The Hundredth Meridianrnby Chilton Williamson, ]r.rnBliss MeadowsrnMost of the 50 states having been designedrnas pohtical nnits rather than therngeographical ones John Wesley Powellrnainh’ nrged Congress to consider in therncase of the Western territories, there’s nornparticular reason why sontheasternrnWyoming should be much more thanrnthe place where Nebraska, Colorado,rnand the Cowboy State fit together. Andrnin fact, it isn’t. The difference behveenrnthis corner of W’voming and the rest ofrnthe state is climaHc, topographical, geological,rnand . . . other. “You know,” arnvoimg man dressed in the regulation uni-rnersit student uniform (T-shirt andrnshorts, sandals, backpack, and ballcap)rnwas telling the owner of The GrandrnNewsstand in Laramie, “Wyoming couldrnbe the best place in America if it just hadrnmore Hispanics, more blacks and Asians.rnThis state has grae social problems, inrnm- opinion—all these iolent rednecks,rncarr ing guns. I read an article in thernEconomist recentU- and man, the gu- thatrnwrote it really ripped this state apart.” ArnSan Francisco kid, I guessed, with a C-nrnaerage vho got turned down at Berkelc-.rnIn tlic coffee shops, restaurants, andrnpoliter bars around town a frequent topicrnof conersahon is “the locals,” “the rednecks.”rn”I’m scared of them,” a femalerntransplant from Manhattan’s Upper EastrnSide confided to me after venturing as farrninto the wilds as Woods Landing, 26 perilousrnmiles southwest of the Universit}’ ofrnWyoming campus, God —is this what Irnhave to listen to for the next eightrnmonths? It’s a sickness, a disease epidemicrnthroughout modern-day Americarnwhere mass euphoria uncomfortablyrno-erlies mass hysteria, like an unstablerncrust above a seething lava mass. FortunatcK’,rnthere’s sHll the real Wyoming tornescape to, only a few hours’ drive beyondrnthe beckoning western horizon.rnThe bear populahon —black, brown,rnand grizzly—in the northwestern cornerrnof the state is expanding and restless theserndays, like the human one. Confrontationsrnbetween die two grow more commonrnevery summer. Besides the .41rnMagnum Ruger Blackhawk six-shooter Irnalwas carry on mv hip in the backeountr’-,rnI brought along the .338 WinchesterrnMagnum rifle I use for elk hunting,rnec[uipped with open sights for shooting atrnclose-range in an emergency. The heavyrngun in its leather scabbard is bulky underrnthe off saddleskirt and pulls the riggingrnsideways without a careful counterbalancernon the near side, but better safe thanrnsorry (even if that means 20 years inrnprison and a hundred-thousand-dollarrnfine for killing an animal the federal governmentrnconsiders more valuable thanrnyou are). I threw the horscpaeks in thernbed of die pickup and drove acro.ss townrnand the Union Pacific tracks to WestrnLaramie, where I backed up to the trailerrnand loaded the horses. I’hen we hit thernroad at 65 miles an hour for Dubois, 295rnmiles awav.rnArlington, Elk Mountain, Rawlins, Lamont.rnMuddy Gap, Jeffrey Cit’, Lander.rnThe country got higher and drier, morernrugged and eroded, one deformed geologicalrnstructure piled on another, arnsweeping immensity of shadow, shape,rntexture, and color — the way I rememberedrnit, the way I like it. Rednecks too,rnhurding toward me in pickup trucks andrnflatbeds at a combined speed of 145 milesrnan hour, the spare tire bolted to a studrnmounted in front of the grille betweenrnthe headlights, a couple of rifles in therngunrack, plastic water barrels tied off behindrnthe cab, a stubby broom stuck in thernposthole ahead of the tailgate; God blessrnthem everyone! Fort Washakie, Crowheart,rnBurris: The Wind River IndianrnReservation, home to the Arapahoe andrnShoshone tribes whom the governmentrnthrew together in a forced relationshiprnmany years ago, ignoring —if it everrnknew —that the two had despised eachrnother for untold generations before that.rnAnd finally Dubois, squeezed betweenrnthe Wind River and Absaroka Ranges inrnthe valley of the upper Wind River,rnwhere Norma awaited me in a 300-rnsquare foot house with a ten-gallon ginand-rntonic in her hand.rn0’er supper at what used to be the YellowstonernGarage restaurant before itrnmoved to Jackson in search of LlarrisonrnFord, James Wolfensohn (president ofrnthe World Bank), and the Rockefellers,rnwe debated entering the Absarokas by thernDunoir Valley, Turpin Meadows, orrnBonneville Pass. Bonneville von out,rnpartly for the reason that the option coincidedrnwith the arrival of a bottle of PinotrnGrigio to go with the mixed green saladrnand pcsto linguine. (In the summer season,rnan-way, Dubois is now a New Westrntown, and we’d be eating Dinh’ Moorernbeef stew, Nalley’s chili, and tuna fish forrnthe next four days.) The trail, after descendingrnthe east side of the pass tornDundee Meadows, follows the WestrnFork of the Dunoir downstream as far almostrnas the forest boundary before crossingrnover to the East Fork, from therernupriver to Shoshone Pass and across it,rnthen drops off into a narrow valley at thernheadwaters of the South Fork of thernShoshone River, identified on the sevenand-rna-half-minute topographic map asrnBliss Meadows.rn”Let’s go there,” I said. “Bliss Mcadovrns sounds auspicious for my return tornthe mountains after hvo years.”rn”Probably it’s just a meadow like allrnthe rest,” Norma said. “Everv one ofrnthem is beautiful, though.”rn”Don’t forget to take your bear sprayrnwith you,” the waitress advised as she refilledrnour glasses.rn”Not a chance,” I promised her. “Wernfollow Fish & Wildlife Serice procedurernexactly. In ease of an attack. Normarnspravs the bear, reducing it to a quiveringrnball’of furry Jell-0. Then I fill it full ofrnlead from my trusty .41 Mag., dig a bigrnhole, and bury the damn thing.”rnAs with most cavalr- operations, thisrnone got off to a late start owing to logisticalrnproblems. It was 4:30 when we rodernout from the trailhead and past five whenrnwe arrived at Bonneville Pass, three milesrnawa and 2,000 feet higher, and maderncamp in a grove of Douglas fir where therntrail, after climbing through a long, gen-rnDECEMBER 1999/49rnrnrn