June 25, 2005
SaturdayÂ
When I started planning this trip last winter I discovered that you could point your browser to a number of online webcams trained on dozens of spots in Wyoming. Most are designed to help monitor traffic or weather and so give you a view of a not very interesting stretch of highway (a description that applies to a lot of Wymong highway stretches). There are some, however, that show a spot that’s easy to find and where you can stand, call your family back home, and tell them to take a look while you wave to them.
The town of Jackson, Wyoming is the county seat of and the only incorporated municipality in Teton County. It has a population of a little more than 8,000 and is known as the gateway to Grand Teton National Park. The term “Jackson Hole” refers to the whole area, a 50-mile -long valley known for its ski resorts and its expensive accommodations. A webcam trained on the town square seemed to offer just the fun opportunity I needed to show myself as a tourist.
My ultimate goal for the day was the town of Dubois. That place is really only about seventy miles from Pinedale, but that’s as the steer meanders or the crow flies, not as the Toyota sedan motors. The direct route is over dirt roads through grazing lands on private ranches. Better to traverse the 200 miles from the junction at Daniel through open sagebrush range toward the town of Bondurant, the timber ridges growing taller and closing in, then through Jackson to the Togwotee Pass. It’s a pleasant drive punctuated by numerous historical markers and scenic pullouts.
I knew I was nearing Jackson when something in the air seemed to shift. Suddenly there were more vehicles on the road, and they were cars or SUVs with non-Wyoming license plates, not the pickup trucks favored by the locals. Understand, I’m talking about being able to see five cars at a time instead of none, but after almost ten days of what seemed to my urban-based point of view like wilderness, it was a big change.
And then I saw the Staples, its big red sign up ahead past a row of three traffic lights. I had not seen a commercial establishment from a chain I recognized in nearly ten days. My breathing and my heart rate changed as I drove into the town of Jackson.
Jackson seemed to me to be a created town, a town invented to cater to tourists. It was a Saturday at the height of the summer season, I reminded myself, but the people swirling around me, each carrying a camera and accompanied by children decked out in chaps and boots and fringed vests and cow-roping lariats, made me feel tense. The stores looked like any other upscale shopping area. But the elk antler arch was indeed easy to find. I called Ron and had him capture my image.
I actually could not wait to get out of Jackson.
From Jackson I drove into Grand Teton National Park. At one point I was in a scenic overlook, had been for some time, just looking at the mountains, awed by their grandeur. Presently an SUV pulled in. It had a cargo carrier strapped to the top and four bicycles arranged on a rack at the back. Two pre-teen boys hopped out the sliding door at the side, slapped down their skateboards, and began to propel themselves around the parking area. The parents got halfway out of the front doors and looked at the mountain range. “Neat, huh,” said the man. Then the boys hopped off their skateborads, everyone got back in the vehicle, and they were gone.
I didn’t see the license plate. I hope they hadn’t come far. Why don’t such people just stay home?
Then I entered the Togwotee Pass. I had to stop to let an antelope cross the road. A red tail hawk glided into view and almost landed on the hood of my car. I reached my hand up and was sure I could touch the sky, a sensation I hadn’t had since 1990 on the island of Iona off the coast of Scotland.
I caught my breath, moved on, and suddenly the mountains were behind me. As I descended into Dubois, I knew I was on the way home.
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