As I mentioned earlier, Joe at the motel in Winnett told us there was a place to stay between Roundup and Forsyth past Melstone, which was good news because it allowed us to break up the ride between the two towns in a better fashion.

The tale of Ingomar’s decline is a bit different. While we were told that the town currently has 10 residents, at one point it was the sheep shearing and wool shipping capital of North America. I don’t know how it started, but Ingomar became the destination for everyone to drive their sheep be shorn. There was an innovative and efficient system of penning the sheep and moving them to shearing stations and them collecting and compressing the wool for shipment. Not exactly Fordism but it worked pretty well until the advent of mobile shearing stations that could be brought to the sheep. According to something I read, there is a major shearing operation extant in Perth that was modeled on Ingomar’s facility.

Bank failure came to Ingomar not via drought or depression but by plain old theft of funds in the 1920s. The bank was one of two brick buildings in town, and some years after its demise, someone had the good sense to turn it into a bar. Originally named the Oasis Bar, it changed hands in the 40s and the new owner called it Jersey Lilly as a nod to Judge Roy Bean.

We stayed in the old schoolhouse that had been converted to a bunkhouse albeit with three small private bedrooms (the fact that there were three proved to be important later on). Roger and I had the place to ourselves and quite a place it was.

We had lunch and dinner at Jersey Lilly and ran into Rich and Sylvia again; though it’s nearly 30 miles from Melstone, they come in for Sunday dinner. It’s pretty rare we see the same people twice.

The bean soup, from a recipe dating back to the Oasis bar in the 40s is outstanding.

Once the bar shut down (8:30), there was no life left in town – but that wasn’t the case back at the bunkhouse.

The Night of the Murine Invaders

Now I will admit to feeling a bit alonesome at night on this trip every now and then. But the company of a mouse just will not do. As I was getting ready to call it a night, a mouse shot diagonally across the length of the bed. I had to wake Roger so we could put all our food (nuts, granola, cheese!) behind the glass doors in the tv cabinet.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I felt something soft rustling down my arm to my side. Instantly awake, I threw off the covers and in the ambient light caught a vanishing glimpse of the little varmint that evidently had staked a claim to the bed long before I got there.

Following the wisdom of Brave Sir Robin, I ran away – or more precisely, I sought refuge in the third bedroom, where I was delighted to find that although it was a twin bed the mattress was new and I ended up sleeping quite soundly.

Here’s a view of the mouse mansion in the dawn’s early light: