Cowboy State
As Randy jets off back to Vegas I hit the road due East on I-90, bound for Powell, a cozy Wyoming town just outside Cody. Awaiting me is another former coworker and current friend named Dusty, who has foolishly invited me to stay with him and his lovely family. The drive is a pleasant 3 hour cruise through light snow flurries skirting the Northeastern rim of the Yellowstone Plateau.
When I arrive Dusty introduces me to his wonderful wife Shelly and impressive youngsters. The oldest, Zach, is a senior in high school committed to the University of Wyoming; in the middle is Kenzie, a sophomore in high school; and last but not least is Addy, who is machete-ing her way through the jungles of 6th grade. I do not miss those days. I would be remiss to forget Sage River the Goldendoodle, and my best bud Charlie, a cantankerous Basset Hound after my own heart.
Before I even finish unloading the rig Dusty offers me a cold beer. Y'damn right! As I enjoy a Cold Smoke Scotch Ale from KettleHouse Brewing in Missoula we catch up about the past few years. He's a born-and-bred Wyoming man, so his return to the Cowboy State was a much deserved breath of fresh air. Being a Wyoming man, of course, makes him a fan of Big Josh (despite the sad fact that he supports the Patriots. Yuck). His weekends are often spent at basketball, football, or volleyball games so I spam his phone anytime Josh uncoils a pigskin missile from his laser rocket arm (a very frequent occurrence). He's one of the best engineers I've worked with and it warms my heart to see him thriving.
We finish our first round of suds and Dusty offers me a Graham Cracker Porter from Denver Beer Company, which is quite lovely on this crisp Wyoming winter evening. In between catching up he tells me a story about ol' Charlie there getting hisself into a mighty big pickle. One day while enjoying the great Wyoming outdoors Charlie snooted his snoot where his snoot don't belong. Now as the owner of a hound who descends from the Basset family, I understand that their combination of curiosity and stubbornness will lead them to snoot their snoot wherever they damn please. And wherever they damn please is everywhere.
Unfortunately, on this fateful day his choice of snootin' happened to be a Conibear trap. A type of critter trap that's designed to "quickly and humanely dispatch an animal once the trap activates." They are spring loaded with enough force to snap an average animal's neck.
Well, buddy, Charlie ain't no average animal. He's got a neck like a Pamplona bull. That isn't to say it wasn't a close run thing. Shelly found him collapsed and wheezing as the contraption clamped down on his beefy neck. She called Dusty, who, when he got the call, assumed he'd have to deal with a noble hound slain dead in his prime. He retrieved the setting tool anyhow and mercifully released Sir Charles from the torment of his iron necklace.
I couldn't help but laugh at poor Charlie. It made me feel better that he was safe & sound on his bed while Dusty regaled the harrowing tale. He's one tough SOB. After supper I hit the hay, my first night to ever lay my head in Wyoming. I already feel like a cowboy.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
I wake up refreshed, ready for another first. Today we're ice fishing, the prospect of which has me happier than the Wisconsin offensive line on a fullback dive. I fill my Stanley thermos with jitter juice and stand around unhelpfully watching Dusty load and prep everything for the day on the slab. Once we're all packed up we hit the road for Upper Sunshine Lake, a fitting name for the beautiful Wyoming day we've got.
On the way Dusty points out Kanye's (yes that Kanye) 27 bedroom ranch. Ye bought the ranch 2019 amid plans to build Cody into a manufacturing hub for his clothing line. If you haven't heard of this, you could be forgiven, as he put the properties up for sale in 2021, fewer than two years after being anointed as an economic savior to the region. The cynic in me thinks the entire spectacle was a boondoggle from the beginning, a narcissistic episode from a man whose attachment to reality is tenuous. A more charitable interpretation would point to his divorce proceedings as an incitement to reallocate assets. But I'm not one to speculate.
Anyways, the hour long drive feels like 10 minutes with the spectacular views, lively conversation, and good coffee. Off the main road we start up dirt trail 'round the side of a bluff that overlooks the lake.
Dusty backs the truck up to the lake's edge and we hop out. He says we'd be fine to take the truck out on the ice - it's over 2 ft thick right now - but he never risks it in an overabundance of caution. I agree, walking an extra 30 yards seems like a decent tradeoff to eliminate the chance, however small, of a sunken truck. We grab the gear and a couple chairs and set out across the ice. He warned me about the sounds I would hear but it's really hard to properly describe. The best I can think of is some sort of sci-fi laser being fired. It's a strange, deep, echo-y aural phenomenon that you seem to feel more than hear. Oh yeah there's also the sounds of cracking ice. Don't go ice fishing if you're prone to panic attacks.
Dusty scopes out a honey hole and we quickly confirm that we absolutely do not have to worry about falling through the ice. I'd actually prefer the ice were thinner since, unlike some of the other sportsman on the lake, Dusty has yet to invest in an automated auger. So we trade off boring a hole using nothing but elbow grease. It takes damn near 15 minutes of sweatin' to punch through the ice but we finally make it.
Dusty ties me off a paddle bug & baits my hook with a fresh mealworm before I drop her down the hatch. He instructs me to let it hit bottom, reel up about a foot and just kinda bob it there till I get a bite. Sounds easy enough. So I post up in a chair & bob my reel while enjoying the gorgeous weather - 40 degrees without a cloud in the sky. Dusty gets to work boring his hole and it's even more of a slog than mine. I offer to help but he's having none of it, Wyoming folk are like that.
Before Dusty is even done drilling his hole I nab my first aquatic vertebrate. I reel that sucker in and, being the city boy that I am, don't really know how you're supposed to hold a fish. So I just stand there with the Yellowstone cutthroat dangling from the line like a doofus. Dusty tells me to hold the stinkin' fish so I grab him like a football and pose for a photo that looks like I'm playing a fish guitar. Softer than baby shit.
Dusty finally gets his hole punched and takes a breather before dropping in his line. Before you know it Dusty gets on the board and shows me how to hold a fish like you've done it before.
"Oh damn, that's how you're supposed to hold it. I look like an idiot"
"Yeah, I wasn't gonna say anything"
Too damn nice to tell me I look like a moron.
My next trout I pull the hook out of that sucker's mouth and hold him out there the proper way. Third time's a charm. Dusty bags a few more and I get another to get my total to 4. The wind has started to pick up and it starts to get a bit chilly as the sun dips lower in the sky. You can see me getting more bundled up each successive fish I catch.
After about 4 hours on the ice we start to slowly pack up camp. But we can't leave just yet, I have developed a Captain Ahab-level obsession with my white whale. A fish right below me has been fattening himself up by nabbing the bait right off my hook. I've re-baited it a half dozen times and the little fucker keeps taunting me. Then finally, as the shadows are getting longer, on try 7.. or 8... or 10... I finally reel him in. And he sure is a beaut. Totally worth it.
After my successful hunt out on the high seas we pack up the last of the gear and head back into town. We stop off at WYOld West Brewing Company in Powell for a round of suds and some vittles to go. I order up a flight while the food is cookin', which hits the spot after a good day on the ice. We finish the beers and it's back to the house for supper and a little shuteye.
Yellowstone(ish)
The next morning I wake up bright and early for my journey to Jackson to get back to the slopes. 6 months out of the year that journey takes around 4 hours. The other 6 months it takes over 6 hours. Bet you can guess which part of the year we're in. The more direct route cuts through Yellowstone via a park road that's closed for the winter. The more circuitous route adds 120 miles to a 200 mile journey.
Well... as long as we're going out of the way why don't we really go out of the way. The route I'll be galloping transects the road leading up to the East Entrance to Yellowstone, let's see how close we can get to our nation's first National Park, which just so happens to be celebrating its 250th anniversary.
I say my farewells to Dusty and family & hit the road. It's about a half hour to Cody, where I cruise through the kitschy downtown of old-timey saloons, Western themed steakhouses, and, of course, the Cody Dug Up Gun Museum. Wait... What? THE CODY DUG UP GUN MUSEUM!!!?? Well shit, I guess we're making this long trip even longer.
I park the rig and saunter up to the Cody Dug Up Gun Museum with a shit-eatin' grin that will one day have a statue at the Cody Shit-Eatin' Grin Museum.
And then calamity strikes. New, horrific information is brought to light, man... I can't believe I'm saying this but it is with the utmost chagrin that I must report to you, dear reader, that the Cody Dug Up Gun Museum is closed for the winter.
Can you imagine all the dug up guns I could have seent? They's like regular guns, 'cept some fellers has dug 'em up. I would have been like a... well... like an adult in a dug up gun museum. I assume that all the guns they's got on display are donations since they have no money leftover to buy guns on account of spending all their money coming up with a name for the museum.
Dusty tells me that Cody swells every summer with tourists headed for Yellowstone and hordes of nerds who dress up in goofy clothes and think the "Wild West" was some fun sort of time and not a desperate, dangerous, and hardscrabble existence forged by tough people, many of whom were running away from something or someone. But yeah pal, enjoy your ice cold beer from a clean glass in an air conditioned "saloon" with the time since your last shower and hot meal counted in hours not weeks. Be my guest.
On the other side of town I head West on US-14 Buffalo Bill Scenic Byway towards Yellastone instead of the more prudent route of WY-120 South around Yellastone and toward Jackson. Just West of town I reach the entrance to the Shoshone Canyon leading to the Buffalo Bill reservoir at the Easternmost edge of the Yellowstone Plateau. Just before reaching a tunnel that dives into the heart of the Northern flank of the canyon I pull off at an observation point to get a better look.
The thrusting rock faces brood ominously over the bubbling waters of the North Fork of the Shoshone River. The canyon feels like it's lying patiently for the perfect opportunity to swallow you up in its craggy jaws. It's certainly a dramatic welcome for the thousands of yearly visitors to the park. I wander back to the car and continue West along the banks of the river. It's a lonely drive, only a fool would find themselves traversing this meandering stretch of pavement that terminates in a closed gate.
The solitude abates once I round a corner and find a few dozen new friends grazing on and around the road. I stop for a bit to observe their laconic loitering. They occasionally glance my way but are otherwise unbothered by the presence of yet another steel bison on their turf. After snapping a few photos I nose my way through the crowd and continue my journey.
A dozen or so more scenic miles and I reach the end of the road. I expected a sort of guard hut with a closed gate but I did not expect to find myself face-to-face with a 4' wall of snow.
With clear roads and a steed full of oats the journey to Jackson, WY should take a mere 3 hours from this particular spot. With snowed-in roads we're looking at a monotonous 6 hours. But that's the maddening thing about wintertime mountain travel. You can drive yourself crazy comparing the route the crow flies with the route the steel bison rumbles.
Despite the added travel time my little detour was certainly worth it. I may have to come back to pay Dusty a summertime visit to fully explore Yellowstone. I riverside the car and head right back from whence I came about an hour to the Southwestern edge of Cody. I hook a right headed south on WY-120 to the town of Shoshoni where I make another right to set my bearings westward on US-26, finally actually headed in the right direction.
Very soon after leaving Shoshoni I enter the wide valley of the Wind River Indian Reservation. To my right lie the peaks of the Absaroka Mountains, the jewel of the Shoshone National Forest, our first federally protected National Forest. To my left stands the Wind River Range, the craggy remnants of a granitic batholith that time has eroded into a jagged cordillera. The flagship of the Wind River Range is Gannett Peak, the highest point in Wyoming and the home of the largest single glacier in the American Rockies.
As I tumble over the other the Continental Divide at Togwotee Pass can just make out the sawtoothed crest of the Teton Range. Another half hour and I reach the base of the mountains, where I pull off at an observation point near the shore of Jackson Lake. Across the pond I watch the serrated blade of the Tetons cleave the low ceiling of an overcast Wyoming sky.
Jackson
I spend an unreasonable amount of time enjoying the view and gorgeous weather before I pour myself back into the car for the short drive to Jackson. This town is new to me and upon an initial inventory it seems every other shop has the word "Outfitters" in the name. The types of places that cater to Lloyd Christmas after scooping up a briefcase full of money in Aspen. I'm pretty wiped so I just mosey on through. We have a couple days to explore. Today I'm headed for the town of Victor, ID, another 25 miles west over the southern flank of the Tetons. All the campsites for miles around were booked up but I was able to find a tiny cabin for about the same rate. This pleases me.
As I make my way over Teton Pass I'm blessed with a clear view of the scenery. You ain't gotta have too active an imagination to see how this road can get awful hairy awful quick when the weather rolls in. A half hour and one state later I arrive at the Teton Valley Resort where I check in to my tiny cabin. It has no running water but they's got facilities in the bathhouse across the car park. Plus it's got a fridge to keep my beer cold and a little aroma diffuser to keep my olfactories satisfied. It's my little slice of heaven.
After I get all settled in I throw on my trunks and grab a few brewskis for a quick dip in the hot tub. I meet a couple who are traveling around in their RV visiting National Parks, shredding some pow, and overall enjoying life on the road. Courtney augments their income by taking professional photos for the various places they stay. She gets a few shots of Travis and me in the hot tub but when I check their Instagram later they are nowhere to be seen. Probably a good decision.
After finishing off my cache of beers I bid my new friends adieu and head across the lot for some shuteye.
Jackson's Hole
Jackson Hole is it. It's the silver tuna. It's the reason I upgraded my Ikon pass this year. It's a place thats revered among skiers all over the world. It's been at the top of my (domestic) ski destination list for a couple years so I'm glad to finally check it off.
I wake up bright and early and hit the road to the hill. Up & over the pass towards Jackson then a left at the Snake River. Another 5 miles North & I turn into Teton Village. The resort avails itself to some remarkable geology - you can bomb 80 mph down WY-390 in the flat plain of the Snake River valley then one turn and a quarter mile later you're at the base of the gondola. In terms of accessibility you can't beat it.
I am quite early so I pass the time at a coffee shop in the mountain village before the opening bell. Promptly at 9 AM I hop on the Aerial Tram for a quick scoot up one of the top-10 longest ski lifts in North America. Atop Rendezvous Mountain I dive off the left side of the precipice to the Rendezvous Bowl. Let me know if you've heard this one before... but the snow is shit. They haven't gotten fresh flakes in weeks so the run is ridiculously tracked out. They've had some freeze/thaw cycles as well so we're dealing with heaps of ice & crud. We've turned the page into March but this seems a tad early for spring skiing.
I find a way to maneuver down the bowl and drop into Bivouac, where I almost blow a tyre on some ice. At this point it would be an understatement to say my first exposure to Jackson Hole has been less than ideal. It's a shame I have to see her in these conditions. Damn shame.
I make my way to the Thunder Quad chair & back up I go, not quite to the tippy top. I drop into the Laramie Bowl, which actually skis pretty nice. Alright, looks like we've found our honey hole. A perfectly good stretch of wonderful skiing tucked away between the nightmares that keep skiers up at night. Any sensible human being would simply go back there. And that's exactly what I was planning to do. Which makes my next decision all the more puzzling. As I'm cruising across the South Pass Traverse towards Thunder Quad I impulsively drop into South Colter Ridge.
It looked nice from the traverse.
Narrator: It wasn't nice.
The snow, where present, is crunchy. The ice, where plentiful, spans the gaps between myriad rocks. The more surreptitious stones conceal themselves behind the snowy hummocks of obstinate moguls, greeting me as I round the corner of each icy burg.
Knee clattering turn after knee clattering turn inches the needle of my I'm-sick-of-this-shit meter closer and closer to max exasperation. As I approach the end of the run the needle breaks plum off and I make a run for it. Full send, straight line, french fry when you're supposed to pizza. Which isn't a problem until I crest a ridge at the bottom, revealing a mogul field that was hidden from view when I decided to turn on the afterburners.
Narrator: Now he's in big BIG trouble
At this point I am hauling ass. With my pace I have no hope of slowing down, lest I crash ass over teakettle on a mogul. My only hope is to just charge right through those bastards and hope for the best.
I'm not saying I looked like Johnny Moseley ripping over those bumps (because I unequivocally did not) but I certainly felt like him. The humps were charging fast and hard, my legs humming like a sewing machine. Bing-bang-boom-bop! I nearly yard sale'd a dozen times, but by god I made it down by the skin of my teeth. It weren't smooth. It weren't drinkable. But that's what's it's good about it. I can't imagine what the family who was riding up the bunny hill lift above me were thinking.
At the bottom I catch my breath and make an offering to the ski gods.
Our powder
Who art in shreddage
Hallowed by thy send...
I take a quick roll call of all my bones and tendons and ligaments and everybody shows up for duty. With all the smugness of George Clooney after heisting the Bellagio I hop on the Union Pass Quad chair. All glory to me.
Back at the base area I dump myself into the Bridger Gondola to work my way over to the other side of the hill.
Bridger Gondola
to Sweetwater Gondola
to Casper Quad
to Teton Quad
to Après Vous Quad
to wait... where are we again??
Suffice to day I make a pretty thorough tour of Jackson's cableways. And actually found some decent patches of snow to boot. My favorite run was probably Crags Run, solely based on the fact that had the best snow I found anywhere on the mountain. More than once a fellow lift rider mentions that the Saratoga Bowl is their favorite little oasis over here but it's currently closed due to the spotty conditions.
After cruising around the Northern flank of the resort I meander back around where I started. But not before a quick pit stop at the Rendezvous Lodge for a backpack PB&J and a deliciously crisp Pilsgnar pilsner from Melvin Brewing in Alpine, Wyoming. I've been an acolyte of Melvin since my San Anonio neighbors Mike & Lizzie poured me a pint upon returning from a visit to their Cowboy State cabin. It's magical stuff.
By this point in the day the weather has become downright balmy. It's not uncommon to see folks stripped down to their t-shirts. While this may be nice weather for a weekend down the shore, it's not conducive for sports that rely on water retaining its solid crystalline structure. Like the second day of a bachelor party in Detroit things have gotten sloppy. Not only is the snow coverage low, the snow that we do have is melting away with no consideration for my merriment. I'm stricken with a sense of Weltschmerz once again.
I sigh and do the only thing I know how to do. Have a blast.
I head back to the Laramie Bowl for a couple more spins on my second favorite run out here. While I'm in the area I catch a ride on the Sublette Quad, rounding out my tour of Jackson Hole chairlifts, gondolas, and trams. At the bottom I catch one last ride on the tram to the apex for a decent line back down the Rendezvous Bowl. All told I skied 32,380' of vertical, a damn nice day considering the shit conditions. I believe I've earned myself a cold beer.
The aforementioned Mike & Lizzy recommended I check out Million Dollar Cowboy whilst I'm up here so I load up the car & head that-a-way. I stroll up to the saloon and find that I'll have to hold my horses. Bar's closed for a Jennifer Nettles concert, she of Sugarland fame. I spit and curse my luck, gazing around the town square for another watering hole.
Just across the intersection I see a group of people on a second floor balcony engaging in mirthful revelry. I sidle over to Roadhouse Brewing where I order myself a Highwayman pilsner, a fitting tipple for the 8,500 miles I've stacked up on the trip. The barmaid strikes up a conversation when she sees my Bills touque - turns out she's from Buffalo herself so we ruefully discuss 13 Seconds, and how damn good Josh Allen looks in shorts.
After our Nickel City digressions I join the bacchants on the balcony. If you were to create the archetypical setting for a patio pilsner this would probably be it. The sun shining through a cloudless Wyoming afternoon, the air crisp and cool. Families are frolicking in the park in the center of town. Couples are peering into shops before supper. A quaint vivacity exudes from the town square. An edenic big little town evening.
I slurp down my beer and find my steed tied up at the trough out front. Back up & over the pass to Idaho we go, back to my tiny cabin. I plop in the tub another soak before warshin' up for supper. Lucky for me there's a cool looking joint only about a mile up the road called West Side Yard that's got a barstool with my name on it. Upon a quick inventory of the menu I notice a Cicerone's Choice section. Today's selection is the Retreat Hazy IPA from Offshoot Beer Company in Placentia, CA, a "DIPA brewed with a simple malt bill and hopped heavily with fruit-forward Mosaic, Cashmere, and El Dorado. Laced with delicate and aromatic tropical notes along with a bright berry medley and a crisp mouthfeel". Hot damn, I'll take one of those!
As I fill my moustache with crispy foamy froth I peruse the vittles section of the menu. My eyes immediately fall to the wings and it hits me that I haven't had wings this entire trip. 2 months on the road and not a single order of wings. By god I need to remedy that sad state of affairs.
Wings, hot. Bleu cheese. Carrots & celery. Heaven.
I have to say the wait was worth it. I don't know if it's because I have been trapped in a wing-less desert of supply chain shortages but these wangs slap. They go down all the better with my fancy ass beer. A beer so tasty I order another just to be on the safe side. It's the perfect end to a big day on the mountain. I polish off the wings and the brewski and make the short trek back to the cabin to call it a night.
I'm Goin' Back to Jackson
I've got a feel for the mountain now, unfortunately the mountain's got a feel for warmth. It's going to be even hotter today. Yuck.
I pack up my gear and head back to the Hole. I'm not as early today so I have to park in an overflow lot & take the shuttle. I waddle up to the tram and jump aboard with 99 of my closest friends. 9 minutes and 4,139 vertical feet later I shuffle off and strap on my gear. I plan to head back to Rendezvous Bowl but not before a quick detour.
Corbet's Couloir is the most infamous run at Jackson and has been described as America's scariest ski slope. It's named after Jackson Hole ski instructor Barry Corbet, who remarked in 1960 upon seeing the chute that "someday someone will ski that." That someday didn't happen until the next presidential administration... but that's just because the guy who was in charge... well he had a bad weekend in Dallas. Perhaps skiing Corbet's was one of the "other things" we chose to due in that decade, because patroller Lonnie Ball skied it in 1967. Not because it was easy but because it was hard. So hard that it has been the scene of thousands of whoopsies, wipeouts, and yard sales in the years since.
Once I fully relieve myself of the delusion that I could ski it if the snow were better (I couldn't) I riverside back to Rendezvous. It skis much the same as it did yesterday, crusty, bumpy, but manageable. I spend the morning bouncing around the South side of the hill, bopping between the Sublette Quad & Thunder Quad chairs.
Once the early afternoon rolls around the temperatures start to get uncomfortably warm. My ass gets swampy and the snow gets soupy. Near the bottom of the Casper Quad I duck into a run called Nez Perce, which was undoubtedly the worst decision of the day. My first turn I sink waist deep into the slush and endure the saddest, slowest wipeout in the history of alpine skiing. It was like trying to walk through a river of molasses oozing down a hill. To add to the tragedy it was directly below a passing tram car. I gather my pride, and my skis, and set off back down the hill. And fall three more times. Three more comically slow tumbles that would make an outside observer question if the force of gravity had been somehow altered.
I mercifully make it to the bottom of the run and the rest of the way home on Lower Sundance is a nice, easy cruise. I reach the base of the mountain and glance up at the thermometer at the tram loading station.
52°F
52°!!! WTF!
It's hotter than Joey Slowgano's break pads at Talladaga, dadgum! I wipe the sweat off my brow and dash any inkling I may have had about going back out there. I unclip my skis with another 22,680' under my belt and stroll over to the Mangy Moose to cool off with a cold beer.
It's soon apparent that I'm not the only one who's flown to the Moose for the winter. This place is packed. I eye a spot at the far knuckle of the bar and slide in before someone else can snatch it. I order a Pilsgnar from trusty ol' Melvin Brewing and strike up a conversation with the fella next to me. I'd guess he's in his early 60's, sporting a plaid jacket and red stocking cap to accompany his welcoming smile. "Poland" he replies when I ask where he hails from, to which I give him a hard cheers with my pint glass.
I have yet to have a bad time drinking beer with any of my Polish brothers and sisters and this is no exception. We exchange niceties - I learn that he's lived in Wyoming the last 20 years - he learns that I've been on the road the last 2 months. It doesn't take long for the conversation to careen into the deep, roiling waters of his hatred for Russia. Rightfully so. He lived through the death throes of the Soviet Union and the chaotic aftermath of its implosion. He wouldn't piss on Vlad Putin if he was on fire. He's fantastic.
We eventually circle back to Poland and all the places I need to visit. I order another beer just so I can chat with him longer. I don't catch his name as I leave the Moose but I'm going to guess it's Stanislaus. Damn fine name Stanislaus.
I saddle up and head into town, hoping that the Million Dollar Cowboy is open to the public today. I pull into the town square and find that I'm in luck. I push open the swangin' doors to reveal the most obscenely garish cacophony of Hollywood cowboy kitsch you could possibly imagine. It's like a Rainforest Cafe for adults who think The Adventures of Davy Crockett was a documentary. It's equal parts preposterous and marvelous. I sidle up to the bar & straddle the stool, which, of course, is a saddle. I order the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar Golden Ale, because when in Rome. Assuming Rome is Andy's toybox from Toy Story.
I enjoy my ale among a smattering of blue hairs watching the mediocre country music act on the stage at the far end of the bar. A few saddles down a group of greenhorns saunters up who is fucking blown away by the barstools. They hop, and in the case of one particular woman, crawl aboard. In what I'm presuming to be a long & storied history, saddle design has never attempted to accommodate a creature of her stature. And perhaps more pertinent, horse design has never dared try to accommodate a creature of her stature. For to mount a horse requires a certain degree of litheness. This woman lacks litheness. When horses lay their horse heads down at night, they thank their horse gods they have yet to hoist this woman upon their spine. The metal post upon which her saddle resides groans beneath her immense heft. She's bopping around, clapping nowhere near the beat. I can't tell if she's drunk as hell or just stupid and happy.
I polish off my suds and skedaddle out of there. I like to think Mike & Lizzy knew that the Million Dollar Cowboy would be the perfect clash for my cynical disposition and affinity for all things silly. I know for sure that I would have a fantastic time at the Million Dollar Cowboy with Mike & Lizzy and that's what's I appreciates abouts them. I saddle up & mosey on back over the pass for the cabin. Until something catches my eye. A sign. Or rather a glimpse of a sign. Just off the side of the highway. Unless I'm seeing things I believe it said BREWERY ⇨. I blew past it at highway speeds but spin around at a gas station a quarter mile down the road to give it another look-see. I soon find that my hunch was true, here lies a brewery. Well I'll be damned.
I ramble down the short drive to the brewhouse & park my rig out front. I stroll into the cozy tasting room of Grand Teton Brewing, where I order up a flight of their tasty brews. A fella at the bar strikes up a conversation and it turns out he's one of the brewers just hangin' out for a couple pints before heading home. My new friend Dillon asks how the skiing's been and when he hears about the abysmal conditions he laughs and doesn't feel so bad being cooped up in the brewery all day.
We discuss beer, skiing, traveling. When he learns that I'm headed to Utah tomorrow he tosses out a crazy idea. Seeing as the conditions at Jackson are proper shit, it might behoove me forego Jackson tomorrow & check out Pine Creek instead. Pine Creek Ski Resort is a small, independently owned ski area about halfway to Salt Lake. It has 30 runs and a single lift, but perhaps its most intriguing feature is the fact that mid-week you can rent out the entire mountain. You read that right, every Monday - Thursday during ski season you can rent out the entire mountain for a few thousand bucks. I don't know when but I'm getting a group together one of these days & we're renting out that damn mountain.
I snag a 6-er of Juicy IPA for my travels and wish the fellers goodbye. It's a short journey to the cabin where I call it an early night in my comfy abode.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
I wake up bright and early and hit the road South with a full tank of gas and a fresh cup of coffee. I follow the Snake River for about an hour, past a sign that reads "Adopt a Highway: Satanic Temple of Idaho." I've heard many stories of paving the road to hell so I reckon these folks know their way around a road grader. Before I know it I'm passing through Alpine, home of Melvin Brewing, right on the shores of the Palisades Reservoir. Unfortunately the brewery isn't open this early in the morn' so I continue tramping south as the Snake veers eastward, towards its headwaters in the Tetons & Yellowstone.
Another 90 minutes of driving finds me in the town of Cokeville, WY, where I make a left turn for the 5 mile drive through farmland and muddy roads to the ski area. It's technically called "Pine Creek Ski Resort" but we'll refraining from calling it a ski "resort" because a resort it most certainly is not. But that's just how they like it. The unpaved parking lot sits below a modest lodge that stands abreast to the loading area for a single chairlift. With 640 skiable acres and 1,450' of vertical this little operation ain't nothin' to sneeze at! I cross my fingers that the light flurries we're getting today keep up.
Plus checkout their kickass logo.
I gear up and purchase a reasonably priced lift ticket from the ticket sales/ski rental/ski shop/guest services all-in-one counter. Besides a couple other carloads the only other visitors at the mountain today are a class of middle-school aged kids who arrived here on a schoolbus. I'm not sure if they are on early Spring Break or they can skip out on school on Fridays in the winter but either way I'm super jealous. Half are mulling about the lodge and the other half are in varying states of alpine athletics. I'd say at most there are 40 people here today but it's probably closer to 30. That's over 20 acres for the each of us!
I click into my planks & hit the chair, which I guess is just called THE chair since it's the only one out here. I've been through the desert on a chair with no name. The ride up is surprisingly long - a 12 minute jaunt at 3.8 miles per hour, a leisurely stroll compared to the 16 mph of the Jackson tram or 10 mph of the high speed quads. But despite the unhurried pace of the lift it's quite peaceful. Just you, your thoughts, and the serenity of a rural Wyoming mountain. The lift operator hut is manned by an older fella with a bushy red beard and a cheery smile. I give him a wave and he returns the favor with a warmth & friendliness that makes you feel welcome at Pine Creek.
Off the lift I head over to skiers right - because I've got nothing better to do - and find myself on a thin carpet of snow rolled out between the rocks. It's not great and an inauspicious start to the day. Things improve on the next run when I stay a little closer to the lift & find some good snow. I stay in this area the next few runs, dipping into some glades that have held the snow shockingly well. In general, the snow coverage is pretty poor, but this section of the mountain is better than most places I've skied on this trip. Granted, that's a low bar, but a bar nonetheless.
On the drive in from I got a call from my good buddy Landon about the birth of his first child. In the course of the congratulations and transcendental musings of fatherhood he asked if I've gotten rained on again. I laughed & told him no, confident that my days of rain skiing were behind me. Well obviously the skiing gods were listening and took little time to punish me for my hubris. On my 7th run the flurries turn to rain, my mood from cheery to sour.
By this point the old fella in the lift operator hut has started giving me preemptive waves each time he sees me coming up to the apex of the hill so at least I got that goin' for me. Despite the hospitality the rain is too much to overlook and I decide to call it a day. Just a hair under 10k vertical feet but nary a lift line or run crowded full of Jerrys. I'd call that an alright day.
I unstrap my gear in the muddy parking lot and continue southward. My destination is the town of Hollday, Utah, a leafy suburb of Salt Lake City. The town sits right at the base of the Wasatch Range, the home of a number of world-class ski resorts. I'll be staying at the home of my mom's friend LaGayle and her husband Bob who have graciously opened their home to an unemployed rambler such as I (after I invited myself, of course). The last time I saw Bob & LaGayle was when we visited them over spring break in 2001, so a visit is long overdue. When we came out they were already setting up for the Winter Olympics the following year, the highlight of which was the ski jump ramps that were constructed just north of Canyons Ski Resort.
It's a smooth 2.5 hour drive to Bob & LaGayle's, where I arrive right before sundown. I tie the ol' gal up at the hitchin' post out front and my my travel-weary bones up to their beautiful home, eager to call the same bed home for a week straight. Forecast calls for snow. Let's do this.
