Twelve miles up the mountain, there was a little rest stop on the left hand side. When I caught up to Roger, he was stopped and talking to two other bikers. They were a young couple from San Francisco and had left the Bay Area in late May to begin biking up the coast to Florence, where they joined the TransAmerica Trail. Apparently they had quit their job, gave up their apartment and bought touring bikes. The guy was riding a Gunnar Crosshairs, the same bike as mine, just a different color. "Did you get your Gunnar at American Cyclery?" I asked.

"Yup."

"Did Bradley sell it to you?"

"Yup, bought it around April."

"Me too, small world, huh?"

Eight miles later, we were on top of Togwotee Pass, riding through the high mountain meadows at close to 10,000 feet. It was the highest point to date on our trip and was as spectacular as McKenzie Pass. Probably more so, because the wild flowers were so absolutely brilliant. There were fields, perhaps 10 acres wide, that were completely filled with white, yellow, blue, purple and red flowers. Cutting through the fields were countless streams, some flowing to the Pacific, some to the Atlantic, for Togwotee Pass is also the continental divide. When we reached the pass, it was the fifth time of the trip that we crossed the continental divide.

Later that day, around 1:30, Roger and I reached the little cowboy town Dubois. Dubois has all the character and charm that you're looking for in a western town, without the commercial explotation aimed at tourists. While the town does cater to the passing traveller, it has kept true to itself and is a thriving community of about 1,000 people. The main street is lined with wooden planks instead of sidewalks, eateries, saloons, general mercantile shops, and a hardware store. The buildings are made of rustic wood and still wear the simplistic false fronts of mining towns past. About two blocks off Main Street, you can walk up to the abandoned mining shafts that used to fuel the areas economy. Unfortunately, the Forest Service closed off access to the mines, so our sightseeing had to be done from a safe distance.

The town was inviting enough, the weather hot enough, and our legs tired enough, that Roger and I decided to get a motel with a pool and spend a rest day in Dubois. In case your wondering, Dubois is pronounced "Dew-Boys." Apparently, when the town was first settled, it was called No Sweat, but when the townsfolk went to register the name with the government to set up a post office, the post master didn't like the name and decided to name the town after himself instead, Dubois. Being the rebellious cowboys that they were, the towns people refused to call the town Dubois, with a french accent, and added their own western twist, "Dew-Boys."

Later that afternoon, after checking into the motel, going for a dip in the pool and taking a nap, Roger and I went out to walk around town. We stopped in a place that sold the most ecclectic range of goods that I can remember seeing, it sold everything from Royal Enfield motorcylces to fishing licenses to camping gear. We walked by the National Bighorn Sheep Interpretive Center (the mountains in the Dubois area hosts the largest herd of Bighorn Sheep in the world, but I didn't see any), the regional historical museum, hosts of cafes, a saddlery, and a place where you can outfit yourself with all of the latest in western cowboy wear. Even though I am riding my "steel horse" across the west, I resisted all urges to purchase big furry sheep-skin chaps, spurs, a leather vest with a silver "sherrif" pin, and a red bandana to wear around my neck. In this heat, my spandex shorts and biking jersey will have to be all I got, who cares if the real cowboys make fun of me.

About the time Roger and I were gettting hungry for something to eat, a pickup truck came roaring down Main Street and stopped right beside us. "What are you guys doing here, I thought you'd be miles down the road by now?" It was Dave and his friend John, as well as a cab full of other people I wasn't introduced to. "Come on over to the Rustic, we're all heading there for Friday Happy Hour." Without hesitation, Roger and I crossed the street and walked into the Rustic to join Dave and his truck load of friends for a few drinks at Happy Hour.

What a magnificent western saloon the Rustic is. When we walked in, we were greeted by the jukebox with country western songs, as well as head nods and hellos from all the locals. Hanging from the wall next to the bar, I counted eight Bighorn Sheep heads of various sizes. Above the booths, across from the bar itself, hung a collection of heads I have yet to see in a saloon. I stopped in a hotel lobby once that had perhaps 25 big game heads displayed proudly around the room, but that was not a saloon so that didn't count. The rustic had moose heads, deer heads, bear heads, and in the center of it all, a gigantic elk head with 18 point antlers that were at least four feet high.

"That head right there won a blue ribbon." I turned to look where the voice was coming from and saw an old man with a long white beard, bushy white eyebrows, tan, leathery skin, a flannel shirt, freshly pressed, bright blue denim jeans and a cigarello sticking out of the side of his mouth. I could have sworn I was staring 80 years into the past and looking directly at one of the frontiersman of the wild west. His name was CJ and was Dave's friend, John's father.

"Did you shoot that Elk?" I asked.

CJ laughed, "Oh no, it would be hanging in my house if I did. A fella from town shot it though. Took it to the fair where it won first place. They said they hadn't seen one so nice before. I like to hunt though. That's why I love it around here. I live up in the mountains north of town and every fall I go out hunting for moose, sheep, elk, antelope, you name it. Best hunting in the world around here."

"Did you grow up around here?"

"No, Cheyenne. That's where my boy, John, lives now. No, I always wanted to live in these parts and finally 7 years back on my 75 birthday I finally bought me some land and built a cabin up there in the woods. The only way you'll ever get me out of here now is in a box." CJ started laughing and coughing at the same time, I suppose a result of a lifetime of smoking. "Yup, I love Wyoming. I'm 3rd generation, you know. John's fourth generation. Spent my life mining the hills all over the west, coal mining. We used to mine the hills over there, then go up to Montana, Idaho, and Colorado. Real tough work. Then once we mined the coal, we used to mix it with water then send it through the pipes on down to Colorado to a processing plant. From there, they would separate the water from the coal, process the coal and use it for energy. It was a tough job."

"Are most of the people around here ranchers or miners?"