A Blog Along The Lincoln Highway

The speed limit in Nebraska on the interstate is 75. Whoosh! We breeze on into Wyoming, decide we can’t afford even a quick stop in Cheyenne, same excuse for not stopping again at the famous Tree in the Rock attraction in the median of I-80.

We sail right by the Lincoln statue at my favorite rest area of all time, although Bob gets what-we-call a “rolling shot” out the passenger window, and so, having saved all that time, we can get off in Laramie and take Route 30, here following the path of the old Lincoln Highway, north to Medicine Bow.

I think it may be my favorite stretch of the old highway. It’s rural and starkly beautiful. Most of the ranches seem to be on the right (or east) side of the road. And Bob starts pointing out all the wildlife. Antelopes galore. More antelopes mixed in with cattle. So many antelope Bob thinks someone may be raising them. The couple of little towns are intriguing too.

We had taken this route last August. What happens is this: 30 makes an arc to the northwest and then comes back south gradually to rejoin I-80 a few miles east of Rawlins, Wyoming. At the top of the arc is the old town of Medicine Bow. The Union Pacific Railroad comes through the town, there are some interesting looking structures, remnants of earlier busier days, but the main attraction is the Virginian Hotel. In many ways it’s a living relic of nineteenth century Western life. The bar could easily be used in any Hollywood western. The Hotel serves meals and has old style rooms upstairs. Inexpensive, old style hotel rooms. Bathroom down the hall. If you long to live life like a cowboy, you should definitely consider a visit to this American classic inn.

The great American writer Owen Wister wrote his masterpiece, The Virginian, while living here, and its most famous line is posted on a sign on the front of the building. There are many reasons to respect and admire the joint.

We get there just as the sun is setting and Bob with camera and Glenn with tripod move fast. There isn’t a lot of traffic on the highway, but the parking lot at the Virginian is pretty full, and there is a pretty steady coming and going of clientele. We decide to eat here, but I have reservations at a motel in Rawlins, and tall Bob decided last year that he couldn’t sleep in one of the old-style single beds.

We drive after sunset southwestward on 30, and we get into Rawlins around 10.

We stay at an overpriced Holiday Inn Express where the wireless internet isn’t working. I can’t log on to the internet. I call Glenn’s room and he is having the same problem. Our computers sense the wireless network, but no server can be reached. We just get a blank screen. It’s frustrating. So I call the front desk. A couple of times. I walk down to the lobby to see if it might be working there, but no luck. The big woman on the night shift at the front desk has an Amy Winehouse black bouffant and treats me like I’m mentally deficient. “Our computers are fine,” she says. So I ask if there’s anywhere or anyone we can call. “No. There’s nothing we can do.” Hmm. I’m tired of fighting. To bed.