“….Pulled my cap down over my eyes and headed out for the western skies; So long, Yellowstone Park. Howdy, Grand Teton.”---Bob Dylan (approximately)
A driver can scarcely emerge from the southern exit of the wonderland that is Yellowstone, turn on the radio and take a few puffs on his weed of choice before he finds himself in Teton territory. The imposing mountains come rushing up from the west in a hurry and the Grand Teton border is barely seven miles from that of Yellowstone. Jackson, Wyoming, headquarters for all that is Teton, is another 50 miles down the road. Or is that Jackson Hole? Inquiring minds want to know.
Jackson Hole is the valley in which the town of Jackson sits. The Hole—or valley—is created by the mountains surrounding it. Jackson is the town that grew up at the southern end of the valley. The area was settled in the 1890s due to its arable farmland, but it was no picnic getting there. To reach Jackson, pioneers had to cross a steep pass in the mountains. Climbing to that pass was the easy part; getting the wagons down the hill was a much larger problem. The wagons had to be turned so that the larger wheels were downhill and the small ones uphill. Then, lodgepole pines were tied to the wagons to slow their descent down the hill. When they finally made it to the valley floor, the trees were simply cut off the wagons and abandoned. When it came time to erect the first public building in Jackson, no trees had to be felled. The timber was already there, piled up at the base of the trail where the settlers entered town.
Jackson is famous for electing the state’s first all-female town council in 1920. Wyoming, itself, was the first state in the country to allow women the right to vote, serve on juries and hold public office. Maybe they’re open-minded in Wyoming. Or maybe they have so few people they have to put everybody to work. Wyoming has the smallest population of any state in the country, a mere 585,501 in 2016. They do have a state dinosaur, however, unlike your state. We knew you’d ask---it’s the triceratops. Jackson Hole has seen many films shot on location; the ones you’ve heard of are Shane, Django Unchained, Rocky IV and Any Which Way You Can. Jackson claims that the concept of whitewater rafting was devised right there on the Snake River, but they can’t prove it.
The Good Old Days. More Or Less.
The last time we were in Jackson, many long years ago, we blithely arrived without a hotel room. We promptly discovered downtown was no place to look for one, everything being in the $400-plus range, which was even more expensive than hotels on Central Park South. We eventually found a Quality Inn outside town for $159, and no, it was not full of pickpockets and tattooed men selling motorcycle parts. Despite the inflated cost of living, we liked Jackson Hole and Grand Teton N.P. was the site of one of our more memorable hikes. We didn’t say it was one of our most beloved ones.
Bright and early one fine July day, we jumped on a boat and crossed Grand Teton’s Jenny Lake. The vessel was filled with a jabbering squad of twentyish male would-be hikers, equipped to the nines with every hiking accessory on the market, a boisterous crew with delusions of gallivanting grandeur, whatever that might be. When the boat landed, they marched off in pairs, clicking their walking sticks, baying at the sun. If it was an earlier era, they would have been singing “Val-da-ree! Val-da-rah!” like the Happy Wanderer. They barely paid us notice, the hopelessly old couple carrying remnants of their previous night’s dinner at the Granary Restaurant. Bear fodder, they probably thought.
The Cascade Canyon Trail is a 13.6 mile round-trip without the boat ride. Take the boat and it’s a nice 9-mile round trip, beginning with a pretty waterfall and immediately ascending 1000 feet to an overlook called Inspiration Point. The latter name is like a hiker’s “Main Street” or “Springfield,” there’s one everywhere we go. The trail levels off at that point. We ambled along for a few miles, as is our custom, taking in the wildflowers, commenting on the moderate nature of the trail, when what to our wondering eyes should appear but nine tired men and a few empty beers.
“Salud!” we hailed, sauntering by on our ancient limbs, trying not to giggle. They mumbled something inappropriate and went back to massaging their feet. Down the road, we sat and devoured what was left of our duck l’orange, packing in the leftovers as the trail code demanded. When we eventually got back to the spot our younger friends had been languishing, they were long gone, victims of overoptimism and undertraining. “Tortoise and the hare,” I told Siobhan. “No gloating on the trail,” she reminded me. But I think I saw a twinkle of satisfaction in her eyes.
Who’ll Stop The Rain?
In all our years of long vacations, dating back to the year 2000, we have been remarkably lucky with the weather. We hedged our bets, of course, by spending a lot of time in the American West, where summer precipitation is a rare bird, but we did visit rainy Seattle, where we never saw a drop, and even the Hoh Rain Forest in Olympic National Park, which was shrouded in clouds. The travel guidebooks will tell you “It rains every day in the Hoh Rain Forest,” but forgot to add “…but not when you’re with Bill and Siobhan.”
We visited Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine one year. Despite New England’s penchant for dizzy, quick-changing weather, no rain. A terrible black cloud scowled over the harbor one afternoon, noticed Bill and Siobhan were there, tipped its cap and sped off.
The closest we came to rainfall in these almost-twenty years was in Alaska, where the sun barely shone for an entire week. Still, it didn’t really rain. A dense mist often hung in the air, other times it was merely cloudy, but no monsoons. We got to feeling like Superman probably does, impervious to weather issues. But somewhere on the Cascade Canyon Trail, there is Kryptonite. On our way back, with about a mile to get to the boat dock, it began to pour. We ducked under a huge boulder for awhile, waiting for a break in the deluge, moving on when it eased a bit. Naturally, everyone on the trail fled for the boat when the rain started so it was full by the time we arrived, with a few dozen more soggy customers waiting. We watched forlornly as the vessel sailed off, knowing it would be almost an hour before it returned. In that hour, the heavens opened up and and the Thunder God threw everything he had at us. Drowned rats never had it so bad. There was nothing resembling refuge so we had to grin and bear it. The woebegone waiting-room tried to make light of the situation but nobody’s jokes were funny.
By the time we got on the next boat, my body was shaking and seriously considering a bout with hypothermia. Fortunately, the trip across the lake was fast and we had a change of clothes in the car. A couple of miles from the mountains there was no sign of rain, it was a glorious, sunny day. I looked over my shoulder as we drove off, the mountains glaring back in the distance, spitting out defiance. “We make our own weather up here, buddy boy! Why don’t you try us again tomorrow?” Then a rumble of what had to be laughter. “Hey, they have ponchos in town for $79. Come back again when you’ve had your Wheaties!” I never thought about it before but I really despise a smart-ass mountain.
The End Of The Line
After the Bunsen Peak hike, we were content to just mosey around Jackson for an afternoon, waiting for our flight the next morning. The town seemed much as we remembered it from a decade-and-a-half ago, colorful, busy, tourists hustling from shop to shop. Siobhan found a local minstrel in the town square park, strumming on a guitar, singing out his own compositions. He didn’t take requests, was scarcely familiar with anything he didn’t write and his stylings varied from mildly painful to acceptable only in nursing homes, but Siobhan is a trooper not unwilling to help alleviate the plight of working performers on a tight budget. And it wasn’t like the Ramones were in town.
Next morning we were up bright and early for our drive to the Jackson International Aerodrome. We were rewarded with a brilliant sunrise which colored much of the sky orange. The airport is somewhat smaller than LaGuardia, but to our surprise, six of its ten gates were getting ready to load flights. And we only had to wait about half-a-year for the peppy restaurant staff to bring out our breakfast biscuits. The flight left on time, as did our connector and we were back in Orlando twenty minutes early. That’s where the weather took its revenge for our crystal-clear trip, lightning stalling us on the runway for almost an hour. The altruistic Stuart Ellison picked us up at the airport and delivered us back to lovely Fairfield, which never even missed us.
As always, we’re grateful to Stuart and Mary Ellison for holding the fort while we were away and to Janis Peterson for house and pet care. Not to mention Julie, Laura and Debbie, who kept Pathogenes, Inc. from falling into the sea in our absence. Lila the Rottweiler deserves her fair share of credit for intimidating possible ne’er-do-wells who might wander errantly down our driveway. Lila won’t bite anybody but she will check every inch of your body looking for food treats, which can be just as frightening. Our true ace-in-the-hole is Sylvester the Wonder Cat, who thinks he is a lynx and will recognize a true varlet on sight, offering an array of interesting punishments, none of them pleasant. And just when a miscreant thinks he’s escaped, there’s Casper the Unfriendly Goat to butt him into the middle of next month. “Sometimes, you feel like a butt,” says Casper. “Sometimes, you don’t.”
That’s all, folks….
