Storm Clouds Over The Popo Agie - Part 1

 The sound of the rain on the cab of the truck was comforting. Not because we were dry, but because the rain wasn’t falling directly on us. It was tight with the four of us in the cab; Dad, age 34; Teresa, age 10; Curtis; age 8; and me, age 14. But, with doors closed, the heater running, and the wipers swishing, although we were exhausted and soaked, we felt cuddled and secure.

The rain continued to fall and thunder and lightning cracked and flashed about every 15 seconds, lighting up the surrounding forest with each flash. As we headed down the 4-Wheel Drive trail to Roaring Fork, I reflected upon our crossing of the Roaring Fork a few hours earlier, over the old wooden vehicle bridge. The Roaring Fork Bridge was just below the dam of the Worthen Meadows Reservoir in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming.

Construction on the Worthen Meadows reservoir began in the summer of 1956. The reservoir, called Lander Reservoir by the local population, was built on Roaring Fork, southwest of Lander and had a rated storage capacity of 1,500 acre feet. On this day, the reservoir was filled to capacity and the stream under the bridge was running high due to the rain showers of the past few days.

When we crossed the bridge earlier in the afternoon, the approach to the bridge was rutted and muddy for some thirty yards in front of the bridge. It was obvious that others ahead of us had been stuck in the mud. Previous travelers had packed logs and boulders under their tires in order to pass through the bog. With our 4-wheel drive, we had no difficulty passing through the bog and climbing up the ramp to the bridge. We were confident that upon our return trip we would easily cross the bridge, then the bog, and continue safely on our way home. We had no idea that we would not be going home on that night.

Today, almost everyone has a 4-wheel drive vehicle of some sort, but in 1963, most didn’t. We did… a 1951 Jeep Pickup. Dad had overhauled the engine and given it a new paint and upholstery job. To me, it was our ticket to the many roads and trails of the Wind Rivers, or at least to the edge of the wilderness; a fantasy land that I longed to visit. In my view, a 4-wheel drive vehicle could go anywhere.

As we pulled up on the wooden bridge of The Roaring Fork, the bog was gone, and in its place was the Roaring Fork—not a stream under the bridge, but a river, well beyond the confines of its original banks. Dad stopped the vehicle on the bridge. With the stream passing by in front of us in the headlights, it was difficult to verify its width or depth, but each time the lightning flashed, we could see that the stream was wide…maybe twenty or thirty yards.

What were we to do? There was no other road out of the area. The rain, the thunder and the lightning were unrelenting. Behind lay the Wilderness of the Wind River Mountains with glaciers, peaks over 13,000 feet, hundreds of lakes, never-ending forests, no roads, no humans, and no comforts of home. Forward lay the road home.

With the front hubs locked in and the 4-wheel drive transfer case in gear, we started into the stream. We traveled a few feet and stopped. Dad kicked the transmission into reverse and tried to go. Nothing. Back into second gear to go forward, but the tires only whipped up the water. We were stuck in the middle of the river. We couldn’t move forward or backward. The frame was sitting squarely on the muddy bottom and the wheels were churning. We weren’t going anywhere.

With the stream in front of us and behind us and the dam holding back the Worthen Meadows Reservoir above us, Dad turned off the engine, told us to wait in the truck, and stepped out into the stream. He proceeded to wade toward the opposite shore. Each time the lightning flashed, we could see our father a little further away until he disappeared in the night, leaving us alone, in the cab of a useless pickup, in the middle of Roaring Fork.