Phil Roberts—1/3/22
How do you free a busload of new faculty from being stuck most of the day in the mud behind Como Bluff? Fortunately, we only had to answer the question once.
The recent death of Bill Laycock reminded me once again of the first “new faculty tour” I was asked to accompany back in the early 1990s. (There may have been such events earlier, but that “stuck-in-the-mud” expedition held some kind of legendary quality as the most memorable).
I was asked by someone at “Conferences and Institutes,” the UW division charged with organizing such outings. (I’ve forgotten who asked me to come. It may have been old friend Lynn Griffith or someone else over there who probably tried to get better-known Wyoming historians like Dr. Pete Simpson or Dr. Mike Cassidy before having to settle on me, a fairly new member of the faculty myself).
At any rate, I brushed up on the highlights of the itinerary, Laramie to the Sybille Research station, to Como Bluff fish hatchery, to Medicine Bow for lunch at the Virginian, to the coal mines north of Hanna and then to Saratoga for a quick stop at the Wolf Hotel and then over the Snowy Range to Provost Judy Powell’s home near Centennial for a reception prior to an ample dinner at the V-Bar. A modest itinerary, but quite a lot in one day. Two other “seasoned” faculty were asked to provide the running commentary, using the mic and sound system on the bus, a commodious one from UW’s fleet.
Prof. Jim McClurg from the University’s Department of Geology, would provide information on the rock formations and the coal deposits, while Prof. Bill Laycock, a specialist in Range Management and from that department, would talk about the various trees, grasses, and range forbs along the way. As the most junior of the trio, I was expected to fill in with bits of historical tales, as we’d move along. None of us were expected to get out of the bus, except for the few scheduled food/bathroom stops when we could stretch our legs and get our large-lecture-hall voices back to audible.
Rain had fallen all night, but it was early October and no snow was anticipated. It continued to rain as we loaded the bus with snacks and bottled water. Eventually, the 30 or so “new faculty” started to arrive and board the bus, reserving the front two seats for us “guides” and one large cardboard box of chips and crackers for distributing to the passengers in the front several rows.
As we set out, our host, Provost Powell, introduced herself and then the three “guides” gave quick biographies of themselves. We were beyond the old Diamond Horseshoe (then part of another enterprise) north of town when each participant careened back and forth up the aisle of the rocking bus to the front, took the mic, and briefly talked about her/himself. In between introductions, I had some time to point out the old UP roadbed, Howell Road, now straddling it to the northwest, and pointed out Wyoming, Wyoming, once a telegraph station on the original UP line where Edison visited John Allan, the telegrapher and childhood friend, when the young inventor paused on his scientific expedition to Rawlins where he’d view the total eclipse in 1878.
We made the turn at the “Wheatland cut-off,” and the rain continued. We were greeted by UW/Game and Fish staff who told us about the unique game station at Sybille and where we were told about their newest residents, the rare, endangered black-footed ferrets. Some 45 minutes later, we reboarded the bus, bound for the Como Bluff Fish Hatchery.
It continued to rain and the driver expressed some concerns with the condition of the gravel road we encountered as we turned off the highway, but Prof. McClurg assured him that the weather and heavy rains would not impede our travels. “I’ve been over it dozens of times in all kinds of weather and never had a bit of trouble,” he reassured the driver (and Bill and I who weren’t so sure it was as passable in heavy rain).
But we said nothing as the driver said loudly, “Good thing there’s no traffic coming from the other way because the road is so narrow and the shoulders look pretty soft…” Before he finished his sentence, a large pickup came careening down the road, fully expecting the bus to move to the shoulder with its right wheels in the mud. We were at the bottom of a long hill when we made the encounter, the ditch to the right at its muddiest on the route. As we looked behind the bus at the pickup speeding along up the next hill, we noticed the bus had slowed quickly and came to a complete stop. “About rolled it!” the driver said matter-of-factly. “Now we’re stuck in the mud.”
The din of animated conversations quieted to a concerned silence. The three senior faculty—the guides—sprang into action. “Let’s go out and give it a shove!” The driver swung open the door.
We saw immediately that giving the bus a push had not been a good idea—about the time our shoes sunk ankle-deep in the mud and when we saw that the bus was to its axles in mud on the right side. The tour organizers, Provost Powell and Griffith, from Conferences and Institutes, and the three of us conferred quietly next to the driver.
“My cellphone won’t reach from here,” Provost Powell announced. (It wasn’t surprising—cellphones were very uncommon and the cell tower industry was still in its infancy. We were low in a gully). That ruled out rescue by tow truck for the immediate future. In the 20 or so minutes since the initial encounter with the pick-up, no vehicle passed us from either direction.
Lynn volunteered to walk the estimated half-mile to the fish hatchery where she could either get towing help or, preferably, a replacement bus so that the tour could get back on schedule, being delayed only briefly. Meanwhile, the three veteran “guides” decided on a strategy. The driver pulled out a shovel about the size of an entrenching tool. While two would go out and try to shovel out the bus wheels (without tipping the bus over into the ditch), one of us would stay back to “entertain” the new faculty.
Jim and I went outside, despite the ankle-deep mud, and set to work while Bill began a long explanation of the nutritional qualities of the grasses they saw around them. Our work was futile—even counter-productive as the bus settled in deeper in the mud. When it was my turn to talk inside, I was caked in mud all the way to my chest, the driver having spattered us thoroughly by gunning the engine in the futile attempt to free his bus.
But each of us gamely took his turn—but to no avail. Lynn returned with news from the hatchery. There’d be no help there—the pickup that inadvertently forced the mess, belonged to the manager. Apparently, he’d forgotten about our tour and was driving into town to attend homecoming festivities before the big game. Improbably, not even the sight of the huge bus jogged his memory!
Someone volunteered to take Provost Powell’s cellphone to a high spot and try to call the University bus garage and get a replacement bus. (Cellphones were scarce in those days. I didn’t get mine until 1998 and I had to accept a number from either “Rock Springs, Sheridan or Cody” the latter, the one I accepted because I once lived there—I still have the number to this day, the third or fourth issued by that office).
When the report came back, Provost Powell was livid. Message from the bus garage? “Of course, you can have a different bus…once you turn in the one you have.” Because it was homecoming weekend, every bus was spoken for. In fact, once we were scheduled to return, about 7 p.m., our bus was set to take a sorority group to a “homecoming sing.” We’d be penalized if we didn’t bring the bus back in time—mud or no mud!
By that time, the café in Medicine Bow had given up on us ever arriving. Fortunately for them, they had steady crowds from Casper and elsewhere from north on Hwy. 287 stopping before the “big game” in Laramie. Soon, we were an unfortunate distant memory of a broken reservation.
The same thing happened at the mine. “Our guide has gone home, but you’re welcome to drive around out there and look as long as it’s before dark!” He added, “Try not to slide off into the pit because the mud is so deep we’d have to pull you out with our dragline….” We made a note to skip the mine “tour.”
What seemed like hours later, two smaller buses appeared, along with a huge tow truck. The three guides were relieved. We’d made little headway on freeing the bus. The new faculty on the bus were relieved, too. How many more descriptions of range forbs of Wyoming, geological strata, or minute history factoids about Wyoming, such as Buffalo Bill’s hat size (7 1/8 Stetson) or the year the state first required driver’s licenses (1947), can one group take in a day?
The faculty happily scrambled on to the two buses like they were life-rafts for the Titanic. The three mud-coated “guides” were instructed to sit in front of each vehicle and “not spread the mud around excessively.” The driver stayed with his stuck bus, advising the tow truck crew on how best to hoist out the stranded vehicle.
Off we went, skipping every scheduled stop until we drove over the Snowies and finally, by late afternoon, parked in front of Provost Powell’s home in the mountains outside of Centennial. At least, we wouldn’t miss the reception at her house and, later, the steak dinner at the V-Bar.
As to the aftermath: The bus was finally freed, the new faculty dropped off on campus, and the three guides washed the mud out of their hair and off their boots. Would the new “tradition” of taking new faculty to learn about the state continue? Strangely enough, it did–and the faculty on the tour bonded—and the three of us “guides” got to know each participant well over the years—all of us, the veterans of the “famous mud tour” of Wyoming.
Sometimes, adversity doesn’t necessarily end badly. It lives on as a unique memory.