Andrea Downing's Blog, page 10

A LESSON LEARNED

One of the reasons I dislike coming out to Jackson this time of year is the number of people around, particularly those noisy ones who rent neighboring condos in this rural complex. Our neighbor these past few days was annoying us mightily; he sat out on his deck, separated from us by only a thin wood partition, smoking and talking in one of those resonating voices that, no matter how low you speak, still manages to find its way, along with the cigarette smoke, into next door rooms. I was building up to the point where I felt I might say something when the unspeakable happened.

Pre-rodeo, Cristal went out the front door, barefoot, to test the weather. I followed suit, the 88 degree temperature making normal western attire somewhat unbearable at the moment. I pulled the door shut, a reflex action of going through a door and, unbeknownst to me, it was locked from the inside. LOCKED. OUT.   OK, so I’m an idiot. But admitting that fact didn’t help get us inside. No key, no car key, no phone, July 4th afternoon, no credit cards, no money, no emergency number to ring even if we’d had the phone, no one in the office anyway and, to my especial anger, no combination for the lockbox right there in front of us containing a spare key for guests. If you’ve never been in this situation, you cannot possibly imagine how vulnerable you feel. Cristal’s words, “OK, let’s not panic” gave absolutely no solace. Since I was the one wearing shoes, I walked around the building to see if anyone could help. It turned out the only person here was Mr. Smokey Voice.

Smokey very kindly first tried the combination he’d been given for his lockbox on ours. No luck. Then, miracle of miracles, this small, lithe man went back inside and, at second story level, managed to get over the partition to our deck, walk inside through the slider screen and let us in. Our Hero! He and his wife were leaving this morning and would accept no wine, no gift, and hardly a word of thanks. When we returned from the rodeo and fireworks later that night, he happened to be outside loading his car. We tried to say thanks again but it was as if he didn’t hear us, as if we didn’t exist.

Perhaps my original feelings were mutual?

7/4—10K

Cristal prior to starting the race

Start line

It was an early start to July 4th this morning as Cristal was signed up to do the 10k ‘Friends of Pathways’ annual run down in the village—Wilson. This has been an annual event here for some 35 years, and there were about 217 participants this year including walkers and juniors. Since Cristal plans on running a half-marathon in September, running this at altitude now that she is back living at sea level was a great practice run—and she managed to knock three minutes off her previous 10K time, eight minutes less than her last 10K race in November.

Cristal heading into the finish

She tells me it was a beautiful running course: how can it not be here in the Tetons? We stayed on for a raffle, though were unsuccessful in winning anything, and I was also unsuccessful in trying to nap afterward. Still, I don’t think I’ll have any problem staying awake through the rodeo this evening and fireworks!

Hope y’all are having a great July 4th!

Sweaty Cristal after the race

 

WATERCOLOR

Back in ’91, during a visit to Jackson, there happened to be an art fair in the Square, that famous square of antler arches on the corners. I took a fancy to a watercolor painting, a view through desert ruins, and enjoyed a brief chat with the artist, one Russell Steel. He had ventured into his career somewhat late in life, as had a friend of my parents who, upon retirement, became a well-known sculptor, and I relished the chat with Mr. Steel as much as I appreciated his painting. Needless to say, my husband and I bought the painting and took it home to Buckinghamshire, England, where we lived at the time. It was professionally framed and hung in our conservatory for several years until husband and I went our separate ways, I eventually moved to London, and the painting ended up at my home in East Hampton. In East Hampton, it hung in what I tend to call the den or television room. It seemed somewhat out of place there amongst paintings of New York and a map of East Hampton—poor watercolor!

Roll on seventeen more years and I now own this small place in Jackson, and set out to get here by car from East Hampton with my daughter, the framed watercolor in the back. Tonight Russell Steel’s watercolor is back in Jackson, hung above my bed.

Sadly, Mr. Steel, of Durango, CO, passed away in 2010, aged 92. He was listed in “Who’s Who in American Art.’

 

A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC

The creek outside

Last night I dragged my weary-from-workout bones upstairs, got into bed, and came face to face with the moon. Full and bright, he was about the only kind of voyeur I would tolerate; he looked at me, and I looked back at him, wondering if tales of lunacy for being bathed in moonlight were true. Pondering this thought, I listened for a while to the distant whine of traffic out on the Moose-Wilson Road, tires on tarmac, other travelers on their way. Soon the creek outside (or crick perhaps, depending on where you’re from) seeped into my consciousness, not quite a siren song, more a soft lullaby—until I turned in the bed and it rattled loudly, timpanic along with the sudden crash of the blind as the breeze blew in, also orchestrating the leaves outside. I lay there, afraid the creaky bed would wake Cristal downstairs, and just drifted off to sleep when something like a loud speaker right into my ear blasted me awake. I sat up, looked around, and found nothing—but outside an owl echoed my thought: Who? Who, who, who? I don’t think either of us can answer the question, actually. But I might be getting closer to the resolution of the moonlight/lunacy query.

AT LEAST THE SCENERY DOESN’T CHANGE

The view outside our door

Let me get this straight right away: I realize Jackson is not representative of Wyoming. Back in the ‘80s, when I first visited the town, it was a relaxed sort of place that just happened to have the benefit of being very close to some spectacular scenery, which included two national parks. There were no fancy hotels such as The Amangani and The Four Seasons, no log McMansions, and no celebrities (though Harrison Ford might have cashed his Star Wars checks by then and possibly come here). The shops were still pretty much low-key, the restaurants fairly basic, and there was an air that keeping its western identity was what Jackson wanted to do. Well, times have changed and Jackson is not Pinedale.

But what is the western identity here? What is Wyoming? For a while, every time I wrote friends that I was going to Wyoming, Google would strategically place in my side borders advertisements for land or home sales in Wyoming. Most of these were ranches being broken up into subdivisions. Now I hear stories of big corporations and wealthy businessmen buying up ranches to run as playgrounds, polo ponies replacing cutting horses, and the old family ranches being driven out land rich, cash poor when it comes to inheritance tax.

Jackson, with its fancy art galleries and over-priced alligator boots, has, I guess, found a way to survive. Yet few of the people I meet are, like myself, from around here. When my daughter flew in one year from Bogota, Colombia, sixteen hours and three flights, the taxi driver who collected her late at night was from…Colombia. It’s a changing world and Jackson—and Wyoming—is adapting the best way it can. And we’re still enjoying the scenery.

JACKSON OR BUST

Flaming Gorge

Leaving Rock Springs was something akin to leaving a well-loved history book behind when visiting a friend: you want to share it and return to discuss at a later date but you hate leaving that beloved tome. Rock Springs had so much to offer but our time was limited; we managed a fleeting glimpse of Flaming Gorge, its red sandstone crags blending with the green of the valley as if Christmas was on its way.

Scooting up the road towards our turn-around destination, Jackson, we passed so much I’d like to return to see: the Wild Horse grazing grounds, the old historic district, the sand dunes, even the Reliance Tipple, and then the old stage coach route and all the various trails cutting through our road. But we knew we were headed to our beloved Jackson hideaway and a rest of eight days before turning around and heading east via a different route. A kind of elation hit us, silliness and singing and thinking of games we couldn’t possibly play while driving.

As the skies opened for their regular mountain afternoon summer downpour, I felt cleansed and happy, even with the mammoth unloading and unpacking before us. Not really home, but home at last.

 

PATCH, WORK, QUILT

We have to be thankful for the modern innovation of the tire gauge light. Without it, Cristal and I might have started across Trail Ridge Road and ended up with a flat tire on the top of a mountain, far from help. As it was, the inconvenience of sitting and waiting an hour and a half while it was worked on and patched was minor, and gave us the added benefit of an early start since we had to be at the tire place at 8 am.

Trail Ridge winds its way through spectacular scenery with an abundance of wildlife and wildflowers to please the jaded traveler. The varied tones color the land like a giant quilt. The hairpin bends, the twists and turns of the road, incur a leisurely journey through this patch of the Rockies,

Trail Ridge Road

this area of outstanding natural beauty. A stop in the popular, well-preserved western town of Steamboat Springs was also a delight; less flashy and more down to earth than Jackson, it had a laid-back feel that had us wanting to return for a less rushed visit.

Elk on top of Trail Ridge Road

But it was the road after Steamboat to Rock Springs, WY, from where I write, that had us in awe. Here were the wide open spaces of the west, here was the prairie the pioneers crossed on the Overland Trail, Chimney Rock, endless ranchlands, miles of sagebrush: SPACE. At times, the road ran beside the railroad, those seemingly endless trains taunting us with the unspeakable possibility of getting caught at a crossing. But at other times, the road met, for a few miles, the cross-poles of the telephone lines, standing like crosses on the Via Dolorosa. But there was no grief here, no pain, no suffering, no sorrow for us. If you’re a believer, it was God’s Country.

Trail Ridge

 

MAMA SAID THERE’D BE DAYS LIKE THIS

Canada Geese on my walk

The day started with all good intentions: Cristal ran her 16K, I walked my 3.75 miles, my blister from yesterday’s walk bound in gauze and two Band-Aids. Showered and changed, we jumped into the car, headed towards Rocky Mt. National Park…and discovered that the low-pressure tire gauge had come on. Uh-oh. Not good. While we had eschewed the one-way only Fall River Drive at 15 miles an hour on gravel with 12,000 ft. drops and no barriers, we are intending to go on Trail Ridge Road tomorrow, which promises to be somewhat more standard while still offering fabulous views. So, we finally figured out how to use our trusty tire gauge, found the guilty tire, and also discovered the local tire repair shop closed on Sunday. No Rocky Mt. NP for us today! Back at the hotel to collect one item, we opted for lunch. Bad decision. We waited over fifty minutes for salads to appear, effectively causing lunch to take an hour and a half all told.

The only thing left to do was to lick our wounds and eat some chocolate. A trip to Rocky Mt. Chocolate Shop

Cristal being comforted by a S’Mores Bar

was definitely called for. This, in turn, led to a spin round Estes Park village once more, which landed us in the Colorado Hat Shop that also just happens to sell books.

My book box is now seven books lighter, and Cristal and I are greatly enriched for some good conversation on the history of the west. Thank you, Ted and Susan Williams.

 

HIGH ALTITUDE, LOW TEMPERATURES, LONG WALK

We needed to catch up on exercise today. Well, I needed the catch-up, Cristal needed her training time, and it was decided it was far too lovely outside to work out in the gym. Estes Lake has a 3.75 mile trail around it: paved and perfect for bikers, walkers, runners and folks willing to share those two-seater Surry bikes. Our decision was that Cristal would rent a bike and I would walk it, which I figured on NYC street walking time would take me about an hour and a half, and that I’d probably see Cristal whiz by at least twice if not three times. Ha! About a quarter of the way round, I heard a cry for help from non other than my own daughter whose bicycle chain had come off. As I held the bike and Cristal fixed the chain, her hands became black with grease. Not to be deterred, she cycled on and I walked on, braving the possibility of attack by

Canada geese on Estes Lake

Canada geese, Mother Elk and crazed fishermen. When I reached the hotel, about an hour and twenty minutes all told, Cristal still had not passed me again. It turned out she was right behind me, and, on the basis of greasy hands, got the bike rental for free.

A walk round town in the afternoon and a visit to the historic Stanley Hotel all mounted my walking mileage to just under seven miles for the day. Cristal had told me that exercise would increase my energy. I think she forgot to tell my feet.

Grand staircase at the Hotel Stanley

Wapiti Meadows

 

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

View from our room at Estes Park

Leaving the relative prosperity of Phillipsburg, KS, we headed down the highway wrapped in the ribbon of green and blue surrounding us. The expectation that the breadbasket of America would be rolling green pastures dotted with well-maintained farmhouses soon dissipated into alarm at the poverty we saw. While the farms seemed to be productive for the most part, the astounding number of dilapidated homes, falling down barns and silos, and other signs of abandonment, were only pointers to the towns we went through: closed and boarded shops, gas stations long ago deserted, empty streets. At times, driving through Nebraska, we wondered if we were truly in America. This was not the United States I was led to believe I live in.

Further despair was triggered when we passed a feed lot. Due to my love of anything western, and the cowboy way of life, if I eat beef it has to be grass fed. Having seen and smelled the feed lots, there is now no way I’d eat beef without the label of ‘grass-fed.’ The Yuma feed lot, in particular, which lasts for about two and a half miles, had us gasping for air and on the point of regurgitation. I cannot get across how thoroughly disgusted we felt.

This led to elation as we crossed into Colorado. In no time, The Rockies were in sight and I write to you now from Estes Park. There’s a feeling almost as if we’ve come home at last.