As we found during our stay, despite all the new luxuries, Jackson is still at heart a casual, unpretentious spot. Even celebrities and bigwigs keep a low profile here. Part of this has to do with its location, northwest of the Bridger-Teton National Forest, just sixty miles south of Yellowstone. The scenery is staggeringly beautiful, and because 97 percent of the land is under federal management, it's likely it will stay that way.
But most important, in a world of micromanaged ski resorts, Jackson Hole takes a hands-off, European approach. Half the trails are left ungroomed, and it's the only resort in the United States to open its gates to its backcountry (with guides), giving people access to an additional 3,000 acres of terrain. The ski patrol does avalanche control every day.
During our stay, we set aside a couple of hours one afternoon to wander around the town of Jackson, with its boardwalk-edged streets and antler arches over the square, a funny mix of high-end real estate offices, art galleries, gift shops selling Western-themed kitsch, sleek restaurants and espresso shops. We even poked our heads into the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar and sat on saddle-topped barstools alongside cowboys in tight jeans and wide-brimmed hats. But at the end of the day, we were happy to get back to the mountain.
On our last day in Jackson Hole, I found myself skiing alone. It was late, and the light was flattening out. I was at the top of the Sublette Chair, at the base of Rendezvous Bowl, having spent the afternoon dropping in and out of chutes and trees, playing in the bumps a bit, then relaxing on the groomed runs. Glancing around, I spied a couple of guys with camelbacks strapped to their chests, helmets on their heads, and gloves with a bit of duct tape around the thumbs. I had a feeling that if anyone could find the prime north-facing snow — which tends to be drier and lighter, as it hasn't been in the sun — at this time of day, it would be an instructor or a local. Judging by their gear, I'd found my guys.
Keeping a discreet distance between us, I followed them as they headed down the hill under the chair, then peeled off toward the trees to the right, where the trail dropped steeply and the snow, sure enough, had the soft, forgiving consistency of cream cheese. Eventually they outskied me, and as I watched them disappear from view, I thought about a conversation I'd had with Echo earlier in the week. "If the mountain hits you just right, it grabs you and never lets go," she said. It was true. I was hooked. On this visit I'd skied way out of my comfort zone on more than one occasion. In the process I'd made a startling discovery, something I'd lost sight of in recent years: skiing is pure, unadulterated fun. Especially when you go outside the lines.
