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Stories of Jackson Hole
melancholy in march
Melancholy sweeps over me in March, thinking of monumental people, places and loss. I long for the solitude to grieve but, life marches on. It demands water, food, shelter, love; all things I shy away from when I allow myself to tap into the pain.
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After reading the text confirming the worst, we had to keep going. Our crew was tasked with keeping the bullwheels moving on the iconic Jackson Hole tram. We sat together in silence in Tram Control as the machine roared muted and muffled by the walls between us. Silent tears ran down our faces as the weight of risk and the void of loss compressed us together.
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Josh Denny, now the most senior member of Tram Maintenance, came over to me and asked if I was ok. My throat was tight and breath shallow as I staired up the line into the mountains we were enveloped by. I said “yes.”
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Tightly, rehearsed, as if that was what we needed to be.
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“It’s ok if you’re not.”
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I wasn’t.
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He wasn’t.
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We weren’t.
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Being Night Creature the night before and sleeping a the top of Rendezvous Mountain, 10,450 ft does something to you. We called them the Night Creature Weirds. You never knew how they would affect you the next day. Usually a different sort of melancholy, but distance from those around you. As if sleeping in a world above the rest of the valley kept you in a dream.
Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to work that day, so my friend Sam and I were out in the village to free ride, that’s when we found out that Chris hasn’t escaped alive.
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Once we sat with the knowledge, it seemed the only thing to do was to ski.
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She and I took his beloved tram to the top of the mountain in silence. As the chatter of 98 people packed around us, we solemnly looked out the window alone in our own minds.
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When we got to the top, we carried our boards to mountain station and walked right in.
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A handful of jovial ski patrollers were gathered around the table where I had slept the night before. Sitting in chairs older than Sam or I, and in the midst of memorials of their own friends.
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Our grave faces, red eyes, and cheeks were probably curious to them. Usually, people who have made it to the top were all smiles and excitement.
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We walked straight to the fridge and took Onufer’s Amber O’Doul’s. He always had one in there waiting for his Night Creature at the top of the world.
We put it in our backpack and left as quickly as we had came in.
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We strapped into our boards at the summit and rode quietly down the bowl and headed to North Hoback. Once we rounded the nose of the ridgeline, we stopped and sat down. In silence we opened his last O'Doul's and took a sip.
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We sat together in the snow, on the mountain side, overlooking the Snake River valley winding it’s way through a desolate winter landscape. We pondered the void he left, in a place he loved, that we loved, and used to race down together. Now knowing we had skied our last run together.
It was a long way down.
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Sam and I would take some turns and stop. Sit in silence, a few meters away from each other.
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We’d cry into our own goggles, not bothering to wipe away the tears. The weight of his loss crushed us.
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On the way down we gathered pine cones from the North Hoback and took them to his apartment at the base of the mountain. On his doorstep we found a heart made of snow, already melting. We arranged the pine cones in tribute a Cx, Captain X, a name he had donned himself. Our fearless leader, our mentor, our friend.
Life cannot be the same after loss like that, it exists in before and after.
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Once the authorities were notified that Chris and Romeo were missing, it only took a few sets of eyes and binoculars to see the field of avalanche debris that swept their lives from us. Later, Search and Rescue flew a helicopter over the debris field and that’s when our worst fears were confirmed and I received the text the next morning.
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The Teton County Search and Rescue lead the recovery effort. They started before sunrise at Coulter Bay, skinning West across the frozen lake, as the sunrise warmed their backs to the East. Once on the far side of the lake, they began their climb to the debris field just below Ranger Peak. Our friend and Tram regular Peter was on the recovery mission. A jovial and sweet man, with round mountaineering glasses, who always found a way to compliment and chat with those around him, was shaken and left SARs after the experience of recovering friends from that fateful expedition.
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He was angry with Romeo. He was devastated to have lost Chris. Many felt like this tragedy could have been avoided, had they not tempted fate so late in a spring day. But no one truly knew their experience on that morning.
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Avalanches are violent acts of nature. Some victims are found without clothing, and in pieces buried under 30 ft of snow that solidified like concrete around them. Every year people die in the Tetons, some die at the ski resort, some don’t survive the losses they face in life.
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In the days that followed I found myself driving into the heart of those mountains and visualizing his last morning. I would park at Coulter Bay, where Search and Rescue found his Jeep, and listened to Florence and the Machine sing about how “it’s always darkest before the dawn,” all while feeling like the light of the sunrise would never reach me.
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the king
When I think of the Tram King of the Universe I am instantly taken to a pearly smile, backlit wonderous hair, kissed by the sun and a laugh that can make anyone smile. And that voice. You can’t think of The King without thinking of his radio perfect assertation of anything said to a public audience. He is a Jackson Hole legend. His voice and self-styled arrogance will live in the valley until we are dead and the next generation ruins the place.
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When he and I would talk about the possibility of Yellowstone erupting; you know the worlds largest Super Volcano that sits about 40 miles north of Jackson, capable of causing a mass extinction event because of pyroclastic flow and a volcanic winter? He said that if Yellowstone was ever going to blow, he would take his shirt off, jump on his motorcycle and full throttle “bbrrrrrrrrrraaaaaappppppp” straight into the caldera; and I believed him.
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The way he would describe people was unparallel. I remember him talking about one of the Tram Maintenance guys once. Josh was forced into being the leader through a series of drama and tragedy of mountainous proportions. He was an incredibly smart guy, more inclined to music and other adventure, than skiing at that point. He was sweet and quiet until you made him laugh, then his hoot would echo through the concrete bollards.
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King was talking about the pressure Josh was under, because of no choice of his own but because we needed a leader after having two of ours ripped from us. One for political history and one because his life was swept down and torn from us in an avalanche on Ranger Peak in Grand Teton National Park. Josh was thrust into leadership that he neither wanted nor was necessarily ready to accept.
But I digress.
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When King was talking about Josh he said that when he finally lost it we would probably find him down in the motor room in heels, wearing lipstick and carrying an AK-47. I laughed out loud. It’s an image that has never left my mind and one that Josh wasn’t particularly happy to hear about.
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Once when I was flying trams a little boy jumped on my box and ran right behind me. He exclaimed “oh Sarah, it’s you! I just knew it would be you!!” Surprised, I asked “How did you know it would be me?” He said “because I prayed it would be!” Thinking it was sweet, when I came back down I went into Tram Control and told the story. Fought sitting in his usual location shook his head, hands together and said, “stupid kid, taking up all of God’s bandwidth praying for Sarah.”
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Fought told stories of Zappa, Speedway, LA in the old days, Jackson before it sucked, dangling from Tram cables for years, traversing with haste and solitary Night Creatures. He gave way to folk lore and provoked local mountain goats, sky maggots and legends alike.
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When the news of the COVID-19 Pandemic hit and we were all told to stay at home, I wondered if it was Scott Fought who had orchestrated it himself. He had been preaching the joy of staying at home for years. Whenever anything bad would happen he would say “see, that’s why you don’t leave the house” and shake his head as he passed on his assertion.
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He also taught me the joys of never carpooling, which I appreciate even still. Why would you want to disrupt your perfectly peaceful drive with the smell and opinions of another human being?
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I think the King just wanted people to listen to him. He loved talking and giving his expertise on anything from the rise of the monotonous 4/4 Time Signature to the beauty and wonder of Bruce Penahalls’ hair. I loved listening to him talk and egging him on. Half of the crust on the Tram crew was because his Jaded status rippled out to us and gave us the indignation it took him years to accumulate.
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Scott Fought the law and the law won.
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His liver couldn’t take the party that he brought with Jaggie and pills. I always wondered what he was like at home, by himself, in his element. Jagger or Gin, downers and VHS tapes; counting his gold and silver. I wondered if the heels, lipstick and guns were more his thing than Josh’s, but I guess I’ll never know.
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Now he’ll live in my memory as the best story teller I have ever known. I hope that while Scott Fought the law and the law won; I pray I get to see him fly out of this existence like Evil Knievel with his shirt off and red converse, beautiful locks blowing in the wind, going 95 mph in to the heart of his next adventure with all of scrooge McDucks’ gold filling his pockets as he vaporizes into the legend he has become.
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Describe your image
Describe your image
dirtbag funerals
A young kid died paragliding off the 400 ft Tower 5 cliffs in winter. Gravity killed him, and ski patrol had to save his body. A few months later his dad returned to the mountain do a celebration of life. About 45 people showed up at the Tram and asked if we would run a trip for them. Clifford one of our mechanics, being the young curmudgeon he was said “Absolutely not.” But me being a softy for tragedy said “it’s ok. I’ll run the trip.”
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We loaded everyone on the tram car and headed up the mountain. I stood quietly watching as his friends commemorated his life by drinking beers and listening to the Grateful Dead. As we approached tower 5 his dad asked if we could slow down and open the doors to spread his ashes, something we only did for with ski patrol so they could throw bombs from the tram to mitigate for avalanches.
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I slowed the car and stopped. Wind was blowing South by South West, hitting us broadside, and left us swinging in the Wyoming wind above Ten Sleep bowl and Corbets Coulier. I disengaged the locks, put the chains on the doors and pushed them open.
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There we hung, hundreds of feet above the snow with the cliff face straight ahead. It was blowing a gale and the big red box was swinging in the air. No one on that Tram had ever had the doors open like that before except me. They all stood at a healthy distance behind his poor dad.
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Dad laughed and pulled a one liter Coke bottle out of his coat and joked that this “urn” was the only thing his dirt bag kid could afford, which was something most of us could relate to. He opened the red lid, tipped the bottle and sent his son to rest in the same spot he had fallen in the first place; only now the wind brought him back to all of us in a cloud of ash. In a Big Lebowski moment his boy took flight and swirled with the wind dusting everyone aboard, but mostly sending him into Ten Sleep one last time.
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His dad put the cap on the Coke bottle and put it back in his old coat. We went to the top of the mountain only to go back down again.
But that’s life.
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It has up and downs.
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Sometimes you fly high above the clouds in the bright light of the sun, and other times you are stuck in vertigo unsure of what is up or down, life swirling all around you like snow in blizzard.
the grateful dead reborn
China Cat Sunflower fills my ears and my memories as the sun rises on my drive home. My car is the Jackson Hole Tram these days rather than the other way around. The crusty locals used to demand that we play the Grateful Dead on their morning commute to the top of the mountain. Like spoiled children, whining “Play the dead!”
Your daddy can buy you a house in Wilson, but all the whines in the world won’t get me to submit to your demands.
“Fuck you, I don’t do what you tell me!” once filled the cabin as I chatted with one of my favorite locals Peter. I didn’t realize it was blasting through the speakers until the chorus. Keep it pg-13 Baca
As I reminisce,
and age
and think my time in that valley,
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I am drawn back to the mellow licks, slow tick and gentle pics, while Jerry sings.
The home you have, can be different than the one you choose. Sometimes it beckons you. Calls you there, lays down your roots, and makes you feel as though you should never leave. Going home to Jackson Hole after a trip, was always better than leaving. Sometimes I wondered why I even traveled while millions of people each year left home, just to come there.
The magnetism I feel for home still draws me there daily, though I’ve since been gone longer than I stayed.
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The mountains hold me close and I want to smell their scent. Wildflowers and wind, fresh gurgling streams, pine sap sticky and dirt and rock that has been wore down by a millennium. Pressure builds to the north as Yellowstone churns, yet the Meadow Lark sings with the morning light. Buckrail lines the prairie, and the deer, moose, elk and bison don’t care about your property taxes. An owl hoots over the Snake River as the moon fills the night with the depths of it’s blue light, no one told her it was river front with Teton views.
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I passed through like the butterfly that graced the manicured gardens, we designed to look wild. Grown for the millionaires and billionaires, to bring their friends to show them what money can buy. I stopped in a beautiful place, lived near wonderful flowers, had a home, with my kaleidoscope of winged friends, flying off cliffs, soaring through the air, racing down the mountain, without a care.
If the jaded locals would have given me 10 years or if I would have had my own trust fund, maybe I would have died the Grateful death and been reborn sooner. The Fire on the Mountain has finally burned me up and I am at peace with The Dead.
Children are my companions now and they fill the car with laughter and love. While at times they Rage Against the Machine, I try to remember they will come around.
For now, Ripple is our morning prayer and my young tram riders allow “songs to fill the air.”
tis the season
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, falalala, lalalala!”
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I can’t help but hear these lyrics shouted in my memory, as singers and friends of various vocal capacities belt out the song with all the holiday spirit available. Being a 20 something ski bum in a mountain town is a dream. Living and working in Jackson Hole, Wyoming was like getting a graduate degree in extreme fun. Any time day or night someone was up for adventure with a capital A; I met and found some of my favorite people on earth in that valley. I even married one, and we have three mountain babies to show for our high-altitude love.
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One clear, frigid, Christmas Eve, we decided to host an “Around the World” party. Several of us lived in the same neck of the woods so we planned a route from one house to the next. Each location offering a single drink and snack, before moving on to the next.
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Our first stop was at Will and Dyno’s apartment on the west side. Will’s southern accent was always welcoming and Dyno’s Brooklyn energy was buoyant and sharp. “Come on in!” They greeted us with Jager Bombs and Pabst. All of us dirty ski bums were dressed to impress in our finest cotton dresses, flannels and jeans. We even showered and combed our hair for the occasion. We crowded around the counter as everyone conversed. Voices raising with every glass. As we drank, we got more and more comfortable, yet we knew there were rounds to be made.
“Finish up y’all, let’s head to Dianes!”
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The jager and red bull proved to be a powerful sedative for Dyno and his NY ass couldn’t hang. He was left behind to sleep it off, as the rowdy crowd moved to the next stop. From there, we went to Diane’s place where she lived with a house full of former Bowden brats. We paused briefly for the east coast kids to play beer pong, put their balls on the table, and drink Dark and Stormies.
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Things were amping up and more tinsel was added to the crew as we rallied from the post college frat house. After drinking enough rum to get Castro drunk, we headed out in the negative temperatures, and snowy streets.
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The snow squeaked under our boots as we crunched down the road. Our rabble was roused and the only obvious thing to do was to sing our way to the next house.
Off we went, a random ribatious rabble of reckless rousing. None of us could sing, or if we could no one could tell, because we were singing at the tops of our lungs.
“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, falalala, lalalala!”
“Tis the season to be jolly, falalala, lalalala!!”
“Don we now, our gay apparel, falalala, lalalala!!!”
We sang, we walked, we slipped and fell around in the snowbanks. We laughed, we sang, and our rabble roused the farther we got. We got to our house, and decided to keep going around the block. There was only one problem, we didn’t know any other songs. Or we couldn’t remember any others as a group, but damn that chorus from deck the halls… that really hit. We belted out our joy in every step.
As we passed one neighbor’s house, we saw their lights on and decided to knock on the door. As the crowd of us stood on the porch and waited in anticipation, we chuckled at our brazen tactics. What the fuck are we doing? Christmas Eve gathering turned caroling expedition on Meadowlark ln.
Our unsuspecting Russian neighbors cautiously and suspiciously opened the door.
Exalted, our rabble burst into song: “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, falalala, lalalala!” The guests within the abode were now curious about this strange American troupe, what is happening out there. They crowded the stairs and landing letting all the frigid air in without a care. “Tis the season to be jolly, falalala, lalalala!!”
We sang with everything we had; and when we didn’t know any more words and finished the song, our Russian audience cheered with just as much gusto. We embraced; neighbor to neighbor, dirt bag to dirt bag.
They offered us a drink, no one said no.
As if they were anticipating our arrival, a silver tray of shots appeared at the doorway. Vodka shot glasses rimmed with sugar and a slice of lemon on top, lemon drops for their favorite carolers. We praised their foresight and hospitality. Next a tray of deviled eggs appeared in just as beautiful fashion.
We carried on that night to the next house, the next year and the year after that. As I sit now ten years later playing Christmas carols on the piano for my children, one of my favorite Christmas memories comes to mind and I smile.
Building community takes more than one person, more than one faith, more than one background, more than one house, more than one friend, more than one experience. We build beauty together. Singing or walking alone is fine, but I can tell you that you won’t sit around reminiscing about all those great times alone.
Find friends, sing some songs. Who knows, maybe they’ll give you a memory that lasts a lifetime.
Merry Christmas