Jackson Hole

It is winter at Jackson Hole ski resort, Wyoming. A plume of breath dissipates in front of me, my hands are cold, a cold that creates a deep ache under my fingernails. White dove feathers of snow flutter in the frosty breeze. The pine-forested mountain is a feast of mashed potatoes dotted with peas.

Listen. A lingering silence resides, broken now by the distant bugling of Elk on the valley floor below. The wise Elk choose not to brave the bitter cold of the mountains, seeking respite along the similarly snow covered valley floor. Off to the right a pine tree snaps under the ceaseless pressure of the snow upon it. A bald eagle’s shrill scream pierces into the snow-covered mountain range as if it had a thorn in its side. Listen; everywhere there are the sounds of nature consuming the landscape.

Look. Across the valley are the rugged Teton Mountains, piercing the sky. Adorning the steep slope are partially obscured ski-tracks and game trails alike, both are retreating down to the valley floor.  The river down below is like a silver ribbon, meandering across the valley floor. You can see the village down on the doorstep of the mountain. Wood-fire smoke emanates from the huts peppered across the valley. A scattering of people line up below to ride the lift. Up above you can see just a hint of blue sky through the grey.

Listen, the snowfall has ceased.  Without the smothering of snowfall you can now hear the river rumbling along the valley floor, it is a grizzly bear, roaring and leaping after prey. A cluster of skiers tear past, ducking and weaving between pines, their skis take hefty bites out of the snow that was untouched just before.  Up above you can hear the clink and the clank of a chair lift laboring up the slope. Below, People jostle for the lift like tiny ants milling. An impatient skier calls out to their companion with a scowl etched upon their face. Flocks of birds now dare to venture from their hiding places; their jovial chirps fill the frosty air. The cocktail of birds soar overhead, screaming in delight as they are emancipated from their hiding. A moose calls out in the distance as it yearns desperately for a partner. The whole mountain is buzzing with sounds and action, this is the world’s best amusement park.

Look, a handful of stubborn clouds linger in the crystal clear sky. The morning sun washes over the valley. The horizon is now visible and extends as far as you can see, the cold spares nothing and leaves not one tree bare. The sunbeams bounce up off the snow now, illuminating the slope.  Skiers fly down the slope, colorful blurs against the snowy backdrop. A lone wolf, scouts the slope, concedes defeat and skulks off. Down in the village, smoke coils hang still over each building. People are now venturing out from their hideaways, skis slung over backs, for they are emboldened by the emergence of the sun and the impending surrender of the clouds.