That day, and for the coming year, as Betsy and I walked the halls of Jackson High School, a forest of dusty cowboy hats and lacquered bouffant hairdos would part, like our hippie style was contagious. Betsy’s elbow settled into my ribs. What we were finding in this small western town was not free, pioneer thinking, but a strangled conformity with no interest in reform. We couldn’t even pretend to fit in. We were in transition and adrift, alone together. I joined the ski team, and trained at Teton Village, with cutting-edge Head Standard skis and Lange (-bang) boots. Exploring her artistic self, Betsy sketched with pen & ink and changed her name to Eliza. Sarah took up biathlon, carrying a rifle and racing on cross-country skis with her junior high pals.
By October, a few
“hippies” had broken out and became a rag-tag gang for Betsy and me. After school, and sometimes during, we got high. We ate or smoked LSD, hash, mushrooms and any
other substances that made it across the frozen plains of Wyoming, up the
Hobacks and into the valley. We explored the highlands and buttes of the
valley, stoned out of our minds. The Rocky Mountain fall was psychedelic in
color and texture and no place better to be, high and reveling in it.
Our friends were
born and bred Jacksonites. Some skied, some didn’t. Few were cowboys, though
there was the occasional welcoming ranch kid. For all Teton Valley was their
playground and they knew it intimately. Teenagers full of omnipotence and guts,
strong and savvy to the wilderness, they took us along, challenging us and
entertaining themselves with our naiveté. We were in for an introduction at
breakneck speed.
Come winter, the
depth of snow and cold surprised us. The mercury rarely rose above freezing,
often overnighting below zero. The famous Teton powder, Cowboy Powder, piled up
in fluffy heaps and the powder hounds went a little freaky. I took to the tram,
hoping to find untracked cold smoke, and skied hard and fast, building lung
capacity and trying to keep up with the ski team. There was plenty for all in
the 4,100-feet descent from the top of Rendezvous Bowl.
At night, on those
long winter nights, we’d pile into Denise’s VW van and Pete’s bug, in full ski
gear with toboggans and sleds and head up Teton Pass. After long pulls up the
steep switchbacks and long drags off the passed joints, we’d pull off on a wide
turn and pile out. One car would head down, watching for traffic, planning to
honk wildly if warning was needed. Stoned and bold, we’d gain our night vision,
and then flop onto sleds and a convoy of winter trajectory would race down the
pass. The other car followed, hopefully blocking any downhill traffic. We’d
bank the turns, fly along straightaways, howling and laughing and crashing all
the way. Gathering where the road flattened into the valley, and our toboggans
slowed, we’d repeat the process over again and again until we claimed
collective exhaustion… or were overcome by the munchies.
In 1969, there was
no night traffic on that treacherous pass, none that I remember anyway. We were
free, frozen and happy on that icy state highway. That pastime remains one of
the highlights of my Jackson year, and a trick and skill gained from my Teton
Valley lifer pals.
Joy, elation,
love, and distraction were the mantras of those sky-high days and nights, and silenced the angst during my alpine
initiation.
