Leaving Rock Springs was something akin to leaving a well-loved history book behind when visiting a friend: you want to share it and return to discuss at a later date but you hate leaving that beloved tome. Rock Springs had so much to offer but our time was limited; we managed a fleeting glimpse of Flaming Gorge, its red sandstone crags blending with the green of the valley as if Christmas was on its way.
Scooting up the road towards our turn-around destination, Jackson, we passed so much I’d like to return to see: the Wild Horse grazing grounds, the old historic district, the sand dunes, even the Reliance Tipple, and then the old stage coach route and all the various trails cutting through our road. But we knew we were headed to our beloved Jackson hideaway and a rest of eight days before turning around and heading east via a different route. A kind of elation hit us, silliness and singing and thinking of games we couldn’t possibly play while driving.
As the skies opened for their regular mountain afternoon summer downpour, I felt cleansed and happy, even with the mammoth unloading and unpacking before us. Not really home, but home at last.