Wyoming, the shape-shifter, not entirely anchored to the same bedrock. I stare at the map and the places we stop don't even show up.

Hoodoo Rocks, no. I see the territorial prison site, Medicine Bow National Forest. Elk Mountain always shows up no matter where you are in the state. No to Hoodoo Rocks.

Then, there's the Fort on the river. Fort Steel. The first time I walk down the road from the rest area, I walk and walk. The sun comes up and the temperature shifts. Numbness crawls back out of my fingers. The gate's closed. Another hour. Not today. Tip and I turn around. War paint, stripe faces, a herd of antelope, not there in the past minute, flow like a wave away from us.

Fourth of July, you drive the tractor all the way through the Fort Steel gates. The tiny cabins, soldiers' cabins, collect shadows, only the far corners cool in the bright sun. There is an old photo posted, soldiers and their families, wrapped in coats, mittens, scarves, ice skating in the midst of open territory. We each carry a handle on the habatchi, down to the river, fire it up. You and I walk in the cottonwoods where the sunlight pales and flickers. We jump in the river and swim upstream, float back down. The water, the color of iced tea.

Where's the rest area at Pine Bluff? With the trails out in back and the archeological site? It's the only place I've run into a rattle snake. The snake was so little. New Years Eve 2000, we pull the truck in and park in the inky dark. I light votive candles, set them on the dash I will forever name "the mantle." The public radio station drifts in and drifts out. We have those little bottles, white wine comes in a six pack, at least it's not peach, and tins of smoked clams. Snow flakes brush across the windsheild. The trucks sways with the wind. The radio plays a recording, the Queen of England makes a speech. Milenium holds itself above us and then we all carry on.