Jackson Hole and the Grand Tetons - Wyoming
Written by Amanda Jones for the Los Angeles Times
It was an autumn day in Grand Teton National Park. The sky was an immaculate blue, the mountains towered stark ahead, and the aspens and cottonwoods gleamed with umbers and saffrons, shedding a mosaic of leaves on the trail.
My husband, Greg, and I were hiking above Jenny Lake when we encountered a trail marked Moose Pond. We took it, aware that a moose sighting was improbable, but we were hopeful anyway. Lagging, I rounded a corner and found Greg standing motionless on the trail.
"Look below," he hissed. "There's actually a moose in the pond."
Camera ready, we stalked the moose, commando-style, eventually abandoning all caution and approaching fully upright. The 900-pound cow was placidly pulling leaves from the water. We walked so close we could have tugged her dewlap, the flap of skin under a moose's jaw. She moved out of the pond, threw us a world-weary look and ambled off.
The next day we joined a float trip on the Snake River. Ours was the only boat on the water on this, another perfect day. John, our float guide, was an orthodox outdoorsman, undoubtedly capable of fashioning a Quonset hut from bark or apparel from skins.
Suddenly someone spotted a moose in the distance, and our fellow floaters dived for binoculars, agog at the sighting.
"So," asked a jaunty woman from Kansas, "are moose dangerous?"
"Oh, yessiree, ma'am," John said. "They'll stomp on you till you ain't movin'. I know a couple of people who have been killed by moose. One of my friends got his kidney stomped so bad he was in the hospital for months. No, ma'am, you don't want to be gettin' close to no moose."
I stared at Greg. He stared at John. We said nothing.
In New Zealand, my homeland, we don't have large, man-killing creatures, hence my ignorance of the danger of moose stomping. Greg, however, is an American and an Eagle Scout. He has a box of patches that suggest he should know these things. He ignored me, much as our benevolent moose did. We gazed at the magnificent scenery in silence, thankful merely to have all organs intact.
We were in Jackson last September to attend a wedding, and our trip became a weeklong vacation. The only risk in visiting at this time of year is the weather, which can turn cold. It was 75 degrees most days of our stay, but in September the average daytime high is 69, falling to 54 in October. I never once wore the heavy coat I had packed.
Fall is also elk bugling season in Wyoming, which means one must avoid the gangs of bull elk rampaging through the countryside seeking mates. We added elk to the list of animals to avoid.
Grand Teton is one of America's most beautiful national parks. It borders Yellowstone, which means the wildlife ranges freely between the two.
But Grand Teton encompasses only 300,000 acres compared with Yellowstone's 2.2 million, so it feels intimate and accessible, dominated by those savagely beautiful mountains. In the summer, Grand Teton gets 2 million visitors, but in fall that number tapers off to 400,000. It's not hard to imagine the difference in ambience.
We stayed first in Teton Village, then at a dude ranch. Teton Village, better known as Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, has some of the best vertical skiing in America, but in summer and fall it transforms into a destination for outdoorsy die-hards and extreme- sport aficionados.
Arriving at the village, we noticed a crowd outside the Walk Festival Hall. Jackson is home to the Teton Gravity Research Institute, a group of professional adrenaline junkies whose pants hang below their underwear and who are paid to do highly imprudent things on snow, big waves or mountain bikes.
These anti-gravity test dummies make movies of their global exploits, and their ski and snowboard film "Mind the Addiction" was showing that night. We went. It was terrifying and terrific, with scenes of skiers hurtling through narrow chutes and snowboarders free-falling off crevasses.
We stayed in Teton Village because of its location: It's between the park and the town of Jackson. Our condo was in the Moose Creek complex at the blissfully quiet end of the village, about half a mile from the hub of five-star hotels and restaurants.
Decorated in tasteful Western style, it was spacious and had a stone fireplace, hot tub, great views and a large deck. In winter, Moose Creek has ski-in/ski-out access with a chairlift connecting guests to the resort.
Our first morning in Teton Village we ate brunch at the Mangy Moose, a classically eccentric Western bar and restaurant in the village. We sat outside, gazing at the ski hill. In dry months you can hike all over the mountain, some of which stretches into the park.
Post-omelet, we took the tram to the summit and hiked the Rock Springs loop back down to the village. From the top we could see the craggy Grand Teton peak, the tallest of the spires at 13,770 feet. Grand Teton means "large breast" in French. When a group of French Canadian beaver trappers arrived in 1820, the granite mountains apparently reminded them of the female anatomy, hence the name. One imagines they had been traveling a fair while.
Our hike took us through valleys of limestone rock and over sandstone moraine, dropping into a forest of lodgepole pine and Douglas fir and fields of pungent sagebrush.
That evening, as dusk lingered over the hayfields and a formation of Canada geese flew south, we drove 20 minutes into the town of Jackson.
Jackson used to be a gen-u-ine Western cow town. It was established in 1897 as a marketplace for local ranchers, but these days much of it has changed into a retreat for wealthy businessmen and politicians. We were here just after Sept. 11 last year, when Vice President Dick Cheney had been removed to an "undisclosed secure location." At the Jackson airport, we observed a very disclosed Air Force Two on the runway. (Cheney, who grew up in Casper, Wyo., has a home here.)
There are ways in which the town remains faithful to its Western roots. At times I felt as though I'd been dropped into central casting for "Gunsmoke." Window shopping one evening, I overheard a cowboy sweet-talking an attractive tourist. He wore fringed chaps over Lee jeans, a vest, denim shirt, silver buckle, bandanna, cowboy boots and a 10-gallon hat.
The conversation went something like this:
"Howdy, miss. My name's J.J. You enjoyin' our little
town here? I can see you ain't from these here parts. Gals
'round here don't dress like you do, all purrty-like in a
tiny skirt."
"Well," she purred, "I'm from Los Angeles."
"I ain't never been out West that far," J.J. said. "I hear they got all sorts of strange folk in that L.A. I hear you got men that dress up in women's clothing and nobody pays them any mind at all."
I snorted, snapping her out of her cowboy-induced reverie. She mumbled something and sashayed off. He glowered at me, and I felt like a snake that had slithered into the bunkhouse.
The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, opposite the giant elk antler arches on the town's main square, is a landmark watering trough for locals and tourists alike and really is worth a stop. You'll see lots of people dressed like J.J. in the Million Dollar Bar. There are saloon doors, frightful saddle bar stools (women in miniskirts are at a significant disadvantage), bartenders with handlebar mustaches, a dance floor with live western swing music, pool tables and taxidermy displays in which ferocious animals are frozen in the act of savaging one another.
The shopping in Jackson is the expected Western apparel--boots, hats, denim skirts--and various souvenirs, often carved from a tree stump. But this is, nonetheless, an enchanting town in which original settler buildings line the streets.
The influx of dollars has also brought good restaurants. We ate dinner at the fabulous Old Yellowstone Garage on pizza-party Sunday, when you're served as many slices of gourmet wood-fired pizza as you can eat, often piled with homemade cheeses. Brunch at the Rusty Parrot hotel was a home-baked extravaganza, so good that we overlooked the lax service.
Although we didn't eat there, the swankiest (and costliest) restaurant in town, locals say, is the Snake River Grill. Off Broadway and Pato's are trendy with residents for a Friday night casual meal.
We rose at 6 the following morning to drive into the park to meet our float trip. In the township of Moose we met the Solitude Float people and our man John, he of the moose-stomping sagacity.
We piled into a van and were driven to Deadman's Bar, where the boat put in. The Snake River is not a challenging whitewater ride (hence the term "float"), but it is visually stunning. For two hours you ease under the Tetons, through stands of cottonwoods and over small rapids, finishing back in Moose. All the while there are eagles, great blue herons, sandhill cranes, mule deer, antelope and beaver dams to ponder. If you get lucky, you'll chance upon a moose, a bison or a grizzly.
Later that day we moved to the Triangle X, a 1,300-acre working dude ranch inside the park. The Turner family has operated the ranch for four generations, and they had a role in the controversial creation of the park.
In 1929 they were approached to sell their property to the Snake River Land Co., a front for an anonymous John D. Rockefeller Jr. They sold, with the agreement that they could lease the ranch back from the land company. Rockefeller eventually bought the whole valley this way, much to the fury of ranchers, who felt they had been gypped.
In 1949 Rockefeller gave 35,000 acres of the valley to the National Park Service, which added it to the Teton Range and the Teton National Forest, officially creating Grand Teton National Park in 1950. Rockefeller kept 1,100 acres for himself, which in 2006 will be bequeathed to the park. The ranchers may have felt duped, but Rockefeller preserved one of the world's great wildernesses.
When their land became a park, Triangle X became a park concession, the only dude ranch inside a national park in America.
When we arrived, we wondered whether the cabins and dining house were modeled on a Disneyesque cliche of cowboy life. It didn't take long to realize that it was this type of place on which Disney modeled its concept of the West. Tiny log cabins stood in front of a copse of trees. Old chuck wagons sat on the front lawn. There was a separate dining house with communal tables and a bar area with stacked-stone fireplace and a stuffed bear.
It was unglamorous but chic at the same time. The cabins are very basic, with narrow twin beds, lumpy pillows and minuscule bathrooms. The food is wholesome and flavorful but, again, basic.
The wranglers were the soul of Triangle X. Our favorite was T.J. Van Ooyen, a tall, beanpole-thin dude with a handlebar mustache. He loped about in fringed chaps and a black hat with a feather.
T.J. was born in the saddle, he loved Wyoming's outdoors and he took us on rides with views that can be described only as faultless. The Tetons looked indigo in the background, the Snake River slipped molten at their feet and the aspens glowed in the fiery light of sundown. We returned each evening to drink wine on the porch, stiff, sore and soporific from the riding.
Foreigners who concentrate on the big cities don't know what they're missing. I bet they'd have an entirely different impression of America if they came to places like Jackson Hole. And there would probably be a whole lot more moose-stomping incidents.