WILSON, Wyo. (AP) - The doors opened and the sounds of “Pretty Woman” - by request - spilled into the cold, night air. Warm light filled the inside as bodies shuffled and gently jostled each other. The dance floor looked like a fluid mass as people moved in and out. Bargoers two-stepped, dipped, danced swing and even some traditional waltz.
Some were traditional cowboys - the cow-chasing, horse-back riding, calving real deal - in dress boots, pearl-snap shirts and silt neck scarves. Others were skiers or snowboarders visiting from somewhere else. No one cared either way.
They all gathered on a recent Sunday evening in the Stagecoach Bar for one thing: the world famous Stagecoach Band.
Recently, the band marked its 45th anniversary of Sunday night performances. They haven’t missed a single Sunday, if the bar was open, said the group’s co-founder, Bill Briggs. That’s thousands of country-western shows - what is often called going to church - for an audience that still can’t stop dancing.
“This is the last of the cowboy roadhouse bars,” said Roy Heikkila. “What’s left of us still come here. It’s as good as you’ll get anymore for cowboy dancing.”
Heikkila started coming in the ’80s when he worked as a hunting guide in Cody and Jackson. He hasn’t missed more than half a dozen Sunday nights a year.
Briggs is the nucleus of the band, Heikkila said. At 82, Briggs perches on the edge of his stool and plays banjo or electric autoharp for four hours each night. His story is that of legend, and most people in the bar can and will tell a newcomer their own versions.
Ask Briggs, and he’ll tell you the real story.
He and Ron Scott, a guitarist from Oklahoma, wanted to start a band in Jackson, about a 10 minute drive from Wilson. They knew they wouldn’t have competition on Sunday nights. The first night, Feb. 16, 1949, Briggs hitchhiked from the Stagecoach Bar to the top of Teton Pass and skied down before the show, then played with a few other members until 10 p.m.
Cowboys sat at tables for those first few shows. No one danced. There wasn’t a stage. The cowboys didn’t clap much, but Briggs could tell they liked the music. A bouncer broke up at least one fight every night.
Scott moved sometime later to Colorado, and other band members came and went.
“It became a habit. Anyway, I hate advertising and I don’t want to have to promote a new gig each week,” Briggs said. “So we just stayed.”
Impressive as it is, that’s only one of the stories regulars tell. They also talk about Briggs as a skier. They explain why Briggs won’t dance, and why he sits on the edge of his stool with one leg at a 45-degree angle.
He was born without a hip socket. Doctors used a chisel and hammer to make one and put a pin inside to give him forward and back motion. He could never move that leg in or out. They told him he would be in a wheelchair at 40.
“So I did the athletic stuff first,” he said.
He moved from Maine to Jackson, became one of the first early guides for Exum Mountain Guides Service and wore out his hip. A doctor told him he could fuse the hip together, which meant it wouldn’t move again. He agreed.
And then, on June 16, 1971, with a fused hip and friends below to help, Briggs climbed to the peak of the Grand Teton, teetered on his skis and dropped off the top.
A framed picture in the Stagecoach Bar shows swooping tracks on the face of the peak. It’s proof that Briggs was the first person to ever ski the Grand.
Briggs still skis. He’d put two hours in on the slopes before a performance in late January. But he’s feeling his age.
He doesn’t play every Sunday night show anymore. About 40 people rotate through the Stagecoach Band, with about five on stage at any given time.
Hort Spitzer, a former rancher from Daniel, yodels with the group. He might be mid-conversation and if a song starts, he leaves, stands on the stage, puffs his suspender-clad chest and yodels.
He earns a free drink for his performances.
Alan Henderson plays the harmonica under the name St. Louis Slim. He started attending shows nine years ago and has been playing for four years.
Ted Wells drives over from Victor, Idaho to play the banjo, but only when Briggs can’t make it.
Most people come to dance, rather than play. Briggs is content to watch them as he leans against his stool, plucking a country-western tune.
___
Information from: Casper (Wyo.) Star-Tribune, https://www.trib.com
Please read our comment policy before commenting.