Uncle Wally

The Traveling Torolas: artists who keep on trucking

“It’s under the moose,” she said, pointing. “Under the what?” I thought. I turned and looked at the long wall to the left of the register, scanning the endless taxidermy trophies of ridiculously large deer, bighorn sheep, fierce-looking mountain lions, and snarling wild hogs. And sure enough, there in the middle, was a moose head, a gargantuan moose head with antlers reaching out so far and high that I have no idea how they got it into the building, and the thought crossed my mind that they constructed the entire place around that freaking mac-truck-sized dead animal. 

And at the base of the moose's neck was the word “RESTROOMS” in black letters. 

I had just pulled into Williston, North Dakota, and that was a very fitting first interaction. After fourteen hours in the car, cruising across Northern Wisconsin, Minnesota, and the vast eastern plains of North Dakota, I arrived in the darkness of a cold November evening, driving the final forty-odd minutes past dozens of oil rig flares that burn off excess natural gas and look like huge torches dotting the flat landscape. 

If one isn’t used to seeing them, at night they give the whole area a post-apocalyptic Mad Max vibe, the large flames throwing a circle of light onto the silhouettes of slow-moving rig pumps, parked trucks, and a strolling worker or two. 

When seen from a distance, they’re reminiscent of a campfire, and it’s hard not to imagine a circle of rough-and-tumble cowboys sitting around them, pistols at their hips, and horses tied nearby. Driving out to Williston, in the corner of North Dakota in 2023 truly feels like heading back in time to the Wild West, driving into a boom town occupied by mostly gritty men who left their homelands to carve out their share of the economic spoils. 

Despite my flannel jacket, I felt out of place arriving in a tiny car, having snacked on vegan granola bars all day as two jacked-up diesel pickups came loudly growling into the parking spaces next to me, the floor of their cabs at eye level as I sat in my seat. 

I walked into Scenic Sports and Liquor (and gas), asked for the bathroom, and got directed to a freaking moose head. 

North Dakota.

I drove all the way out here to visit my Uncle Wally and Aunt Lynn.

Walter Torola: a man whose tall frame, faded jeans, tucked-in flannel shirts, and gray handlebar mustache fit in perfectly here, way “Out West.” He’s a man who’s comfortable hauling a few dozen tons of oil rig equipment or explosive liquid across the country in the dead of winter.

He’s another uncle I’ve known my whole life but have hardly ever talked to.

And holy crap, am I glad I visited.