Piles of half-folded laundry topple here and there in Ginger Shoemaker's cabin. An unfinished quilt drapes over her recliner. Her dishes are not done.

She was not expecting company.

At 84, Shoemaker is the oldest resident in Centennial. She owns the first lot downtown, one of the closest to the post office. And people say she has the best stocked pantry in town.

She'll need it this blustery night.

Her phone rings.

"Hello? Oh yes, Shirley, he told me you may need a place."

She shuffles to her north-facing windows, kneels on the couch and parts the curtains.

"I don't know if you should walk in this wind. Well, OK, are you sure? Now, don't walk that way. Jim McGee shoveled snow there and blocked my front walkway. The best way is to come through his yard to my back door. I'll watch for you."

She peers out the window, but the view is no good. She scoots down the couch and looks again. The view's the same: It's a whiteout.

Driving into Centennial is like driving into a snow globe.

Old Man Winter blows his icy breath down the slopes of the Snowy Mountain Range, and with a whoosh snow swirls into the air. Then it shrouds this remote Wyoming town where the glittery flakes never quite settle.

Chimneys blow smoke rings. Children sled down the road. Chilly pedestrians dart into The Friendly for a cup of coffee.

Highway 130 ribbons between rustic cabins and quiet storefronts before winding into the mountains that are the town's lifeblood. The Snowies draw thousands of thrill seekers and nature lovers. They inspire artists. They offer freedom from the trappings of civilization.

But most residents will tell you Centennial is not an easy place to live.

The wind rarely blows less than 40 mph.

The temperatures regularly drop below zero.

The roads and snowy hills are treacherous - often deadly.

Still, for those who choose to live here, it is the place they were looking for all their life and the place in which they hope to take their last breath. They say the town is like Wyoming was 60 years ago: simple, slow and still wild. That is what brought them. And that is what will keep them here.

Centennial rests at 8,076 feet, the last stop before the highway closes under its average snowfall of nearly 120 inches.

It first belonged to Plains Indians. Then in 1862, construction of the transcontinental railroad brought tie-hacks to the area. By 1870 the Medicine Bow Forest had supplied about 3 million ties for the effort. The Homestead Act established several area ranches that exist to this day.

In 1875, when the nation was at the brink of its centennial celebration, gold was discovered and diggers rushed in, naming the mine - and the town - in honor of the nation's first 100 years. Ever since, the town's population has hovered right around 100, though no one is really sure - or really cares - about the number.

Centennial's residents are unique, each identified with a sort of universal code: "Murf" was born here and lives in the house that used to be the post office; "Tuber" makes all the tie-dyes; "Duct Tape Patty" once got so drunk at the Bear Tree Tavern they duct taped her to her seat with one arm taped to the bar.

"These people, they'll do anything for you," said Scott Lorentz, otherwise known as "Tuber." He really does make tie-dyed shirts that have become the town's defining clothing, a sort of camouflage for hippies.

"Someone will come in and say they're looking for some big guy with a tie dye, but there's like 10 of those guys in town at all times," Lorentz says. "Course, you gotta be crazy to live up here, and you gotta support the other crazies."

He means those like himself who come to fish and ski and get away from it all in a town where the law is a retired police car parked by the highway, manned by a white teddy bear.

Not that Centennial doesn't have its problems. Drinking gets out of hand. And most residents wish drivers would slow down. As Shoemaker says: "Who ever heard of a 30 mph school zone?"

But for those who did slow down and stop here, Centennial is a safe place where kids can be kids and where artists, musicians, writers and actors find both solitude and support for their craft.

Across the highway from The Friendly Store sits a house built with tires. This time of year, it is inaccessible by car, whipped by wind, buried in snow drifts.

Local potters and photographers West Magoon and Tana Libolt began building both their studio and their house in a design known as Earthship in 2001. Each had spent time in Centennial while attending the University of Wyoming, and, like many who visit early in life, returned to the place that accepted them.

"Everybody was rooting for us," Magoon says. "In what town will people root for you when you bring in 1,600 tires?"

When Libolt and Magoon pounded 300 pounds of dirt into each tire and stacked them to form the walls, neighbors said it was a very "Centennial" project. (They got extra kudos for building their bathroom walls with colored beer bottles.)

"There's something about the way the town is, the way the area is, that encourages people to live the way they want to live," Libolt says. "There's a lot of freedom of the kind you don't find much anymore."

Longtime resident Murray Self ("Murf") says it's always been that way. One of the few who was born and raised here, his parents started the Old Corral restaurant.

He remembers when the Bear Tree Tavern was a skid shed.

He remembers when the ski area was on the north side of the highway and when it used a car motor to pull a rope tow.

And he remembers how The Friendly Store got its name. A fellow named Clay French opened a store right next to the only grocery in town. That grocery was owned by Peg and Peg was mean. As the story goes, French told Peg: "I'm opening a store and gonna put you out of business, you unfriendly son of a bitch."

During World War II, Centennial's dance halls died, Self says. But his family's Old Corral helped bring back dancing, and Self and his partner Linda Taylor have been pumping life into theater and the arts since the early '90s. The Centennial Community Theatre is housed in their Trading Post Dinner House and puts on several award-winning plays each year. And their Phoenix Gallery of Art displays and sells work for more than 40 local artists.

"This town is like stepping back in time. The city is not here. The stress is not here. That makes it conducive to doing your artwork," says Taylor, who is an artist and actress herself. "People with higher degrees than most give up lucrative careers for a simpler life here. Everyone takes care of each other while giving each other space to be their own person."

Six months. That's how long a new resident has to settle into Centennial until other residents "pounce," says Nancy Taft, who came five years ago and built her "forever" house with husband Kirk. In a town run mostly by volunteers, each newbie is fair game. The library, fire department, snowplows and various events all need manpower. And almost everyone, at some point, needs a friend's pantry, car battery, shovel or ear.

"The first thing we discovered was that Centennial is a true community," Taft says. "Although people move here to be away from people, we must depend on one another to live here."

And that is the heart of this town.

Recently, a family was gone on vacation and the pipes in their house froze and burst, flooding the main floor. This was discovered shortly before the family returned, and a flurry of volunteers descended to dry up the flood with their wet-vacs. The house was clean when the family arrived.

On the counter at the post office, where everyone must go to get their mail, are two get well cards for two young men who recently broke their legs skiing. They are covered with well wishes.

And though at times people must be nudged into volunteering, they end up liking it.

"If you're willing to volunteer, you're never out of work in Centennial," says Jim Chase, who once missed a meeting and found himself appointed president of the Nici Self Museum. He's also an active member of the Men's Service Organization and one of six men who have the roads plowed by 6 every morning.

Postmistress Shirley Hansen agrees: "Ninety-five percent of people would jump the hat to help someone here, and that may be a low percentage."

This night, she's the one being helped. For more than 15 years Hansen has driven 50 miles - in snow, rain, sleet and gloom of night - to sort the mail into each resident's P.O. box. She's never once stayed overnight due to weather.

But the offer has always been there.

Dressed in a yellow coat that bounces like a disembodied bubble through the whiteout, Hansen makes her way towards Shoemaker's back door. Shoemaker presses her nose against the window. Then she quickly shuffles to the door and opens it. Hansen bounces in, her graying hair frosted white.

"This is some storm," Shoemaker says to Hansen as she removes her shoes. But, even with 66 mph winds and below zero temperatures, it's not Centennial's worst.

"The winters now are mild compared to 30, 40 years ago," Shoemaker says as she turns to her unexpected houseguest:

"Chili?"

* Reach Hannah Wiest at (307) 266-0535 or hannah.wiest@trib.com. See her profile and read her blog at http://my.trib.com/hannahwiest/blog.