The Tetons jousting with the clouds in western Wyoming

In retrospect, my counter-clockwise course around America’s least populated state ran from the best to the worst of Wyoming (at least in my limited experience).

First, the best, rated in ascending order:

No. 3: The friendly little cowboy town of Cody, Wyoming, “rodeo capital of the world,” site of the wonderful Buffalo Bill western history museum and, not least of all, secret backdoor to one of the most spectacular parks in the world.

No. 2: Yellowstone National Park (see above) in off-season only, home of the nation’s only “super-volcano” and a whole bunch of critters.

No. 1: Grand Teton National Park, as viewed in autumn from the Jenny Lake backroad to Jackson, Wyoming. The sheer vertical peaks that rise so abruptly from the plains were just jaw-dropping beautiful.

It didn’t end there.

From the Tetons eastward, lightly traveled Highway 287 tracks the handsome (but more arid) Snake and Wind river canyons, which have an appeal all their own. I also liked dusty little Dubois, another important prairie-rodeo-circuit venue. Beyond that, the high desert country east of Lander was nice in a lonesome sort of way, especially under a full October moon.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

But then Wyoming began to go to hell.

It’s no secret that the state’s southeast corner is one of the windiest regions in the nation. Earlier the same week, when I was in Cody,  80 mph crosswinds “blew over” 12 big tractor-trailer rigs traveling north and south on Highway 25 (according to a report in the Casper Tribune).  Crosswinds are even less safe on a motorcycle.

That’s why I’ve been trying as much as I can to time my rides for the least-windiest periods each day — as I thought I was doing just before sunset Monday, heading east across the prairie on a 125-mile leg from Lander to Rawlins on Highway 287. For the first half all was well. I had the highway to myself and the wind at my back. A full moon rose directly down the road.

On the second half, however, several things changed. Mule deer began edging onto the highway in the dusk. At first I could spot them easily with plenty of time to slow down. But as it grew darker, the warning distance grew shorter. This eventually culminated in one of those adrenaline-drenching, deer-in-the-headlights, slam-on-the-brake moments, ending in a fish-tail slide.

There was no collision and Harley was still standing.

But I left that spot seriously chastened — and slowed my cruising speed down to around 50-55 (note on a highway in eastern Wyoming that’s like standing still). So very soon a steady stream of trucks began bearing down on me from behind. Then as Highway 287 bent south for the last 50-mile stretch to Rawlins, I began to get battered by westerly cross-winds, seemingly trying their best to push Harley on his side.

Had there been a crossroads, or a rest area, or even a wider shoulder I might have pulled over. But there weren’t any — not on that unenlightened stretch of roadway west of Rawlins — so I had to keep plugging along. Worse, the traffic heading out of Rawlins began to increase, so the cars and trucks that wanted to pass me from behind on the undivided highway began to take wildly insane chances against the oncoming traffic. This increased my stress-level tenfold.

By the time we finally reached Rawlins, I was totally exhausted, fingers and wrists nearly numb. Smoke from a huge BLM-monitored burn on the city outskirts darkened the sky even more. There was no room at the first hotel I tried. The second had smoking rooms only. The third had a room with two broken lightbulbs.

Perfect, I thought to myself. All we need to complete this picture is the sign at the entrance to Dante’s Inferno: “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”