|
A plane goes off the runway in Jackson Hole Wyoming and my 7:10 a.m. flight is delayed until 2 p.m.: plenty of time to think and re-think the absolutely luxurious time spent this past week with Julie and without Kate. Appropriate enough for our luxury issue this year, where we try to define--and let others explain--their idea of the good life.
The good life for me this month was my stay at The Aspens, just down the street from Teton Village at the base of Jackson Hole. Over 400 inches of light, powdery Wyoming snow to snowboard until my legs turn to pudding. Then, after two days of boarding, a trip to the spa where Helga (not her real name) deep-tissue massaged away a year’s worth of magazine stress that has buried itself deep into the space between my shoulder blades and spine. The day was capped by a visit to the rooftop hot tub, where I shared the sun setting on Jackson Hole with a family of Yanks from Long Island and some Russians from Moscow drinking Mexican beer.
The next day started at the crack of a Wyoming 9-degree-above-zero dawn. We booked a dog sledding trip in Bridger-Teton National Forest and we had an hour drive and a 9 a.m. reservation ahead of us. I had no idea where we were going other than north on 26 to Togwotee Lodge. I had booked this online because they had the best website (and the lady who answered the phone had a nice warm voice) not knowing that Togwotee is Native American for ‘in the middle of absolutely nowhere.’ I honestly didn’t know places like this existed in the United States. An hour of driving with nothing but snow and mountains; no roads, no houses, no sign of another man, just 10 feet of snow and 10,000 feet of mountains. After driving for an hour, we climbed a small hill. At the top sat Togwotee Lodge and about 50 snowmobilers about to hit the trail and split the serenity with their chainsaw-like engines.
We go into the lodge, ask where our “mushers” (no lie, they are called mushers) are, and are directed to the back where we meet our musher for the day, Jesse. Jesse breaks all the stereotypes you may think you have about mushers. He was about 28, well educated, extremely smart and knowledgeable about the local fauna and bird population, possessed an air of serenity, and was California surfer cool even though he was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Jesse takes us back to the dog yard, where as self-proclaimed dog lovers we proceed to love on at least 50 of the 75 dogs out in the yard. They’re in various states of raising cane, howling at the moon, sitting on top of their houses and racing around in circles on their short leashes. In the middle of this scene is a dilapidated log home with about 5 feet of snow on the concave roof, aged yellow plastic sheeting for windows, and a half-chewed plywood door with a hole as a handle. I’m assuming this is their equipment storage shed and peek in out of curiosity. Inside it’s dark and damp, with various unidentifiable things hanging from the ceiling. The atmosphere is reminiscent of the inside of an old wet boot.
Jesse loads up the dogs on the sled, we slip into the basket on the front and he takes the spot on the back to guide the sled down the snowy trails. As we tour through the forest, Jesse explains where we are going, what we are seeing and eventually even how to guide the sled ourselves. Over the 3 hours that we ride and guide the sled we talk about our lives back in Charlotte and his life at Togwotee. The usual things come up about what we do and why we live here in Charlotte. As our conversation meanders we come to find out that what I thought was a storage shed is Jesse’s home, aptly named the Dog House. And not only is the Dog House Jesse’s home, but he shares it with 2 other male mushers and 2 women mushers. Five people living in a musty old boot of a place, with NO running water. Shocked, we ask Jesse if he’s serious. He is. I can only imagine the midnight potty breaks during a Wyoming blizzard in February. After that we have to find out what he does during the summer. Ends up he is a western range forest firefighter camping in the woods two and a half weeks at a time, fighting those colossal fires that roar to life each summer.
Driving back to Jackson Hole through a whiteout, it strikes me that Jesse’s version of luxury contains something more precious than cars or jewelry, real estate or art. He has time, time to enjoy his existence and time to enjoy the majestic outdoors. His time might involve confronting 10-story high flames or stanky dog poop from his brood of 25 dogs, but I can guarantee that he wouldn’t trade his time in the Dog House for any time in a penthouse.
~Todd Trimakas
Editor
|
