Guest Posts on County 10 are provided by contributors and the opinions, thoughts, and comments within are their own and may not necessarily reflect those of County 10.
I’m not sure they even knew each other, but this is Wyoming, and the odds are that they did. How many people do you know who have a connection with someone that you had no idea existed? In the Cowboy State, it’s a common occurrence.
The state lost three greats last week, and I lost three friends. They all worked in divergent areas, but each one made an impact on the world around them. They will all be missed.
About 10 days ago, I walked into the Fremont County Courthouse in Lander to pay sales tax and get plates for a vehicle. Every time I found myself at the treasurer or clerk’s office, I made it a point to drop by the assessor’s office on the far end of the hall. If I was lucky, my friend Tara Berg was working. She always had time for a conversation.
I’m not the only one who appreciated our intelligent, hardworking county assessor. She was well liked by everyone who knew her.
Tara wasn’t in that day. I learned a few days later that she would not be back. After a medical trip to Salt Lake City, she never returned.
Tara was from one of the great, historic families of Fremont County. Tim and Rosanne McKinney raised Tara and her older brothers on the historic Derby Ranch on Spring Creek.
Tara was instrumental in getting an interview arranged with her dad, the former sheriff and Fremont Vocational High School football star, and his cheerleading wife for a story on the history of the Derby Ranch. It is a tremendous family.
Tara married into another outstanding Fremont County family on the other side of the Wind River Valley, the Berg clan. Her husband, Brett, was the son of Delene and Ray Berg, teachers and administrators in Riverton. They were friends with my parents, and I was honored to work with both of them.
I can’t imagine the hole in Brett’s life with the departure of Tara.
If anything, her passing is a not-so-gentle reminder of the fragility of our existence on this planet.
That was the case with another friend, one from the sports world, Frank Gambino. Frank and I met through the late George Kay of KTWO sports. When George retired, we all thought that the coverage KTWO was renowned for from the 1970s to the 1990s would be diminished. It wasn’t. Frank, a Chicago native, took the baton without missing a stride.
Frank and I texted and called to exchange sports information and photographs over the years.
We always had a great time at state sporting events, particularly the state track meet, where we often tripped over each other at the finish line.
When I took the position at County 10 almost five years ago, I asked the guys if they ever shared images with WyoPreps. They said no, they’d tried, but WyoPreps never wanted to do it. I said, let me give it a try.
I called Frank, and he quickly agreed. We’ve shared stories and images ever since.
As Kenny Rogers sang in The Gambler, “The best you can hope for is to die in your sleep.”
That’s how Frank left us. It was a shock to his family and friends.
As Prentice Ritter, played by Robert Duvall in Broken Trail, said, “We are all travelers in this world. From the sweet grass to the packing house. Birth ’til death. We travel between the eternities.”
Godspeed, Frank. You were one of a kind. A Cubs fan who made his mark on the high desert of Wyoming.
There is a good chance that Frank and my late friend Jim Kennedy knew each other. Jim was a coach, a good one, in track and field and basketball. He was an even better English teacher. Engaging, challenging and motivating his students. His intensity was overshadowed by his humor. Jim always had a smile.
Jim was the uncle of my best friend Tad’s stepson, Dustin. He and Joyce were often at the same weddings and, sadly, funerals that the McMillan and Leonhart families attended.
Long ago, 43 years ago this November, Jim and I were assistants to legendary Riverton coach and teacher Mike Harris.
Those road trips with my sophomore team, Jim’s JV and Mike’s varsity were classic. Riding in a “yellow dog” across the vastness of Wyoming is hard for many to understand as classic, but we had another legend in the front seats with us on trips to Sheridan, Gillette, Rock Springs, Rawlins, and Cody.
The late Rich Bircumshaw, the man with the unique voice and the personality that boomed over his 5-4 frame, was on board. Rich and I often played sports trivia in the darkness with just the glow of the headlights, often illuminated by falling snow providing dampened light. In the seat across from us was Jim with a flashlight, reading a novel.
On one trip, he was reading Stephen King’s Christine. Jim interrupted us.
“Hey you guys, listen to this.”
He proceeded to read the section of the book where the car reconstructs itself. Jim placed particular emphasis on a cotter pin straightening itself. He read it with a shudder, followed by his boisterous laugh.
That was Jim.
I took a position at Shoshoni but heard about Jim in a dispute the teachers had with the school board over compensation back in Riverton. The Wyoming Education Association is often a union in name only, but on this occasion there was a strike, a one-man strike. Jim walked back and forth in front of the high school and later the district office with a sandwich sign calling for better benefits and increased wages for teachers.
I admired his courage and dedication.
The world will be a lesser place without Tara, Frank, and Jim. It is always the case with those who made a difference in life, that they will continue to make a difference through the thousands of lives they touched, even though they’ve physically departed us.
It’s hard to say goodbye. As I approach my 70th trip around the sun, more and more of my childhood friends, fellow travelers, and even students are leaving us.
But are they ever really gone?
Films about aging athletes, cowboys, or soldiers grow in appeal with each passing year.
I think of the remake of Monte Walsh, starring Tom Selleck, as the best of this genre.
As Monte is told that the era of the open range and the cowboy is gone, he responds with anger.
“As long as there is one cowboy, pushing one cow, it ain’t dead,” Monte says.
As long as our friends remain in our collective memories, that rings true with them.
I guess all I can say is that I rode with them, and I’ve got no complaints.
