One and only Bob Meer
by Doug Crowe
Shirley Basin and the Shirley Mountains are located about 40 miles due south of Casper. Both the basin and the mountains were named for John Shirley, a freighter who used teams of horses and wagons to haul supplies to people living in the area during the late 19th century.
Now, of course, you can drive there. Take State Highway 487 toward Medicine Bow and you will cross Shirley Basin and get a great view of the Shirley Mountains.
The view of "The Shirleys" is even more spectacular if you take the highway 77 cutoff, but I don't advise that in winter. I've seen snow drifts 40 feet deep where that highway comes up over the Shirley Rim.
In my youth, I spent a good deal of time roaming this chunk of country. I don't do that anymore. Much of the private land has been purchased by out-of-state interests and is closed to public access, a policy strictly enforced by a cadre of quislings.
Even so, I still have a store of great memories, many of which are associated with Bob Meer, one of the more colorful characters that inhabited that country b.c. (before carpetbaggers).
Bob's place was located at the foot of the northeast corner of The Shirleys, just a coupla' hundred yards south of the dirt road that runs from highway 77 west to the Miracle Mile.
He had a plain stick-built house, a ramshackle old barn that had, in his words, "been there since Christ was a cowboy" and an assortment of rickety sheds. His mailbox was a big old white refrigerator with "MEER" hand-painted on the door and a random assortment of bullet holes.
Ol' Bob didn't spend much money on architects, decorators or feng shui practitioners!
The ranch property itself stretched from The Shirleys north across Dry Creek to Chalk Mountain and the head of Elk Creek. It teemed with deer, elk and antelope and was one of my favorite haunts since I'd been old enough to hunt.
Bob's wife Jeanne was a Claytor from over along the Sweetwater. I knew the family because I worked that country as a youngster. Her brother Dick was one helluva cowhand and one of my boyhood idols.
Jeanne was a sweetheart and a world-class cook. You could hardly get through the door without her giving you a rib-crushing hug and then thrusting one or more succulent goodies at you. I was especially partial to her biscuits.
Bob, on the other hand, would greet you with a bone-crushing handshake and a water glass half-full of whiskey. He was an aficionado of brown liquor! We were kindred souls in that category, so much so that my plans often went off the rails when I was around the ol' boy.
As a case in point, I offer the following anecdote.
When in grad school at U-Dub, I found it necessary to occasionally get away from labs and classes and books. It was the only way I could maintain my tenuous hold on sanity. So, one bright Friday afternoon in October, I decided a couple of days hunting would be just the ticket.
Two hours later, I pulled into Meer's front yard. Bob was on the porch. I told him I was going to camp on the head of Elk Creek and see if I could find a deer. He replied that he didn't give a damn where I camped, but I should come in and have a drink and a bite to eat.
I knew how that would end up, and told him I'd rather get on over there before dark. He said if I wouldn't have a drink with him, I could just "get my over-educated butt back to Laramie."
So, I trooped into the house to get squeezed by Jeanne and handed a whiskey by Bob. Other than that, I don't remember much about that weekend until I was headed down the road to Laramie on Sunday.
I was probably about five pounds heavier, had a headache that would have killed a sane man and, for once, was actually relieved to be headed for the sanctuary of academia.
Wyoming has about run out of Bob Meers. It’s a damn shame if you ask me!