not open for public business, guys.”
I hazard to imagine.
We cased the town and checked into Colter’s Lodge, a once-grand western hotel from 1939, now equiped with with a bar, steakhouse, and drive-through liquor store, all built off the back. The huge wooden door creaked like the sharpening of a rusty straight razor.
Inside was a two-story, old west atrium, heads of enormous herbivores mounted on the balcony.
We hunted up the bell-hop, doing his best impression of Jeff Bridges in the adjoining bar, and ended up renting the last room, as long as we were okay with no windows.
Home tomorrow.
Onwards! 