Deep in the Teton Wilderness, I have one foot in the Atlantic Ocean. The other is in the Pacific. I turn 180 degrees. The foot that had been in the Atlantic is now in the Pacific and the Pacific one in the Atlantic. I lift my one foot out of the Pacific and, springing off the one in the Atlantic, land with both in the Pacific. Another standing broad jump has both feet in the Atlantic.
There are some states filled with people who carve elaborate sculptures out of mashed potatoes, or who recreate Stonehenge out of junked cars. Cities in other states have been known to erect palaces made out of corn or cast a 60-foot lobster in concrete. Wyoming has had a few of these eccentrics, both on the individual and municipal level (a prime example is Green River's Intergalactic Spaceport), but really, I think we might be a bit below the national average for oddness. At least when it is calculated using merely curious people. Perhaps it is because Wyomingites know that no matter what curiosity they concoct, it will always pale in comparison to the oddities Mother Nature set in our fair state. Even a Corn Palace would lose some of its luster when judged next to Parting of the Waters Natural Landmark, where North Two Ocean Creek flows down from a plateau, slams into the Continental Divide in the form of the summit ridge of Two Ocean Pass and then splits into two: the aptly named Atlantic Creek and Pacific Creek. Finding the spot where I was standing with one foot in each ocean, or at least in water that eventually made its way to each ocean isn't that difficult.
Parting of the Waters only scratches the surface though. Even taking Yellowstone's 10,000 geysers out of it – which could be an article unto themselves – Wyoming's got some pretty darn weird natural phenomenon. Don't take my word for it though; read on for yourself.
One upping even Parting of the Waters is Three Waters Mountain near Union Pass. Here, overly ambitious raindrops split into thirds: the three tiny driblets wending their separate ways to three different major bodies of water, the Gulf of California (the drop travels 1,300 miles), the Pacific (a 1,400-mile trip), and the Gulf of Mexico (3,000-miles distant). This is one of only two places in North America where three of the continent's seven major watersheds meet.
But not all of Wyoming's water gets around so much. There is a 90-mile wide, 50-mile tall area in the Red Desert, in the heart of the state, which actually drains nowhere! The Continental Divide splits and runs around it, leaving the few inches of rain the basin does get with no choice but to hang out (it usually eventually evaporates).
Getting away from the water, we have migrating mountains. Heart Mountain, just outside Cody, wasn't always the solitary peak it is now. Fifty million years ago, Heart Mountain was fully a part of the Absaroka Mountain range, dozens of miles away. Whether it had a tiff with neighbors or just wanted a change of scenery, there is no doubt Heart Mountain has indeed moved: rock at the
Popo Agie River, Sinks Canyon State Park The Wagner Perspective
8,123-foot peak's summit is 250 million years older that the rock at its base. The two pieces obviously hadn't always been joined.
There are several hypotheses explaining this; the scientific one seems, but only slightly, more plausible than the ones about aliens and giants.
Fifty million years ago, a series of volcanic eruptions in the Absaroka Range (these volcanoes are now extinct) rocked the area. Lava from these eruptions was trapped beneath a rock mass in the range roughly the size of the Hawaiian Island of Kauai and, with nowhere really to escape to, the Kauai-sized chunk was eventually tilted two-degrees from west to east. At the same time the rock was tilting, water-filled dikes within it – and if you haven't already guessed, this chunk is what is now known as Heart Mountain – were also filled with lava, and the lava heated both the water and surrounding rock. The uber-hot water had nowhere to escape to and the mountain began to work like a pressure cooker: as the water got hotter and hotter, the pressure continued to rise. Eventually, with nowhere to go but up, the pressure lifted the rock and the mountain began to slide. And slide, and slide. By the time all was said and done, Heart Mountain had left its former neighbors 62 miles behind. And if this isn't crazy enough, Heart Mountain made this trek east in less than 30 minutes, giving it an average speed of about 120 miles an hour.
An oddity you can appreciate without imagining ancient volcanic explosions are the singing sands of the Killpecker Dune Field. Just north of Rock Springs, The Killpecker Dunes sing; they are one of only seven areas of "booming" dunes in the world. The sand grains here are more rounded and polished than the sand grains of non-booming peers. But the shape alone wouldn't be enough if the sand didn't have a very low moisture content. Dry sub-surface stationary sand acts as a giant amplifier for even drier surface sand grains as they slip down the face of a Killpecker dune. When this happens, you'll hear a noise alternately described as singing, booming, roaring, and whistling.
We'll point out one more water oddity and then let you loose on the state to find your own curious quirks of Mother Nature. At Sinks Canyon State Park outside Lander, a major river just disappears. The Middle Fork of the Popo Agie (pronounced Po-Po-zsha, meaning Tall Grass River in the Crow language) rushes out of Wyoming's largest mountain range, the Wind River Mountains, and into Sinks Canyon. It flows merrily along for quite some time until it suddenly turns into a large cave and, as the name of the park and canyon suggest, sinks underground. It isn't until ¼ of a mile later that the river reemerges at a large, calm pool called "the Rise."
For a long time, no one was even sure the water at the Rise was the same water that disappeared into the Sink, but then scientists did dye tests and proved the two were one and the same. Tests also revealed more water emerges at the Rise than goes in at the Sink. No one knows where the water goes for the two hours it takes to get from the Sink to the Rise though … but that's just fine: curiosities and oddities are even more curious and odd when they can't be fully explained.
The only native trout species in Wyoming is the Cutthroat Trout and the Wyoming Game and Fish Department has a program that recognizes anglers who catch each of the four subspecies of cutthroat trout - Bonneville, Colorado River, Yellowstone and Snake River Cutthroat - known as "the Cutt Slam." read more
This geyser gets its name from the manner in which the water surges out from the superheated source – like a flicking, liquid dragon's tongue. read more
