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In Wyoming, the Pieces Fall Into Place

SOME years back, during the restless youth that is so essential to myth and writers of cowboy fiction, a young Easterner named Craig Johnson drove a truckload of horses to northern Wyoming and thought, “This is the sort of place I could maybe spend the rest of my life,” or something darn close to it. He hung out at a bar called Buck’s, let the horses romp in the public corral and slept on the roof of the horse trailer, where he could see the thick stripe of the Milky Way galaxy.

By JOYCE WADLER

Full Story: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/04/garden/04cabin.html?_r=1

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