A Wyoming Road Trip Took a Wild Turn, Thanks to a Mountain Lion

Sometimes the best travel plans are the ones you didn't make. Case in point: a family on a trip through Wyoming found themselves repeatedly pulling over for sights they absolutely hadn't anticipated. First, a giant sculpture made entirely of bicycles in Pringle, South Dakota. The kids, naturally, turned it into a ten-minute playground. Because, why not?

This spontaneous detour clearly set a precedent. Near Sundance, Wyoming, they encountered the "Quaal Windsock" – a vintage 1950s Beechcraft Twin Bonanza airplane, sporting a 45-foot wingspan, perched atop a 70-foot pole. Apparently, Mick and Jean Quaal loved their old plane too much to let it rot, but couldn't afford a full restoration. So, they put it back in the sky, literally, as a giant, pivoting weather vane. Its propellers still spin. Let that sink in for a moment.

The Unexpected Allure of Taxidermy

Their main objective was Devils Tower, that magnificent, flat-topped monolith that looks like it dropped straight out of a sci-fi film. In Lakota tradition, it's called Bear Lodge, its grooves said to be the claw marks of a colossal bear. It's a place of reverence and wonder, where prayer flags flutter and climbers inch their way up basalt columns.

But the real plot twist came in Hulett, a small, wonderfully old-fashioned Wyoming town nestled near the Tower. A sign for "Deer Creek Taxidermy" caught their eye. And just like that, another unscheduled stop.

Inside, Bobbi Butler, the proprietor, offered a tour. The walls were a silent, stoic menagerie of deer, elk, bears, and steers, all posed with an almost unsettling lifelike quality. The author's eight-year-old son, a vegetarian, quietly absorbed the scene.

Then came the offer that changed everything: "The guys are out back, and they're actually, I don't know if you'd like to see, but they are skinning a mountain lion." The answer, of course, was an immediate, resounding yes.

Outside, a mountain lion lay splayed, legs suspended, a fresh, visceral tableau. Two men worked with practiced efficiency. The son, initially declaring it "disgusting," couldn't tear his eyes away when one of the men offered him a leg to hold. Bobbi explained that a hunter had brought the cat in, proudly showcasing a formidable, curved claw.

Back inside, Bobbi demystified the process: animals are frozen, then thawed, their skins meticulously glued over custom high-density foam forms. "We order the foam," she explained, "then we take the skin out of the freezer and thaw it out, put glue all over the form, stretch the skin over it, sew it up down the back, put glass eyes in, and tuck the nostrils and eyelashes in." Yes, the actual eyelashes.

The son, now a budding taxidermy critic, asked about other creatures they'd preserved – a cow, a monkey, but no whales. He then offered his own suggestion: "I think it would be cool to do a rat."

What started as a trip to see a geological marvel ended with a surprising appreciation for Bobbi Butler's craft. It's not just about preserving the deceased; it's about making a deliberate choice to remember something, to present it anew. Like the Quaal's windsock or the bicycle sculpture, someone saw value, beauty, or a story worth telling, and decided to say, "Look at this, and look what I did with it." Which, if you think about it, is both impressive and slightly unsettling. And makes for a much better road trip story than just a big rock.