Life's a journey: the call of the wild west | members only access

For the first 15 years we owned it, we spent no more than a few weeks at the cabin each year. I’d head to the Bitterroot to ride, leaving Van to stain the deck, replenish the woodpile, or

tackle any of the countless other chores that come with home ownership. But at least three or four days we always spent exploring together. Free of TV or internet (but eternally grateful for

Wyoming Public Radio), we’d drive the 80 miles over Togwotee Pass into the Grand Tetons or Yellowstone, or pack a lunch and bear spray for a hike to a nearby glacial lake. (Key to the

successful use of bear spray, according to the clerk who sold us our first canisters: “Spray it on the bear, not on yourself.”) When the sun and temperature dropped, we’d build a fire, play

CDs, read books. It was as idyllic as it sounds. Who cared if there was no dishwasher or mail delivery, and “emptying the trash” required a 12-mile round trip to the dump? Not us. Hayes and

her husband, Van, decked out in Dallas. Courtesy Tracy Achor Hayes The idea that we might someday spend an entire summer in Dubois was almost too delicious to imagine — until 2017, when my

husband retired from his graphic design job in the marketing department at the _Dallas Morning News_ and I found myself laid off from the editorial director position I’d accepted the year

before with the edgy Dallas fashion retailer Forty Five Ten. When we headed to Wyoming that July, Van once again told me not to worry: If I got bored, or missed restaurants, friends and

stores too much, he’d simply drive me to Jackson and put me on the next plane back to Dallas. But that never happened. In fact, we extended our stay each year, from six weeks to 10, then 12,

then 16. “Summer” now stretches into mid-October. We’ve put in a garden, taken up kayaking, and for my 65th birthday, went to the rock yard and picked out four huge granite boulders to

anchor the landscape. I still ride at the Bitterroot, but also now volunteer there each Sunday to greet guests — a role as satisfying as any fashion scoop or photo shoot. Bonus: It’s the one

day of the week when I have a semblance of a reason to “look cute,” maybe even put on a dress and a little lipstick. Nothing too fancy, though. PUTTING DIFFERENCES ASIDE The past four years

in Dubois have also imparted a valuable lesson that involves neither the grandeur of nature nor the safest way to secure a kayak to a roof rack: People who vote differently from me aren’t

my enemies. They’re the neighbors who offer to lend a chain saw, share firewood, or simply wave a friendly hello at the post office. They’re people who love this corner of the world deeply

enough to live here year-round, shoveling snow long after we’ve drained our pipes and hightailed it back south. I like to think we all gain perspective from knowing someone “other.” As I

write this, it’s mid-October and I’ve been back in Dallas less than a week. Yesterday, I put on a Dries Van Noten dress and drove downtown to meet girlfriends for lunch at the flagship

Neiman Marcus store. Tomorrow, I’ll have my first haircut in months and Van and I will join friends at a favorite Vietnamese restaurant for dinner. The city has its charms. But at night,

lying in bed, I hear the hum of the air-conditioner punctuated by occasional sirens and drag racers. The vast Milky Way is visible only in memory. With eyes closed, I picture the Dubois

cabin. Above our sofa hangs a giant metal W salvaged from some long-forgotten sign. Most people assume it stands for Wyoming, which it does. But also for the Wonder of nature and the Wisdom

of age. I’m so grateful for all three.