A plywood sign scrawled with spray paint that reads, “Home of the Primordial Soup Bowl,” typically whips by at 78 mph. This time, however, I was stopping.
Months earlier, I had done a double take back at the eclectic stop on one of Wyoming’s many lonely highways, this one made even lonelier in Jeffrey City, a boomtown-turned-ghosttown. Uranium kept the town buzzing throughout the Cold War, but with flourish of a pen on some peace treaties, the town whittled down from thousands to hundreds… and that feels like you’re stretching it when you stop to explore.
But the soup bowl? That was memorable. Curious, even. And the wind-worn “open” flags indicated that drop-ins were welcome at Monk King Bird Studios. So I did.
Pulling up to the former gas station, swirling piles of rocks perplexed me. As chaotic as the handwriting on the soup sign, they served as a brief introduction to what I would find inside. Ceramics piled on ceramics, more handwritten signs (informing visitors to use the CB radio to summon the proprietor) and other means of communication including a “noise” doorbell propped up on a dilapidated paint can. Multiple methods of reaching Byron and Floyd (the dog — if you hadn’t met him yet).
When Byron rounded the corner, hands stained orange from the earth on his throwing wheel, I knew the conversation would match the shop itself. His laid back demeanor and somewhat frenetic train of thought was a fascinating combination. To learn about his ceramics methodology, his art from his time in jail, how he met his dog (and how it resulted in sobriety), and his daily rockhounding adventures really drew me into his world for a stretch.
He is no stranger to the passing journalist. His self-branding has made the appeal easy and begs for storytelling. He’s been featured in an impressive number of publications, announced or not. Ceramics-related or not. Byron and his creations (and dog) beg to be written about. Photographed. Pondered. Perhaps, on some level, envied for his age-ambigous, unencumbered spirit.
Personally, my takeaways centered from our conversations about rockhounding. Not surprising, considering I used to have a Lake Michigan stone-based business when I lived in Milwaukee. But the genuine mystery that comes with finding a rock and discovering what lies under its rough exterior gives me hope. Byron showed me with his flashlight rocks that seemed innocuous, actually glowed green when backlit — Wyoming jade. The real deal. And raw opal that hinted at the fire that lay within, even though it would crumble if broken open. He handed me a tumbled piece of moss agate that reminded me of lace. All of that had been laying out in wide, wide, wiiiiiiiiide open Wyoming, to be discovered — or not.
Monk King Bird’s exterior may have raised eyebrows (truth be told, I momentarily questioned the wisdom of me stopping as a female traveling alone, given the true remoteness and abandoned nature of Jeffrey City), but discovering the hints of the mysterious under the surface really reminded me of why I love traveling and writing. Discovering what is under the surface — the back story, the mystery, the adventure of something new and different. The chase of learning and connecting. Discovery and letting barriers down. Finding the fire in the opal. It fills my heart.
Oh, and the primordial soup bowl? Turns out it was Byron’s latest obsession in ceramic work; a broad dish evolving with each layer of clay scraped away from this form of agateware. The resulting piece resembled the colorful swirls of goo that life purportedly crawled out of once upon a time. You never know just WHAT you will find in Wyoming!
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