Morning in Jackson Wyoming. Snow showers outside. Fleetingly. Then quiet.
Quiet in the Rusty Parrot dining room as well. It's me and the American Indians today for breakfast.
My flight to Salt Lake City takes off just after noon. That means I can still take a morning walk. Still explore a little. But this turns out to be not so easy here. There is a rather tall hill (or short mountain!) behind the Rusty Parrot. I ask if perhaps there's a trail to the top. I'm told -- no, you can't go there. It's private land. This is when I miss Europe. Private mountains? No hiking allowed? I'm remembering Free to Roam laws in Scotland. Go anywhere. Just leave no trace, but walk until your heart is full. Much of the land in the Alps may be private (who even knows), but you can still traverse it. Paths abound. So I am frustrated. Private mountain. Hrmph.
(the Rusty Parrot, with a private mountain behind it)
[Related to this is the second big drawback, from my perspective, to basing yourself in American mountain resorts: you just cannot do much without a car. How many mountain places have I visited in Europe? In my lifetime -- countless, in a half dozen different countries. I have never once felt compelled to rent a car. Not once. Public trains and buses move me around and the rest I accomplish on foot. In the U.S., Jackson isn't unusual in requiring wheels. I'd say it's the norm here.]
The kind desk people come up with an alternative: how about going up on the gondola? At the ski hill? For the view?
It's a $30 ride for views I saw for free yesterday. I'll pass.
In the alternative, at the base of that mountain with the gondola, there is a creek and I am told can walk along there as well. The desk staff person notes -- in the summer they have a real stagecoach that you can ride along that road. I have to smile at that. Me and the stagecoach. Well, it's a destination. Let me head that way.
But I have to cross all of Jackson to reach the creek. It takes time. Hey, I'm in no hurry. I take in the sights one last time.
I never make it to the creek. At the base of the ski mountain, there's enough snow for kids to bring their sleds. I stop to watch for a while...
You can't see the Teton peaks from here, but you can certainly see mountains. I pause, I admire...
And then I turn back.
Leaving behind this small town that is many things to many people.
To the airport now (and here I can indeed see the Tetons one last time)...
I read somewhere that Yellowstone is more like a Broadway show, whereas Grand Teton is the ballet performance at Lincoln Center. The point, I think, is that you aren't stunned by any one phenomenon at Teton. No great geysers throwing water high into the air, no waterfalls cascading from mountaintops. Mountains and forests, wildlife and a few lakes. But isn't that just perfect? If it's a dance, it is a most beautiful one. I'd choose it over Broadway any day.
A flight to Salt Lake City, A wait there for the flight to Minneapolis. Here it gets to be a little dicey: the flight departure is delayed due to mechanical issues, which does not bode well, as I have a very short layover in the Twin Cities.
Do I make it?
Just barely! At a sprint across the entire Minneapolis airport!
I'm so very glad. Ed, cats, farmhouse bed. Kids, Thanksgiving. Wisconsin cold, Madison warmth. Heaven.
