Sunday, August 29, 2010

A Humble Rebuttal

Will be featured in JH Snowboarder Magazine Winter 2010-11

In its “2010 Resort Awards”, Skiing Magazine bestowed Jackson Hole with the dubious accolade “Most Condescending Locals.” At the time, I had just hung up my rubber boots as a charter fisherman, and was headed West to trade Atlantic for Tetons.

Discovering the article aboard a one-way flight destined for Jackson consumed me with dread. Though considering myself prepared for a new social sphere, the prospect of having to infiltrate a machismo-ridden community was none-the-less daunting.

I was privy to Jackson’s reputation as a hard-charging hub before setting course for “The Last of the Old West.” Yet seeing this claim to infamy in print now amplified its implications. “Condescending locals” spawned images of rabid, full-face-helmet-clad psychopaths dominating a bootpack, leaving the weak reeling in their wake. This brash cadre crawled across my mind’s eye: hucking unthinkable cliffs, devouring chest deep powder, mercilessly ravishing the mountain.

The more my imagination brewed however, the more my intimidation gave way to intrigue. Soon the constructs for a social experiment emerged: objectively observe the Jackson local in light of Skiing Magazine’s unflattering characterization. My maiden voyage into Jackson offered unbiased criteria to glean the underlying traits of snowriding’s most revered.

These are my findings. This is my rebuttal to Skiing Magazine.
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The Jackson local forgoes much to live and ride in the Tetons. Sacrifice defines their existence. Although all ski towns demand a certain flexibility of its residents, the Bikram Yoga required by Jackson contorts the local’s life beyond most. The theme trickles down the community’s ranks and into every facet.

Living at the Hostel X my first month in town revealed this trend to me. The boot-brown building stands conspicuously amidst the polished hotels and restaurants of contemporary Teton Village. A ski bum haven of sorts, the hostel offers affordable lodging for the young penny-pinching winter enthusiast. Beyond a place to lay my head, the hostel provided a natural habitat to observe a breed of the Jackson local.

The hostel’s young workforce wore genuine, living-the-dream smiles. Their every conversation dripped with the stoke of the coming season. Acquainting myself with these folks over the weeks of my stay, I found their circumstances to be a lesson in sacrifice.

Highly educated, these college graduates postponed promising careers to clean bed sheets. They shared stuffy rooms, earned modest wages, and survived on diets of pasta and PBR. They did all this for the sake of one overriding pursuit: to ride hard.

I soon discovered that this trend of professional humility holds true for much of Jackson’s workforce: ex-corporate juggernauts manage restaurants, Five Star chefs flip burgers, high school educators teach preschool. The case is not that these professions are less admirable. The humility lies in the motivation behind doing them. Most take up employment for the turns they allow, not the careers they garner.

Jackson’s locals are inspired and motivated, but afforded little fodder to actualize their professional agendas. With Jackson’s economy sustained primarily by seasonal tourism, conventional careers are scarce. Few venture to this obscure American niche seeking nine-to-five employment. The locals are more inclined towards monitoring rising inches of snow over falling figures of Wall Street stock.

Inevitably, professional sacrifices weighs unfavorably in the local’s frugal budget. The precarious financial scheme is exacerbated by one of the most exorbitantly priced passes in North America. Even with this season’s 25% discount, Jackson pass ranks amongst the highest in the West.

The costly pass beckons a perennial question: drop nearly $2000 dollars for it, or gain it by working for the resort. Proponents of the former argue that resort employees ultimately pay in powder. Work schedules, no matter the setting, do not accommodate for epic storms. A line cook at a mid-mountain restaurant can be left glistening behind a fryolator while the day of days rages on just out the window. So many conclude it’s better to be poor in the wallet, than poor powder turns.

Another toll is demanded on the body. Testing their abilities in arguably the steepest, most technical terrain in the lower 48, locals contend with a staggering injury rate. Compounded by Jackson’s envelope-pushing ideals, this rate increases exponentially over the season. Knees blow out. Bones break. Muscles tear. While injury is an inherent risk of the spot, Jackson’s gauntlet of no-fall zones, avalanche-prone faces, and boney backcountry make it all the more apparent.
When the tram docks for the day, Jackson locals belly up to the bar and toast the day with raised PBRs. Scanning the goggle-tanned faces, men view an unfortunate reality: Jackson women are beautiful and athletic, but also markedly few.

The girl-to-guy ratio rivals most technical schools. Air thick with testosterone, a bar becomes a case study in natural selection: too many predators, not enough prey. Excluding some fortuitous run-in with a gaper, most men find themselves married to the mountain, getting their rocks off charging aggressive lines.

And that is what it ultimately comes down to: RIDING HARD. Money, career, health, relationships- all come secondary to this objective. Devotion to the sport, to the life, ascends to a priority beyond all other worldly endeavors. These mountains are sewn with endless adventure. Jackson locals dedicate their lives to harvesting that potential. They humbly forfeit everything for moments of descent that can only be found in the Tetons.

So if the Jackson local is in fact condescending, well they’ve earned the right to be.