An Addict's Defense:

Exploring the Enduring Lure of Jackson Hole

The last tram left the dock amidst a hail of snow balls, concluding another season in Jackson Hole. Cast in its shadow below, a shuffling sea of tired bodies and wind burnt faces rejoiced with raised beers. 49 inches of snow over the season's final week revived the local spirit, reminding all of the pure ecstasy of powder skiing. As a transplant from Boston, the scene's elation reverberated within every fiber that moved me to Jackson in the first place.

Years before, Jackson existed only in the worn out Warren Miller and TGR videos that littered the shelves of my den growing up. Scenes of Doug Coombs charging magnificent lines in Jackson's steep, shark-tooth terrain were beyond the skiing I knew. He was Superman. Jackson was Krypton. This comic book world west of me sat in the refrigerator of my mind like a delicious piece of cake beckoning to be eaten. When I finally cut into that cake, Jackson blew away my fantasies with a POW! POW!

Little needs to be said about Jackson's prestige as a ski destination. Its merits have been stated and restated since its opening in 1966. Steep terrain, deep powder, and boundless back country access propel Jackson as America's ski Mecca.

"Mecca" is an appropriate descriptor. Like a holy land, Jackson became a place of pilgrimage for skiers in search of snow riding enlightenment. Consequently, it spawned a community of riders that reflect the burly profile of the Tetons. Most likely, the waiter pouring your water in a Jackson restaurant, or the "lifty" bumping your chair in the Village is a hard charging mad man, prioritizing his life in measures of vertical feet, snow fall, and weather systems.

Spotting those who went pro with this life choice becomes easy. They wear it on their goggle-tanned faces. Their mouths are full of Chicklet-like teeth, shaved down to equal size by years of jaw clenching doses of adrenaline. They are dialed into a different rhythm of living- one in which true existence is attained only in the moments of descent.

Some criticize these so called ski bums. Criticize them not. Blame the drug, not the user. Hackneyed but true, skiing powder is a powerful drug with levels of potency. Skiing powder in Jackson is the high of all highs. The magical sensation of that first deep turn seeps into psyche and changes everything. All facets of life begin to relate to that turn: what you eat; when you sleep; where you work. Even a man’s attraction to women changes. There is nothing sexier than a woman with two, big, fat powder skis slung over her shoulder in the tram line. Throw a shovel on her back, and an Avalung across her breast, and I'm in love.

While happiness is this life’s central pursuit, it must not be confused with hedonism. Jackson transforms the desire to ski into an imperative. One's well being, both mental and physical, becomes hinged upon getting out there. I dare say it borders on a moral obligation. There is something good and pure about those moments in the mountains. Nothing matters but the present, and that present is free of human flaw.

Some may deem this as the delusional commentary of a skier obsessed. While that may be true in part, I contend that for a society so easily consumed by the trivialities of Hollywood gossip or the depraved indulgences of drugs and alcohol, it is essential to celebrate the places that bring us back to simply living. Jackson offers rare moments of quiet, when the mental baggage is checked and the voice within takes a breath.