Little America

The signs proclaimed "180 gas pumps" "500 rooms" "Truck Wash" and other superlatives, just ahead. I remembered, on a trip we took when I was a child, stopping at this oasis in the middle of Wyoming nowhere. The history of the place said that the owner had been caught out here in a blizzard and vowed that if he made it through the night he would come back and would build a place for weary and lost travelers to find a place to eat, sleep and rest on their journey.

As I recalled, the place was all that. A little bit of everything where you would least expect it. And right on a newly created interstate highway. But I had already passed a number of places like this that had sprung up in the years since this original was built. Night was falling. I was tired. So I took the offramp and would see what was left of the place.

In the dimming light of sundown there wasn't much. All the buildings were scorched and melted metal framework. The gas pumps were all gone and there were a number of burned out, vandalized or stripped vehicles ranging from compact cars to full semi rigs with trailers.

I was too tired and it was getting too dark, so I just ate something and went to sleep. It might have been ghosts or indigestion, but I didn't sleep too well and was up with the dawn, looking around. I found the underground tanks. Some had already been broken into, but I was able to, with an acetylene torch, cut into one that hadn't and unscrew the heavy cap.

Smelled sweet #2 diesel beneath. I found a couple of empty fuel cans, got my portable pump that I had rigged to run on solar panels and dropped it into the fuel below. Pumped myself some insurance for up the road. That is, after I made sure that the fuel was filtered, treated and tested and that both of the tractor tanks were full. I found the remains of the truck wash but no way of using the burned up equipment. No water either. Would have to wait for a good gully washer to get that mud caked on the tractor removed.

I picked up a piece of plastic that turned out to be a placemat for the diner. After I brushed off the dirt, on it was the story by S. M. Covey with his picture:

"Away back in the nineties when I was a youngster and herding sheep in this dreary section of Wyoming, I became lost in a raging northeast blizzard and was forced to 'lay out' all night at this exact place where Little American now stands. That long January night in that terrible storm, with a fifty mile wind and the temperature about 40 below passed very, very slowly, and oh, how I longed for a warm fire side, something to eat and wool blankets. I thought what a blessing it would be if some good soul would built a house or shelter of some kind on that god-forsaken spot. Many times in my heart I've promised one there … and even dreamed it.

"A few years ago when I saw Admiral Byrd's photos of 'Little America' in Antarctica and his isolation so many miles from his base of supplies, it reminded me of my experience in that nor'easter. The thought came back to me to fulfill that promise to erect a monument and have a refuge on the spot of my harrowing experience. The name, of course, was a natural 'LITTLE AMERICA' . . . A promise kept . . . A dream come true ."

I looked around at the desolation and thought about what Covey would've thought of his dream of his now. He didn't live to see what it had become along a major interstate highway that I knew even in my youth. An oasis no more, all it provided me with was a sense of deep loneliness and a few gallons of precious #2 diesel. There was nothing left to do except to move on looking for shelter better than this. I thought of the Southwest desert because where there was no grass or ground cover of any kind, there would be no fire. Maybe some places had survived. Just maybe. In a place like this I didn't expect to find any humans except like me, traveling through.

What was encouraging was that I didn't see any more fires still burning and the whole area was green… Greener than I remembered it when it was all sagebrush. Even without much rain and the blistering heat that seemed to be over 100° every day, there was greenery and signs of life. I could see hawks, eagles and buzzards in the sky. There were crows and other birds by the roadside. An occasional mule deer or two grazing in the lush newly growing brush and more antelope all the time until I reached the highest point of the Continental divide and started the long downslope to Salt Lake City and the Great Salt Lake.

But it was getting dark, and at a little place called Echo, I saw a truck stop still standing and pulled in there for the night. I didn't bother to look around. I was tired, hungry and thirsty. So I crawled into the sleeper and started to fix myself some food when I heard it… Someone was knocking on my door. I reached for my 356 Magnum and took a look outside.