I live along the most dangerous highway in the United States, U.S. Highway 287. In order to shop, I must drive 30 to 40 minutes north or south, sharing the road with cars, pickups, trucks and RVs.
From Ft. Collins, the road threads its way through the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, climbing 3,000 feet before cresting the Cheyenne Divide and crossing the historic Overland Trail on the historic Laramie plains.
Especially when I have my 1-year-old grandson in the car, I drive defensively, checking the rear-view mirror for upcoming speeding vehicles, scanning ahead for wobbly trucks or ambitious over-takers.
My risk lies in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most fatal accidents along this stretch of highway stem from drivers unfamiliar with the twists and turns inherent in mountain driving. Or else, alone in their speeding car, they fall asleep. That happens a lot too.
But the 60-mile view to the north from atop Pumpkin Vine is suddenly captivating, mesmerizing and distracting. Plus, after 30 miles of on-again, off-again reception, you suddenly have internet.
Trucks especially gain speed rolling off that summit. The wide-open divided four-lane highway seems heavenly. And there might be a few heavenly bodies about; perhaps the spirits of the 2001 University of Wyoming cross-country team waiting to wake up after encountering a drunk driver.
But the long sweep of the brand-new road is exhilarating, and I understand why folks love to speed along. The five minutes they save by maxing out their speed along the few straightaways may be the price of their — or my — life. Because when the highway abruptly narrows back to two-lane, the speed, or lust for it, does not go away.
Every day, limestone-loaded double tractor-trailers turn left across these two lanes of traffic and slowly accelerate on their way to delivering tons of impure limestone to feed cement plants in neighboring Colorado. Forty-five daily trips these drivers make. Compromising their appointed rounds in the name of safety would make them late.
Long lines of frustrated drivers lead to dangerous passing attempts if the loaded semis pull out in front of oncoming traffic. The reckless sometimes try to pass several vehicles at a time around curves and before hidden vales. Sometimes they do not make it.
I hit the shoulder regularly, leaning on my horn. If they knew a four-lane was ahead, they might wait. But they do not.
Add to this the obsession with driving as fast as possible, and you have an accident waiting to happen.
Every time I venture out on the highway, I see evidence of vehicles traveling at high rates of speed and forced to take emergency action. They leave yards-long skid marks as they brake and veer to avoid an oncoming obstacle. Damaged guard rails, road signs and mile markers attest to the frequent violence.
If I set my cruise control at 70 mph, I present a moving hazard as cars pass me like I am standing still.
I know this road like the back of my hand, having driven it weekly for 40 years. I know where the road dips down, following the undulating grassy hills of the southern Laramie Basin, hills that once nourished herds of bison as they wandered the plains. I know which undulations can conceal a semitrailer.
The recently repainted center striping on the highway confirms my knowledge; a solid yellow line warns drivers not to pass here. But these signals are not heeded by those in a hurry. Choosing to believe their own eyes, when an oncoming vehicle appears magically before them, they panic. And if I happen to be driving in the vicinity, I am in immediate danger.
I am reminded daily of a crash adjacent to my ranch. At the Leazenby Lake turnoff, Highway 287 suddenly tacks 35 degrees to the north to cut across the high ground that flanks the Harney Creek.
Construction flaggers were standing in my driveway, stopping the northbound traffic. The line had backed up as far as the kink in the road, past the Vista Grande turnoff.
An inattentive trucker, not noticing the kink or the tail lights of the sedan stopped dead on the highway, plowed directly into the car, instantly killing the elderly couple who, minutes before, had obediently slowed and stopped at the end of the line. The trucker’s 100-yard skid marks angling onto the soft shoulder are still visible and remind me daily of the dangers of inattention.
This stretch of highway is infamous. Just last year, a 22-year-old from Aurora died when he hit the Harney Creek bridge guardrail at a high rate of speed. Two were killed and several injured just 8 miles down the road at Spring Lakes road when a texting southbound driver failed to notice someone turning left on his way home.
Annually, at least one — and as many as nine — perish on this road. And in fact, patrol cars on both sides of the border are on duty, especially during summer weekend holidays.
But most of the time the maniacs prevail, endangering everyone on the road. Speed kills, especially on this highway.
Most of the drivers in the summer are tourists, unfamiliar with the sudden weather conditions that can arise out of a clear blue sky. I have seen evidence of more than one trailer overturned, caught by a sudden gust of wind exceeding 70 mph.
The shoulder bears the scar of a large rectangular piece of steel plowing up the roadside vegetation. Air conditioner unit covers, tarps, mattresses, coolers and tie-down straps commonly litter the shoulder. As metropolitan Fort Collins and even little Laramie grows, highway patrol officers have increasing miles of secondary roads to patrol.
Why not take advantage of 21st-century technology and institute a photo speed surveillance system along this dangerous strip of federal highway?
After visiting Australia a few years ago driving a rented car, I was served by mail with a speeding ticket six months later. The cost was $325 U.S. for doing 35 kph in a 25 kph zone. I had been warned about the speed cameras but had not noticed them.
Consider my confusion upon opening this summons. Needless to say, I paid the bill and have since rented cars in Australia free from the onus of an unpaid fine.
Wyoming has more than 1,500 miles of heavily-traveled federal highways. At any one time, a majority of the vehicles on those roads are speeding. Imagine thousands of dollars rolling in daily as a photo speed control system goes online. Just the signs stating the presence of this safety system will make a difference. Eventually, word will get around, and the truckers and cars will slow as the fines come rolling in.
I am not sure about the payback and how long it will take. But how many more innocent passengers will have to die on the road, mangled by tons of hurtling steel, before we wake up and do something?
Kristine McGuire is an Albany County resident who travels Highway 287 daily.
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