Cowboys are America. They’re more than mere cattle herders, standing tall athwart the rugged, untamed landscape. They’re the archetype—our archetype—of grit, endurance, and wholesome purpose.

Europeans often refer to Americans as cowboys. Sometimes as an insult (as in, “You’re an uncivilized brute!”) Sometimes as a compliment (as in, “You’ve got to be tough to accomplish all you have.”) And sometimes as a plea (as in, “Come save us from these terrible people!”)

Or, to borrow a line from Rick Blaine in Casablanca, “There are certain sections of New York, Major, that I wouldn’t advise you to try to invade.” Ah, Rick, you old cowboy, you.

You see, to conquer the rugged, untamed frontier, you must become rugged—if not a bit untamed. That’s the enduring cowboy spirit. As solid and immovable as the mountains that form the backdrop of the American West. In fact, that curtain of mountains is nearly synonymous with the cowboy.

Before the cowboy became myth, these mountains framed him—on film and in the American mind. Don’t believe me? Just watch that famous chronicler of the American West: the Hollywood motion picture industry. When John Wayne landed his first leading role in a major film (The Big Trail), the Teton Range offered the real background. Likewise, when you watch the epic “good versus evil” Western Shane, what do you see rising behind the action? The Grand Teton Mountain itself.

The Tetons emerge in serene beauty as sharp, young peaks from a sea of spruce trees (or, depending on your view, from a blissful lake). Only six to ten million years old, the Teton Range is among the freshest of the Rocky Mountains. This relative youth accounts for its jagged, sharp appearance.

Mirroring the youthful vigor of the cowboy, the Teton Range testifies to the time in America when cowboys roamed the West. This excitement of our nation’s formative years invigorates us like the cool, thin air along the eastern slopes of the Tetons. The mood immediately shifts from the fiery Yellowstone to the stoic grandeur of the Tetons. Stoic not only in the mountains, but in the men who first subdued this wilderness.

The afternoon drive is nearly as long as the Range itself, but, thankfully, far smoother.

The Grand Teton National Park opens before us with breathtaking classic vistas of timeless beauty. Not only the mountains, but the scenic lakes offer calming views. In the bright summer sun, it is nature at its best. You can’t just drive straight through; you have to stop and immerse yourself in this serene landscape. It suddenly makes sense why cinematographers found this scene so alluring.

Our first stop is the Colter Bay Visitor Center on Jackson Lake. The view around us shimmers like a jewel-laden tiara. Through the trees and over the sparkling blue water rises Mount Moran. We get a more direct view of the mountain when we stop at the dam that enlarged Jackson Lake.

As we meandered alongside the unseen Snake River, the geography to our west flowed like a painting in motion. That’s not meant as a compliment. The afternoon sun edged towards evening, providing a troublesome backlight to the stars on the stage. They appeared darker than ideal to the photographer’s eye. The more distant they were, the more the darkness washed out the mountains.

My thoughts flashed back to fifth grade when my prize picture came in third in the school art contest (see “Sometimes Second Best Turns Out To Be the Very Best,” Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel, March 24, 2016). The art teacher and judge of the competition explained what I did wrong with my painting of mountains. I made the mistake of not making the base of the mountains darker and then gradually lightening them as they went up, even though I had darkened the back mountain.

OK, in all honesty, that darker background mountain was merely a coincidence. It doesn’t even rate as a lucky guess. I just happened to have painted it a different color because otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to tell one mountain from the other at the point of merger.

On the other hand, the late-day sun painted the mountains exactly as the art teacher advised. But seeing it so vividly before me in real time emphasized his point.

Grand Teton Mountain and its nearby partners grow dramatically from the carpet of Wyoming sagebrush. They stand in stark contrast to where we spent the morning. Yellowstone is a hot, noisy brew belching from the fire and brimstone immediately below it. The Tetons—silent, stern, and watching with an icy gaze—rise like a cathedral. In fact, geographers have dubbed these summits between Cascade Canyon (to the north) and Avalanche Canyon (to the south) the “Cathedral Group.” Theirs is the very image in every brochure depicting the entire range.

Indeed, the descending sun provides a heavenly aura. The pyramid peaks stand stoically above the fir trees that congregate from the valley below and make a slow climb up the lower ascent. A single divine beam reaches down to bless them. You don’t move. You can’t move. The awe and spectacle of the reflective moment freeze you like one of the glaciers on the mountains themselves.

Soon, however, the stomach overcomes the heart. It’s time for dinner at the Trapper Grill inside the Signal Mountain Lodge. Its rustic charm blankets you, not only from the timber frame within its interior, but also from the menu itself. It had everything from Trout Tacos to Bison Burgers. It even had ribs and pulled pork (but alas, no brisket). We started with the Nacho Mountain appetizer. For dinner, of all things, I had a pesto chicken sandwich (which sounds more urban than rustic). It was quite good.

From there, we made a quick run to Jackson Hole, the famous stomping ground of the rich and famous. It wasn’t rich and famous when movie companies camped there during the filming of early Hollywood westerns. But its inspiring beauty called to those who had the means to own second homes. In a way, it exudes the same vibe as Wall Drug. Only it’s “cowboys meet capitalism” on steroids. The wood-fronted facades along Main Street exude “Wild West,” but the nameplates on those buildings evoke “high-end boutique.”

We’re there for only a night in the cheapest hotel room we could book. It’s also the most expensive hotel we booked on the entire trip. Somehow, it doesn’t match the feel of what we’re looking for. Thankfully, the ever-present itinerary demands we wake (and leave) before dawn’s early light.

Why? Why else? Like moths to a flame, we’re drawn to the sweet illumination of morning. Today’s target: the very photographic visage of the abandoned Thomas Alma “T.A.” Moulton barn in Mormon Row. The area, settled in the 1890s, was sustained for nearly sixty years before the last settlers sold their land to the Park Service. T.A.’s brother John also has a barn there, but the backdrop isn’t quite as impressive.

Before we get there, however, we delight in seeing the morning sun reveal the Tetons in a new light. Backlit, they’re dark, towering, and imposing (yes, cathedral-like). Fully lit from the front, they’re bright, soaring, and inspiring. They fill the new day with optimism, evoking the frontier spirit. Of course, under crystal blue skies and surrounded by crisp, cool air, an old man can’t help but breathe in the promising hope of those youthful August days when double sessions reigned on the high school football field.

It’s the same feeling. Less a cathedral. More of a chapel. Like a work of art God forgot to sign (or did He forget?). Even nature looks in rapt respect at His divine work.

One wonders if that’s what the Mormons saw when they came to these parts. They must have seen themselves and their wooden cabins as the David to the Goliath of the towering Tetons. Certainly, they looked to God’s handiwork for the spiritual strength required to endure the relentless reality of their harsh environment. In a way, these homesteaders channeled the same grit and stoicism as the cowboys before them and the mountains behind them.

The golden glow of morning painted Moulton’s barn in a surreal brightness. It, too, reflects the Hand of God. As if He blessed those brave enough to build a life under the stare of the Tetons, and disciplined enough to avoid the temptation to seek what treasures might lie beyond those mountains.

It was a picture-perfect setting. Figuratively and literally.

Satisfied, we said goodbye to Moulton, his barn, and the rest of Mormons Row. It wasn’t long before we said goodbye to the Tetons as the highway took us to the open plains. Once ruled by wild herds, cattle, and—yes—even Butch Cassidy, today it was nothing but endless grassland and highway heat. Thankfully, there were no storms. On the other hand, there were no wild horses (or the song “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones), either on the prairie or on the car’s speaker (unlike our northern trek into Cody a few days before).

The aim of the late morning was Laramie, Wyoming. Specifically, the University of Wyoming. Home of the Cowboys. And finishing school once for an ambitious quarterback by the name of Josh Allen. The college appears to be a Mecca for fans of the Buffalo Bills’ quarterback. Wearing my ever-present Bills cap, I heard echoes of “Go Bills” in the courtyards and hallways we passed through.

Two things struck me as we debated whether to eat lunch at the Library Sports Grille & Brewery. First, isn’t it an interesting coincidence that a quarterback of such raw, rugged talent would land in such a raw, rugged territory? Second, isn’t it appropriate for the frontier way? After all, from cattle drives to touchdown drives, Wyoming’s still all about Cowboys.

A quick Wendy’s drive-through won the lunch debate, with the itinerary having the final say. To meet Cesidia at the appointed hour in Denver, we needed to be at the Ames Monument by 2:00 pm.

The stark granite pyramid sits forgotten on a road to nowhere. In its isolation, it rises with a solid, patient grandeur, not unlike the Teton Mountains. As the Tetons represent raw, natural youth, this structure evokes America’s engineered muscle. Designed by the renowned architect Henry Hobson Richardson (who also designed the State Hospital in Buffalo, NY), it was built on what was then the mainline of the Union Pacific Railroad and the highest point on the newly constructed transcontinental railroad. It memorializes brothers Oakes and Oliver Ames, whose money and connections played an important role in completing the transcontinental.

Never mind that it was erected in 1882, long after the brothers died and nearly a decade after they were implicated in a 1873 financial scandal pertaining to the use of government money for railroad construction. Of course, when the railroad moved its mainline a few miles south in 1901, Union Pacific took the track but left the Ames Monument. Only an itinerant cattle herder (or rustler?) would occasionally see it.

Alas, cowboys may roam, but monuments stay to mark the legend. More than a century later, only an itinerant tourist dares drive on the rocky dirt road to its barren landscape. And only in daylight. The good news, however, is that the state of Wyoming expended the funds to make this memorial to ambition, corruption, and immortality in stone handicap accessible.

In truth, and those who appreciate poetry will notice this, the Ames Monument defines a pivot point for America. It signals the descent of the cowboy and his horse and the ascent of the iron horse. Today, the Ames Brothers, as well as the once mighty railroads, have been relegated to an overlooked corner of history. Right next to the cowboy.

But not the cowboy spirit. America embraces ambition, permanence, and the power of ego (as in self-determination, self-reliance, and self-confidence). It’s not a cattle drive anymore, but a different kind of drive. That kind of drive that looks at mountains and aims not only at what lies far behind them, but what lies far above them.

But we had our own drive. It was time for Cesidia to rejoin our adventure.

Since I’ve already waxed philosophic, why not keep the ball rolling?

Remember the column that started this series? (See “Go West, Young Man! The Open Road Calls,” Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel, July 10, 2025, if you don’t.) On the way to Denver, we passed by Greeley, Colorado. Actually, much like America, we intentionally bypassed Greeley.

Horace Greeley promoted a socialist vision for America. What do you think a cowboy would think about that? In the West, you eat what you kill. It’s the Cowboy Code. You help others, too, but only to help themselves. There’s no room on the stage for a free rider. Socialism is all about free riders.

Cowboys may wander, but they always ride with a purpose. Not everything missed is a mistake. Some gates are left closed to keep you on the right trail. Some exits we skip for a reason. In our travels, we all have a Greeley—something that tempts us from pursuing our real purpose.

Much as America rode forward into its future with purpose and bypassed Greeley’s socialism, so too did we look forward to meeting up with Cesidia. We purposely bypassed the town of Greeley to make a beeline for Denver. The transition from frontier stillness to city bustle was not lost.

For the last several days, since we left Chicago, Cesidia was on her own adventure. It was now time for our two adventures to merge. She arrived in Denver the day before and scouted the city ahead of time, so we didn’t have to. We met her at the predetermined location. She climbed aboard the Expedition and promptly dropped her bag, shattered the souvenir Denver shot glass. (She later bought a replacement, but not a duplicate).

Arriving at the Hyatt House Denver Tech Center, we returned to urban comfort. But the West still lingered. Specifically, at Finn McCool’s, where we once again sated our stomachs with western fare (if you can count Buffalo Wings in that category). The sports bar provided all sorts of entertainment in addition to casual comfort. We played the trivia contest with everyone else, except we didn’t submit our answers. And rightly so. We didn’t want to antagonize the locals. Who knew what they’d think about having these New York Yankees best them at their own game?

Of course, other forms of entertainment could be had at no extra cost. For example, since we sat next to an exit door, a rush of blast furnace heat from the near 100° summer sun would blow in our faces. (And you thought the Buffalo Wings were hot!).

Then there was the thrill of voyeurism. We couldn’t help but overhear the telephone conversation from the table next to us. Apparently, the boss (who was at the table) had no problem letting the rest of the Finn McCool’s patrons know exactly what he thought of his underperforming employee. It’s very possible he fired the worker right there in front of us. It’s also very possible that this employee was his child. We didn’t stay long enough to find out. And it’s probably better for everyone that we didn’t.

The cowboy hasn’t vanished. They’ve adapted. They still ride. Even if the saddle now has four wheels and heated seats. The next frontier is forever on his mind.

As we drove back to the hotel, we saw tomorrow’s venture on the horizon. If the Tetons were America’s cathedral of youth, then the Rockies stand as its temple of maturity.

With the youthful Tetons behind us, their jagged peaks still echo the cowboy’s cry. But as we face the Rockies, we hear the call of the astronaut’s dream.

These are the mountains that speak of a nation that dares to climb higher still.

Tomorrow, we’ll be the ones climbing higher.