Along the eastern edge of the Red Desert lies a town whose welcome mat includes a sun-crisped golf course and signs encouraging visits to the Wyoming Frontier Prison. On Sundays, most shops are closed and streets quiet. Homes bake under a summer sun and brace against the punishing winds so characteristic of southern Wyoming. Here in Rawlins, I pulled into a gas station, and that is where my car broke down.
If that wasn’t enough, as if God decided to play a cosmic joke on me, the gas station caught on fire.
The car and I managed to make it to a nearby Comfort Inn, where we promptly parked ourselves for the next few days, at least until I figured out what had happened to my radiator.
The seeming mishap afforded a chance to see a town I would normally visit only in passing. What I found is a place that deserves much more care from people like myself, a lonely place by all appearances, but one with quirks and life cultivated from decades of boom and bust. In my brief time there, I saw a town that was both growing and falling apart. Maybe sometime I will get to go back, and actually learn what life is really like at the edge of the desert.