Wahoo Mystery

Waxing Gibbous Moon

The Wahoo Riding Club is now defunct. About all I know is the following. There is still a sign for it. The location is near Salem UT next to Arrowhead Trail Road. It began in 1950. And it is no more. 

Wahoo Riding Club

If you want to write a western mystery novel, you can begin right there. Good luck, and if it turns out to be a bestseller and a movie, I claim “intellectual” property rights. For reals. This thing just might have legs.

I’m getting anxious about the next month or so of my trip. Starting Monday, there will be only one real town between Nephi UT (pronounced knee-fi) and Nevada. That would be Delta UT, where I have a new pair of shoes waiting at the Days Inn. After Delta, there are close to one hundred miles of nuthin all the way to the border. No services, no stores, no surface water. 

I will get some practice with that sort of ordeal on the three day trek between Nephi and Delta. Bobalooie will be asking for danger pay before too long. Thirty pounds of water minimum. Lug it and chug it.

Then Nevada is next – something like seventeen mountain passes separated by desert floor – the real Basin and Range via the Loneliest Highway in America.

Some guy attempted to ride his horse across Nevada on Hwy 50 a few years back – a freaking cougar jumped out of the bushes and snapped his horse’s neck right out from under him. 

Bobalooie beware 😉

Today was quite tolerable, with frequent town stops between Payson and Mona. Basically, it was a repeat of yesterday – just a little longer. I may or may not be violating some obscure Wilderness Managment Area regulation by inhabiting a tiny plot of land in the dark of night tonight. On the other hand, that might just be a Wahoo Riding Club rumor. Sure is pleasant country in these parts, though.

I ate my second breakfast at ~10 a.m. at the One Man Band Diner today in what I think was the outskirts of Payson. Pretty fair grub, but the lack of even one cute waitress brought the score way down. 

How it works: you enter the restaurant, pick a table, and order by number over a telephone at your booth. The cook, who is like ten feet away, takes your order and calls you back when it’s ready. He can hear you and you can hear him with or without the phone, making the whole thing preposterously silly. 

More importantly, what good is breakfast without a sassy brassy waitress who touches your shoulder when she pours your coffee and calls you Hon ten times? Ridiculous. And quite possibly unconstitutional. The founding fatherdudes are rolling in their graves.

Peace, Love, and Wahoo,

Palomino

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