Life on the edge

Our route into Wyoming dropped us onto the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway, a ribbon of asphalt that twists through red-rock country and climbs to Dead Indian Hill — all sweeping cliffs and wild switchbacks. The kind of drive that makes you forget you’re technically on a highway. Somewhere up there, Kerri had spotted a dirt road she thought might make a good home for a few days, so we pointed Marcel at it and climbed.

At first, the road behaved. Then it didn’t. Ruts deepened, rocks multiplied, and the “pasture perfume” from nearby cows was undeniable. We passed one potential campsite — not enough view, too many landmines — and kept crawling upward. A second spot looked better but still just “meh.” A few hundred yards farther and the road itself started to look irritated with us. Time to quit while we were ahead. We backed down and settled into the second spot for the night.

While parked there, I fired up my off-road mapping app and noticed another road just around the corner — Bald Ridge. It looked promising. So in the morning we realigned our crosshairs and rolled out. The drive in was much friendlier, though we did have to sneak through a couple of barbed-wire gates while the local cattle glared suspiciously. The dirt road wound along the edge of those same gorgeous red cliffs, the valley stretching out below us. We weren’t aiming for anything specific — just waiting for that perfect “stop here” moment to jump out at us.

Three miles later, nothing had, until we spotted a rough two-track glaring back at us from up the hill to our left. Satellite view said it might be worth a shot. Into 4-low we went. The climb was steep — a proper goat path — chewed up by years of four-wheelers and erosion. But Marcel’s ground clearance earned its keep; we straddled the ruts and crawled higher. The road ended abruptly at a cliff’s edge overlooking the opposite valley. One look and we knew: this was it. Home for a few days.

The view was ridiculous — endless red canyons, the horizon on fire at sunset. Wyoming stretched out beneath us, silent and wild. We were perched on the world’s best balcony, and it was all ours. Bald Ridge delivered.

Kerri dove into her work, hammering away at the keyboard as deadlines loomed closer to the holidays. I knocked out a few lingering projects on Marcel. Evenings were for hot drinks, quiet conversation, and watching the sun drop behind the cliffs until the sky bled into stars. Who could ask for more?