In the late 1970s, I lived with my wife and kids in a company village that no longer exists, although you can still find the name “Table Rock” on Google Maps, between Rock Springs and Wamsutter, Wyoming. It existed to provide housing for the employees of Table Rock Processing Plant and their families.
One of the interesting things about living on I-80, 35 miles from “civilization” was the number of truck crashes and breakdowns that happened. Those were often a source of freebies for the residents of our little company camp (fifty upscale, 3 and 4-bedroom, split level homes), from produce to name-brand chocolate candy. Those “hot loads” couldn’t be left in the trailers, due to the chance of spoilage, so they would be charged off to insurance, and disposed of by “locals”, which was us.
This story is about another semi and trailer mishap, but the load was very different and so were the circumstances that led up to it. It was an event I’ll never forget.
Now, another thing that comes into play about the location of our village was hunting in Wyoming. It just happened to be situated in the middle of the 2 most productive antelope hunting areas in the state,as well as a great location for mule deer, and even a desert elk herd.
Hunting families made up the majority of our residents, although we co-existed well with those that had reservations about it. We hunters would purchase our licenses early, and there were almost always a surplus of additional tags available. Three tags total per hunter wasn’t unusual. Most of us did our own game processing and aging, often with a hand lent by our neighbors.
If this sounds like an idyllic lifestyle, I won’t argue that. The trade-off was the remote location and the toxic gas that we worked with at the plant, as well as all the other conditions that went along with it. The short version of that is, “Yes, we had it good, but we earned it”.
This is where I apologize for the extensive setup, but I think it’s important to understand that we were a pretty hearty, headstrong and independent bunch, and the security of both our workplace and our homes was well-protected.
So, while the graveyard shift was manning the plant, our little village was peacefully slumbering in the wee hours of this particular morning. Until the sound of an air horn shattered that piece. Repeatedly.
The clerk in charge of our District Headquarters office at the gate, dutifully arose, dressed and walked out to speak to the driver of a truck pulling a trailer loaded with livestock.
The driver, who was obviously UTI, wanted to know where he was supposed to “unload these hogs”. He graciously went on to explain that he had been driving all night, “popping bennies and chasing them down with vodka” to get the load here on time. He also thought he was in Caraway, Arkansas.
I’ll save you a trip to the map by explaining that he was well off course. Our clerk finally convinced him of that well enough that he left the gate and headed back toward the highway. He managed to re-enter the Interstate, heading east to the next exit, Bar X Road.
After the fact, our general consensus was that he must have mistaken that road to be the one he needed to follow to a Cudahy Bar-S plant, where they made ham and other products. From, well – hogs.
Whatever his reasoning, his somewhat-impaired driving skills were not up to the task. He exited, followed the service road to the underpass, turned, went under and missed the turn on the other side. He overshot Bar X Road, and laid the truck on its side in the deep ditch beside it. In the process, the loading gate at the rear of the truck opened and a very large number of very fat, extremely excited porcine animals were set free in the sage and sand of the Red Desert.
The wreck was, of course, reported, and by the time daylight arrived, there were flashing lights everywhere around the scene, including one marked, “USFDA”. We were smart enough not to interfere, but you can bet we kept an eye on things.
Times have changed, my friends, and I can’t say whether what happened next would ever come to pass today, but it made sense. It turns out that the hogs on he truck were on their way to be inspected by the FDA. Without the stamp of approval, no part of them could be sold for human consumption. So, what we had was a large number of fat hogs that couldn’t be processed for the market, that would likely die of thirst or starvation, and/or be consumed by something else.
As it turned out, those of us with valid hunting licenses were granted the right to harvest 2 hogs each, and we were only too happy to do our part. Thus began the Table Rock Hog Hunt. It concluded with a pair of Porkies dressed and hanging in many of the village garages, alongside pronghorns. Not one of the escapees made it past our sharpshooters.
As always, we hunted safely and responsibly and no one without a license took down a hog. Nothing in the law said the hunters couldn’t share with their neighbors, and there was an abundance of hi-grade pork cooked and served in the village for a while. In the long run, even the FDA admitted that cooking the meat properly was enough to render it safe.
The moral of the story, of course, is “Do your duty to the Federal Government”. We upheld that moral, proudly, as well as the traditions of our ancestors who passed down responsible hunting. As I’m sure you can imagine, it wasn’t widely publicized and we kept it within the community. I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out on it by now, but I’ll be keeping an eye out for government vehicles if this makes it to publication.
As always, this story has been related according to my personal memories of the event. There may be individuals whose recollection of the events herein differ somewhat from my own. A certain truck driver comes to mind, and I’d love to hear his version, should the opportunity arise.
