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From America: In Jackson Hole, Wyoming
If you are out of shape, it might be a good idea to stay away from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The fitness-crazed, stunningly-scenic, southern Wyoming town has an extremely ambulatory population of approximately 9,000 full-time residents — most of whom, it seems, are fascinated with the expenditure of energy. Be it kayaking, cycling, mountain biking, skiing or snowboarding, hiking, climbing, hunting, fishing, rafting or running, the region is a vast natural resource for those seeking outdoor physical challenge. Half of the population seems to be in training for an array of athletic contests.
Driving into Wyoming from Idaho, I spotted little bright yellow and orange rafts—one after another—floating down the winding rivers I never seemed to lose sight of. As I came into town on an early July afternoon, there were an astonishing number of cyclists pushing up the major league mountain pass I was descending. We’re talking altitude here, some 8,431 feet to the top of the pass. No one seemed to be struggling. Once in town, the action didn’t stop. Outfitters were everywhere—equipping, prepping and moving newly-arrived wilderness neophytes into the rivers and mountains surrounding them. While tourists seemed magnetically attracted to the town’s epicenter—a small square with giant elk antler arches on each corner—the purists were spending their time finding ways to get further away from it.
Jackson is a young town. The 2000 census noted the median age to be 31. From all the activity I witnessed going on, that number hardly surprised me. It is the gateway to both Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks. Outside of Jackson, traffic often stops for roaming bison. Up close, they reminded me of locomotives; front-loaded and powerful. The Teton Mountain Range rises dramatically above the valley, its snow-capped peaks—glistening and breath-taking—crowded the sky.
A good friend, who lives in Jackson, and I decided to climb up to the summit of the Jackson Hole Mountain Resort ski area. We left before noon on a clear day, patiently hiking up the steepening trail. Before venturing too far into the wilderness, people tell you about the bears, wolves, moose, elk and bison, most of which—with the exception of the bears—you see around Jackson Hole if you stay for a few days. My friend informed me that if I should tangle with a black bear, I should fight like mad. If it’s a grizzly, I should cover my neck and head and curl into the fetal position. He also handed me a can of bear mace and instructed me how and when to use it. At about 8,000 feet, we sat down to nibble on snacks and hydrate. Somewhere near 10,000 feet, I began to feel nauseous. As my friend described the eatery we were going to later, I was busy trying not to vomit. After another light-headed mile, we reached the 10,450 foot summit. I had been climbing steadily in Oregon and Idaho prior to this climb, and when we saw a huge red tram waiting with open doors we made a dash for it, breathless and sweat-stained. My knees would be spared the painful descent. There was no charge to ride the tram down if you had climbed up—and in 10 minutes we were back to where we started.
Jackson is filled with restaurants, bars, lodges, and shops. We went to the Everest Momo Shack downtown and dined on excellent Nepalese cuisine, chatting easily with one of the owners. I could have stayed there for hours. People relax in Jackson by figuring out what their next strenuous exertion is going to be. Though I never so much as set foot in them, I heard a lot about the National Museum of Wildlife Art and the Center for the Arts, which hosts, among other things, the annual Jackson Hole Writers Conference. Yet, amidst all the revelry and excitement, the celebrities who call it home (for at least a few weeks a year), Jackson strives to remain a western town.
I stayed on the move, driving one evening north through Yellowstone National Park on my way to Montana. It was a starlit night with few people on the narrow road. A big moon appeared over the darkened park. Suddenly, I saw two bison grazing not twenty feet from the roadside. I pulled the rental car over, snapped a picture, and it was in that grainy, ethereal moonlight where I stopped thinking for once about climbing and the frenzy of activity back in Jackson Hole. A map told where I was, but I felt as far from anywhere as I had in a long time. Everything was silent, save for the sound of bison eating grass.