Note: This post from yesterday was supposed to be public (for all subscribers). Consequently, I am reposting.
You know immediately when you’ve crossed the border from Utah into The Cowboy State: Instead of Mormon churches you see roadhouses.
“Did you leave a tip for the maid?” I ask Andrew, referring to our earlier checkout from the Park City Marriott.
“Uh, was I supposed to?”
“It’s customary to leave at least a buck or three.”
Says Andrew: “I laid my head down at two a.m. after exercising in the fitness room, but I couldn’t sleep because I was short of breath and I thought, oh my God, I’m having a heart attack. But then I realized I’m acclimating to ten thousand feet up.”
“No,” I say. “That was the Riverhorse Burger our waitress advised you against.”
“I think I’ll have trout tonight.”
“Good thinking.”
Our first stop after crossing into Wyoming is a small town called Kemmerer, population 2,651, elevation 6,927.
We stop and alight in the center of town, and I’m overcome by a wave of nostalgia even though I’ve never been here before. You see, I wanted to visit this town 43 years earlier, ever since my high school sweetheart in London returned stateside for the summer—as most expats do—to visit her grandparents in Kemmerer. Missing her so bad, I daydreamed about jumping on a plane and just showing up. And here I am, 43 years too late.
Or maybe I’m moved by the sweetness of its little town square (actually, a triangle) and surrounding shops, including J.C. Penny, the very first J.C. Penny, from 1903.
Onward, at high speed, Andrew overtakes yet another vehicle just north of Le Barge. As we pass, I notice the word Sheriff stenciled on its side and, sure enough, his lights begin to flash behind us.
“Do you think it’s me?” says Andrew.
“Uh, there’s no one else on this road.”
We pull over. A sheriff’s deputy gets out, ambles over. “This is a 65 mile an hour highway,” he says. “I clocked you going 81.”
Andrew tries to talk his way out of it, fumbling about how the speed limit in Utah is 80 and he got used to that and, anyway, he knows what he’s doing behind the wheel, passes other vehicles safely, can’t the deputy cut him a break?
The deputy’s idea of a break is ticketing Andrew at 79 miles-an-hour, just below the threshold over which insurance companies take umbrage and raise premiums.
I offer to resolve the situation by ejecting Andrew from the driver’s seat. But the deputy is already scribbling a $92 ticket.
I take over driving. “You’re on probation. No more bursts. You’re the first person I ever met who got a speeding ticket from a cop in front rather than behind.
“You’re not going to write about this, are you?” asks Andrew, suddenly concerned about his image.
“Of course I am. Everything goes in the book, so behave yourself. Or better yet, don’t—it makes for better copy.”
It is impossible, of course, for Andrew to behave himself. Just ask around at several bars that 86’d him after numerous warnings.
Further up Route 189, Andrew becomes terrified by a torrential rainstorm of epic proportions; lightning bolts striking the hillside a quarter mile in front of us. I’d never before seen a bolt touch ground and the orange flare that results.
“Awesome!”
But, cowering beside me, Andrew is petrified and trying to curl up into a fetal position.
“What are you so scared of?”
“We could die!”
“Nonsense. You need to muster some faith.”
A thick bolt of lightning strikes the road just ahead of us followed by an immediate thunderclap… “BOOM!”
Andrew flinches. “We’re gonna die!”
Lightning and thunder subside and the rain turns from pounding to a sprinkle.
Recomposed, Andrew has a thought. “You’re not going to write about that too?”
“Yep, that too.”
With a fresh rinse, Wyoming’s scenery sparkles.
Jackson greets us with a buxom pair of Tetons. (Wyomingites disdainfully refer to Jackson as The Other Wyoming ; they consider it unreal.)
I saunter into The Wort Hotel, Jackson’s oldest, sans reservation. They have two rooms left, steep price, but you get what you pay for: A cool clean room with Western flair and windows that open to fresh air.
I go for a long walk, recon for a restaurant.
At 6:03, precisely, I position myself at the Cowboy Bar.
It features hundreds of silver dollars under glass on the bar: a gin martini, up, twist.
I feel so good, I start thinking about a cigar. The barkeep directs me around the corner to a smoke shop, whose proprietor recommends a medium-sized Court Macanudo, cuts it for me.
I’d already identified a place for dinner: Locals. Andrew and I manifest ourselves at 7:45, a glass of Conundrum chard at the bar until a table becomes available.
“Indigenous,” I remind Andrew.
He studies the menu. “What about Buffalo Tartare?”
Indeed. A spectacular prelude to Idaho trout.
Ahhh what a delightful read, it brought back so many memories. I have been to Jackson Hole2 time in the winter for skiing, it’s one of the best in North America, and the most difficult. It’s such a great town, and looking at your pictures it hasn’t changed at all in 30 years, remarkable, time stands still in Jackson Hole. ❄️🎿⛷️❄️