The solace of open spaces.

The Solace of Open Spaces

WYOMING is barely a blip on America's cranial radar. When the state does surface in the American consciousness, it is in blurred visions of gun slingers roaming around such seemingly mythical places as Laramie and Cheyenne; or else in more modern but no less distortive thoughts of jet-set ski condos in Jackson Hole. Reflections in most national media nurture the fantasy. Few people (about 500,000) live in this state, whose area is twice that of New York State, and very few outsiders stop long enough to see beneath the stereotypical surface of a romantic Western novel. But a handful of "outsiders" do stay awhile: grasping the reality, accepting the harshness in exchange for the soothing, healing powers of the open spaces.

One of these is Gretel Ehrlich, an ex-Californian who discovered and delights in the "muscular scarps," the "milkshake brown rivers," and even the trademark Wyoming wind, "pruning the sage." For both the natives and their urban cousins, Miss Ehrlich has done a real service, performed with flair: The Solace of Open Spaces captures the essence of a huge, desolate, yet cozy place, where the notched-down and uncrowded pace of life easily compensates for the lack of nearness to the levers of power and the comfort of the urbanized landscape. Often, even native Westerners forget about--or are forced to be defensive about--those qualities. Surely, nothing truly great can originate in that great empty quarter; certainly, life there must be inferior, according to a world view in which the establishment of a McDonald's in a community is viewed as a coming of cultural age.

Miss Ehrlich paints a different--though not entirely pleasant, and sometimes even disturbing--picture. But hers is a largely accurate portrait, which has apparently succeeded in capturing the imagination of many readers.

"I had not planned to stay . . ." Indeed, Miss Ehrlich came to Wyoming during a painful time in her life, after learning that her lover and co-worker was about to die. What had been a planned joint project to film sheepherders in the Big Horn Mountains for the Public Broadcasting System became a solitary effort filled with remorse. Disoriented by David's death, Miss Ehrlich wandered aimlessly for two years before returning to northern Wyoming to spend a "scarified" winter alone in a one-room mountain cabin.

This collection of essays details a succession of experiences, along with a parallel chronicle of the author's growing love for the often-harsh and unforgiving ranch life. Most notable are the odd lot of characters that give the West its real flavor; such as "Amorous albert," the leering sheepherder whose sexual advances she must fend off; Ellen, the great-granddaughter of Ralph Waldo Emerson who runs her own ranch alone; and John, the tough-but-tender Mormon-descended sheepman who takes Miss Ehrlich under his wing and eventually places her in charge of her own flock. Another sheepherder, who guns down several cows and lands unregretfully in jail, recalls the early-day conflicts between sheepmen and cattlemen. Meanwhile, mixed drinks in "go cups" are routinely purchased at liquor-store drive-in windows.

Still, the solace of Wyoming life often wears thin. The "sperm, blood, and guts business of ranching" also means, in winter, stretches of forty-and fifty-below-zero days, when people and machines grind to a halt; and, in summer, scorching days sprinkled with the task of winching still-born calves from a "cow's heaving flank." And there is a "dark side to the grandeur of these spaces": the "small-mindedness that seals people in," the violence and heavy drinking spawned by cabin fever. None of these, however, outweighs the compensations: the bull elk bugling and "buck deer sparring in front of my bed" on the cabin veranda; the bonds of the "extended ranch family"; and the intimacy, "with a slightly erotic tint," that grows out of the annual cattle roundups.

Miss Ehrlich is at her best experimenting with words to describe her delight in new images of old Western truths. The only departure from the roughness and rewards of ranch life comes during a dubious trip to Oklahoma City, for a honeymoon at the National Rodeo Finals with her new husband (whom she met at a John Wayne film festival). The ode to rodeo is nice, but, compared to life in Miss Ehrlich's precarious survival perch, going to Oklahoma City and staying in a motel seems pretty plain and normal.

Wyoming, which only recently became a booming state when demand soared for its oil, gas, and coal, is today on the skids again. Its ranches, like the Midwestern farms, are disappearing. Americans, who once thrived on beef and demanded eight-cylinder cars with tailfins, are eating cuisine minceur, turning down their thermostats, and getting more miles to the gallon. Now, the talk in the state is about economic development, bringing in new industries in order to diversify. But real salvation may lie in finding a way to mine, refine, and accept the solace so exquisitely described by Gretel Ehrlich.