When I was 12, my family moved from Vermont to Wyoming. As you might guess, it was quite a transition. Here I was: a New England boy used to rolling hills, abundant trees, air that was humid, and lots of little towns sharing borders with other little towns; but we were relocating to a sparsely inhabited desert plateau a mile and a half above sea level and surrounded by mountains – real mountains – not the green bumps we have here in New England.
I remember as we drove out, constantly quizzing my Father:
So Dad, we’re moving to Laramie, right?
So, what other towns are around it?
There aren’t any. Rawlins is the next town up on the highway, on the other side of the Snowy Range, about 100 miles away.
Huh, but … what’s in between? There must be towns in between!
Really? Well, but what’s in-between Rawlins and Laramie, then? There’s got to be something!
…The fact that every acre of land in the country wasn’t within some town’s boundaries, as is true here in New England, just did not compute for me. There was no such thing in my experience as a town that bordered on … nothing!