In 1967, I was 11.

So it was mildly surprising that 42 years later, I would be instantly recognized.

"You look just like your faatha," said Massachusetts.

Yup, I do, in spite of my carefully applied makeup, sparkling jacket and buckin' horse license plate purse loaded with bling that doubles as a weapon.

So the first of six fall sojourns to Laramie was perhaps the most poignant, with friendships renewed, memories sparked and new stories learned.

Although they were inducted as a group years ago, many of the players from 1967 returned for this year's Hall of Fame festivities. Their teammate Gene Huey was a 2009 inductee, and was able to attend after the Colts played their final preseason game the night before.

I greeted several former players and coaches at the jam-packed reception prior to the banquet, and then tweeted (WYOSAS) my way through the dinner and program in the stifling ballroom.

Anxious to get back into the cool evening air, we hurried out and a trio of '67s was standing there.

Introductions were made, hugs were shared, and the reminiscing began.

And then one put his hands on my shoulders, looked way down into my eyes, made no attempt to hide his tears, and said, "I've played for some of the most famous coaches ever. And your dad was the best of them all."

As we made our way to our Harley-Davidson chariot in our dressy dress clothes, the friend remarked in his Sam Elliott way, "Way to go, you can make grown men cry."

Surely, it's not me. Surely, it's the power of memories. Surely, it's what happens when you return to 7,220 feet, where you fry during the day and see your breath at night.

Surely, it's realizing that those years spent toiling morning and evening, teen-aged boys more than a thousand miles from home, shaped not just their football futures, but their futures.

It's acknowledging that yes, I was the lucky one, because when the family had to leave in January 1975, as the oldest kid, I got to stay.

"I'm the luckiest of them all," I say. "I've never left."

It's watching them come back, the couple from Michigan and North Dakota who met at their first teaching jobs in Rawlins and have been married 34 years.

The guys who went home, but decades later, their own kids came back to UW.

The guy who lives in Fort Collins, but is a Poke through and through.

And the guy who lives in western Wyoming and spies on me biweekly in these pages.

After the game, we gathered again at one of the world's best bars, with shag carpeting on the floor, popcorn in silver bowls on the bar and the cheapest beer anywhere.

It's the kind of bar where the women's bathroom has one stall separated from the sink by a partial wall, but if regulars are inside, the door stays unlocked. That way, you can have a conversation while you're waiting.

As the sun started to set and the days and hours of reunion took their toll, folks began filtering outside. Stuffed sopapillas and postalitos were waiting for us downtown.

But no one wanted to say goodbye.

So we just said, "see you next time."

And the grown men cried.

Community News editor Sally Ann Shurmur can be reached at (307) 266-0520 or sallyann.shurmur@trib.com. Read Sal's blog at tribtown.trib.com/Sal/blog and follow her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/WYOSAS