For those of us who have lived in Wyoming a few years, some things are fairly predictable. The wind, prairie dog carcasses on the highway and traffic mayhem in the post office parking lot at 11 a.m. sharp. 

In Saratoga and Encampment, the parking lots sit quietly, waiting, anticipating. A couple of dusty pickups pull in around 10:45 a.m.; another vehicle dives in to drop a birthday card in the box outside that was just found behind the seat three weeks late. It’s fairly peaceful.