On a trip that we have dubbed our “America the Beautiful” tour filled with days of beauty so amazing yet so different that mere words become redundant and insufficient, we finally arrived to the place I loved best in my childhood: Buffalo, Wyoming. We lived here less than two years, and 18 months of that were winter. I am not a cold weather kind of gal. Yet I loved this place and at the age of nine accused my parents of ruining my life forever by taking me away from my destiny.
“I’m moving here when I grow up,” I raged at them.
And I stuck with that declaration for years. But the reality of growing up became jobs, marriage, kids, and mortgages. Not only did I not move to Buffalo, I never went back.
Until July of 2014.
The place looked so much like I remembered it. I thought I would have forgotten most things and that the rest would be different, but I knew it like I’d never left, largely because the town residents take care to preserve their heritage.
Eric and I spent the first morning downtown.
Then the afternoon was devoted to the library and our event there.
And the evening we spent with dear family friends.
In much the same way that I have run out of unique ways to describe the beauty of the American West, I have run out of words about Buffalo. The pictures will have to do the trick. Suffice it to say that even as I freeze my tushy off here in mid-July, I remember why I loved it so: the smells, the ranches, the mountains, the people, the charm, the cowboy culture. I could huff myself into a coma over the scent of the rangy prairie, rugged and delicate at the same time. And the area has a new fan, my island-boy-turned-Texan “Bubbamon” husband, who has discovered his inner cowboy.
Heck, I always knew it was in there somewhere.
That’s all I’ve got.