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Show Go Love/202 I say, "Hell no." "Hell no," Renee says and turns on cowboy music, what we listen to while crossing the Wyoming line. The state's announced by a sign with a cowboy on a bucking horse. Welcome to Wvoming-land like no other on earth. From Evanston, highway 80 hauls ass west over the old Pioneer Trail, wagon ruts showing through where small herds of antelope snap into focus~a hoof, a head, a body, twenty white-splashed pronghorns. North, out the driver's side window, the saw-toothed rise up catching sun. To our south, the high Uintas run east-west, creating Utah's northern border. We skirt these peaks for a hundred miles toward Green River, Wyoming where the U S. troops got stuck one entire winter before the Civil War-the failed attempt to march on Brigham and his Salt Lake Saints heralded in foreign newspapers as a defeat that not even the British Monarch had achieved. Butch Cassidy and the Wild bunch used to hole up here, and the city still has an outlaw feel I've always liked. We stop on the east side of the Green River for ice and beer at Hole in the Wall Gun, Liquor, Drug & Fishing Supply. Trophy elk stare down from the high walls; we hear the music from the strip joint next door-the bass thudding. Gigantic pipe-mouths issue flames between Green River and Rock Springs, goldmines where acres of house trailers are rented by mine workers and their people We head down 191, toward Flaming Gorge and Dutch John, a two gas station town with a helicopter pad for millionaires who fly in to fish the Green, where knee-length trout lie in holes the color of money. Tomorrow's put-in is beneath the dam where we'll inflate the Nez Pierce~a sixteen footer with aluminum cage-load and stow, then make ten river miles down to the primitive sites. We seek peace and quiet and fresh fish and no telephones ringing out of kilter in the middle of the night, no voices calling, |