Long before I ever moved to Goshen County, Wyoming, to live on the bird farm, I traveled here to meet a friend from college and tour his farm and vineyard. As he was explaining the area landmarks, he mentioned something about Bear Mountain.
“What mountain?” I asked. I remembered passing some mesas, but certainly no mountains and none that I thought would be bear habitat. This place was pretty flat, as topograpy went in the Cowboy State.
“The big plateau looking thing as you head South toward Cheyenne. There’s a rock that juts out from it that looks like a bear.”
I contemplated the scenery on my drive home and did indeed locate “the bear.” I called The Ferd to tell him I’d arrived safely and thank him for dinner. I also told him the rock looked more like a prairie dog than it did a bear.
His response was prompt and vehement.
“You shut your damn dirty mouth, Terry. That’s a bear and no one can tell us locals otherwise!”
Now that I’m a resident, “the bear” greets me each time I leave or enter our county to the South. Even Wyokiddo likes to snap photos of the beast out her window. He’s a fixture on our drive to see Nana and a welcome site as we head for home after a long day in the big city.
He’s my bear and I’m sticking with him. (But I still think it looks like a prairie dog.)