The Hundredth Meridianrnby Chilton Williamson, ]r.rnThe End of DroughtrnSomewhere between Muddy Gap andrnthe old uranium town of Jeffrey City I becamernaware of my lungs, painfully expandingrnand contracting inside my denimrnshirt. Beyond Jeffrey City the smokerncloud was visible to the northwest, a pinkish-rngrey mass hanging on the mountainousrnhorizon and planed along its upperrnedge by atmospheric winds: large portionsrnof the states of Idaho, Montana, andrnWyoming burning up, millions of acresrnof evergreen timber, pinyon-juniper transitionalrnforests, and grasslands. Who’s tornblame? The Western Republican governorsrnand congressional delegations fingerrnPresident Clinton, the timber and ranchingrninterests blame the National ForestrnService and the Federal Bureau of LandrnManagement, environmentalists blamernthe timber companies and —some ofrnthem—the NFS; the federal governmentrnas an entity blames what it might call anrnAct of God, if it believed in Him. Probablyrnthe conflagration is the result of all ofrnthese things, plus others. In brainwashed,rnjuvenilized, sniveling, squishysoft,rn/aux-innocent America, we alwaysrnhave to have someone to blame —and,rnwherever possible, sue—for a variety ofrninconveniences and unpleasantnessesrnthat previous generations of humanity acceptedrnas being merely the vicissitudes ofrnlife. Hard thoughts, but what else for arn297-mile, six-hour trek across bare interiorrnWyoming pulling two horses at 55rnmiles an hour, with no air conditioningrnin hundred-degree temperatures andrnnothing to eat or drink but pretzels andrnwarm water in a gallon canteen?rnNorth from Lander my lungs seemedrnto set like cement as the smoke intensified.rnA white plume twisted from the eastrnslope of the Wind River mountains abovernFort Washakie; from there, as far asrnCrowheart, the granite spine of the rangernwas blotted by clouds of gritty smokernfrom the Boulder fire burning against thernwest slope 50 miles away. From Crowheartrnon to Dubois the air cleared, allowingrnme to discern a cherry-colored Toyotarn4-Runner parked in the shoulderrnbeneath a high cutbank and an arm wavingrnfrantically from the driver’s window.rnTwo hours behind schedule already, andrnnow I had to stop and change a tire, orrnempty my canteen into an overheated radiator,rnor stick my head under a proppedrnhood and pretend I understand somethingrnabout what goes on in an enginerncompartment. There are times I wishrnchivalry were dead, not just paraplegicrnand comatose. Oddly, the face in thernwindow looked familiar. I’d forgottenrnNorma went and bought a new car.rnI followed with the horses on the washboardrnroad winding back throughrnfoothills to Torrey Lake. The hills werernbrown from drought, no green showingrnexcept for the blackish forms of the pinerntrees rising against the knobby cliffs. Thernbrown was eerily uniform, and the deadrngrass crunched underfoot. We maderncamp on a rise above the lake, unrollingrnthe sleeping bags under a pine tree andrnsetting the gas stove with two attachablerngas canisters on a patch of bare groundrnsurrounding a fire ring left cold all summerrnby order of the Forest Service.rn”This is terrible,” I told Norma, lookingrnabout at the stricken country. Thernsoutheastern part of the state aroundrnLaramie, while affected by the drought,rnhadn’t prepared me for what I’d seen thisrnafternoon. “It’s like visiting a deadrnworld.”rn”There’s absolutely no moisture left: inrnthe soil at all.”rn”They ought to just let it burn,” I said.rnSomehow, ashes and scorched earthrnseemed a more natural prospect than thernunlit funeral pyre before us.rnWe spent the better part of the followingrnmorning consolidating and packingrngear, while drinking coffee unsatisfactorilyrnboiled on the gas stove. It was pastrnnoon before we started up the WhiskeyrnCreek trail, skirting low-lying sagebrushrnparks for the first mile or so before therntrail steepened underfoot and the dry forest,rnheated by sunlight striking betweenrnthe spires of the trees, closed in. Fat andrnsoft from a lazy summer, heavily latheredrnalong the flanks and between the hindrnlegs, the horses halted regularly to blowrnand scent the piney air, putting their earsrnforward and turning their heads fromrnside to side.rn”We should be almost to the NoondayrnRocks,” Norma, riding behind me, said.rn”Why the Noonday Rocks?”rn”I don’t know. I think it’s an Indianrnname.”rnHalf a mile farther on yellow-grayrnrocks, spotted with sunlight and lichen,rnappeared through the trees. Past the treernline was a park bounded on one side by arnstony parapet standing at an angle to therntrail. I consulted my compass, whichrnshowed the granitic mass aligned along arnnearly exact east-west axis. Apparently,rnthe ancient Shoshone had been right onrntime for Brew & Burger at lunch hour.rnWe stopped for lunch in a grove ofrnlimber pine, surrounded by vaguely observantrnwhiteface cattle grazing thernalpine grass beside Whiskey Creek, nowrnonly a dr)’ runnel. Before mounting uprnagain I had Norma take a photo of mernbeside the horse, wearing a straw hat,rnbandana neckerchief chaps, and a bolsteredrn.41 magnum revolver on my hip,rnto send to Andrea Marcovicci on her returnrnfrom Hawaii. Then we rode on, uphillrnthrough patches of scrub willow,rnpast stands of gnarled Krummholz pine,rnto the bare summit of Whiskey Mountain,rnwind-polished at over 11,000 feetrnof elevation, from where the topographyrnof a substantial portion of northwestrnWyoming lay spread around: to the eastrnthe Owl Creek Mountains; the Absarokasrnin the northeast (including the southeastrncorner of Yellowstone Park); Lava Mountainrnand Togwatee Pass due north; to thernwest and 75 miles out, the snaggled silhouetternof the Grand Tetons, darkly sinister,rnwreathed with smoke. Above ShalernMountain, black clouds were building,rnheaded our way. They didn’t look thunderous,rnbut you never can tell. Once, inrnan unprotected alpine meadow only 20rnor 30 miles from here across the ContinentalrnDivide, I found the melted shoesrnof a horse struck by lightning, the carcassrn—hooves included —long since rot-rnDECEMBER 2000/49rnrnrn