Though, for this animal, it is probably not this summer, unless it wants simply to remember (i.e. be alive) (which it probably is not).
Wyoming is so empty, but it is not the emptiness of the desert or of the ocean. It’s not the emptiness of West Texas that stretches on for miles, barren and baking land.
Here there is the appearance of life. Grass and brush cover the hills and copses of trees stand their (mostly leafless) guard. There’s water running in a creek nearby, and frogs that are calling out their name, rank, and serial numbers after months of hibernation. Right around the Jentel homestead there’s a pimpernel of robins (they don’t yet have a group name, and so I claim the right of naming for myself. Hereversoafter a group of robins will be called a pimpernel. At least by me.) and some sandhill cranes are roosting somewhere in the area. They, too, you can hear murmuring in the distance.
But for the most part, you can walk for half-an-hour or more and see no other animals. On the dirt county road you won’t be passed by a truck (invariably a truck) and you won’t see deer (mule or white-tailed) or antelope or geese or magpies or marmots. You’ll find yourself talking to the just-now-rebudding trees or dead whatever-the-hell-this-is.
Banner, Wyoming (and Wyoming, perhaps, in general) is a place where you can see for miles around you. The air is so clear that I can pick out (large, admittedly) details on the top of a mountain thirty miles away. But when I’m on a walk, I can see the entire landscape around me, and it seems like I’m the only living thing in it.
Besides the vegetation.
Sorry for being a kingdomist.