Writers live for local color. There is nothing like it; it is the entire point of travel and we pursue it with passion. And oh! there is a great bar in downtown Laramie, clearly the Wyoming version of the Mos Eiesley Cantina. It is the Buckhorn Bar, an institution that predates all the wine bars, organic restaurants and yarn stores downtown.
We went last night, and agreed that it was good we were in a group. A seedy trio was playing music in a corner, not space jazz but bluegrass and Creedence. There were =many= taxidermied animals, elk, a mountain lion, and what could have been opossums. There were Harley signs. There were ancient inebriated barflies who flirted desperately with us, nothing personal since they flirted with everything female including the elk. There were several pool tables, an incredibly minimalist restroom for men only (it beggars description — someone took a picture, I may be able to add a link in time) and a bullet hole in the mirror above the bar.
An upselling bar girl sold us the local cocktail, which had apple juice, harsh local whisky, and cranberry juice. It tasted like mildly alcoholic cough syrup, the drink they sell to tourists. It was not the kind of bar where you should order a cocktail; if we had been smart we would have ordered whisky straight and then they would have respected us.