And Then…
We were last seen looping back towards Las Vegas. The visit with Ron and Lisa was wonderful. They are an absolute hoot and the near-resident’s guide to Vegas was great. We saw Cirque du Soleil’s “Love”, not an insider’s secret obviously, but exceptional. Being completely devoid of creativity, Garth marveled at every choice of costume and music and movement and the whole had the rare effect of getting one entirely out of oneself.
We aimed North from there, passing dry, warm, nearly bare ski hills all the way. So far, we seem to have chosen a very dry winter to be ski bums, Opensnow, the ski forecasting website of our choice, suggested Wyoming or Montana would be our best bet for snow so we didn’t pause until Jackson, WY. Confusion reigned as we tried to sort out Jackson Hole, the iconic ski hill, from the town of Jackson, which is often referred to, incorrectly, as Jackson Hole, from the base of the ski hill, a development called Teton Village. Jackson Hole is actually a geographic feature North of the ski Hill and, being a hole, not conducive to skiing. Teton Village was too swanky to consider Earthroamer overnight parking in their lots so we spent one night in a nearby RV park ($60.00US/night plus tax for a space 2 feet from an iced-in Airstream) and the next morning zipped to Idaho on the West side of the Tetons (yes, it’s a French word and yes, it means what you think. The story told is that French Canadian guides pointed to the mountains and said “grande tetons” in jest and the Americans took it literally) to Grand Targhee resort. A brilliant, laid back, Mom and Pop hill that was glad to have us in their parking lot. Fresh snow had landed as predicted, there were empty lifts, empty slopes, gentle cliffs for old geezers to drop, lots of easy touring and running options made for a perfect week.
We went to the pub for an aprés ski beer (just called “aprés” in the area, pronounced confusingly as “ohprey”, as in: “Are you going for ohprey?”) and a listen to what we assumed would be a bar band playing Neal Young covers and were gobsmacked by the originality and musicianship of the band. Memphis blues with wicked funk thrown in. The saxophonist was an 84 yo who had to sit to play his sax and sing because of the elevation (8000ft). The trumpet player was incredible despite looking like someone’s chubby uncle from Wetaskiwin.
We returned the next night for more and sat and chatted with the aged saxophonist. On googling him afterward, he turned out to be Herman Green, a jazz legend who has played with Miles Davis, John Coltrane, introduced Dinah Washington to the music world and BB King’s best buddy and knew Elvis from music lessons when Elvis was a 14 y.o. Willie Waldman, the above mentioned trumpeter who inherited the band from Herman “Dr.” Green, spent the ‘90s in L.A., playing with Snoop Dogg and the late Tupac Shakir and Jane’s Addiction (we had been thinking his West Coast hip hop gang signing was ludicrous but he apparently came by it honestly). He had taken a ton of flak back in Memphis for dragging the elderly jazz legend on tour but they both agree keeling over on the road would be better than staring at the T.V. in the nursing home.
We spent a rest day in the town of Jackson, renowned for authentic western culture. It would more accurately be renowned for authentic western culture being distorted beyond recognition by unimaginable money. One art store (not something I recall having much civic prominence from any history of the west I recall) had an excellent sculpture of a coyote. It was sold, awaiting retrieval by the new owner so I was spared spending $60,000.00 on it.
We scuttled back to Grand Targhee and were surprised to find another Earthroamer parked next to our spot. A very friendly Rhode Island gentleman (as we all are) is on a three month ski trip while his wife hides in the warmth of Arizona. Brenda figures Garth is getting ideas about ditching her somewhere warm so he can increase his shred-ability while Garth is watching Brenda carefully for signs of her bailing out at the first warm stop.
The map suggested a perfect departure North through Yellowstone, but the quiet majesty of that iconic park in winter is not available except by booked snowmobile tour, the roads all being closed (as usual for us) so we routed around and up to Missoula, MT.
Our heater stopped working after having been a bit fussy for a few weeks. It had been serviced at Christmas and it seems that a batch of new fuel filters were defective, entraining air and thus not letting the diesel ignite. We had a replacement already and, surprise of surprises, Garth changed it himself! Brenda spent the night wide awake, waiting for the Earth-shattering Kaboom, but so far so good.
We drove through rain as we continued North in Montana, passing depressed looking snowmobilers all the way and then across the border into B.C. at Roosville where an apparently bored border guard was suspicious of the camper’s provenance. “But it’s so big and cool”, argued Garth, “all the other border guards just wanted to look at the wheel lugs” Fortunately, our paperwork was in order. Well, we had it at least, distributed randomly in a folder of truck info, and we were allowed back into Canada.
We have been enjoying the spectacle of the American West no end but it felt absolutely wonderful to be back home. The quiet, polite reserve of Canadians and Canada really does separate us from the U.S. We went straight to Kicking Horse, high enough to avoid recent rains and melting that have decimated most of the south-east hills, for more ski hill parking lot camping and were reminded that BC skiing is unmatched.
The Ford’s oil needed changing again so Garth found Columbia Diesel and nestled the camper in amongst the massive snowplows and semi’s for the work. Somehow, despite being covered in road grime and grease, he, as always at such establishments, stood out like a sore thumb. A full disguise of dirty blue overalls, steel toed boots, no glasses, handlebar mustache and a Peterbuilt cap would make no difference: the stink of desk work and his creamy soft hands will always give him away.
We have noticed a number of frequently used roadside terms that have lost any meaning or have drifted so far into euphemism as to be meaningless. “Home Cooking” now means “Bad” or “Truck Parking Available” with microwaved frozen veggies a certainty. “Resort” would imply unlimited recreation and dining opportunities in a luxurious setting but on the highway seems to be applicable to anywhere you can overnight. Similarly, ”Lodge” no longer means a rugged, cabin-style retreat in the woods but rather hunters and sledders welcome. “Spa” should, at least, provide the ability to soak in hot, mineral-rich water but is used for everything from nail salons and wax depilatories to massage emporia, with not a single place that could be mistaken for a Belgian health retreat spotted so far.
Garth stopping and arguing for the preservation of meaning in language has proven futile. And possibly dangerous. See above experience with diesel mechanic shops.
We had arranged for Theresa of Golden, genius backcountry chef, to plan and package meals for a week’s backcountry ski trip. We stacked the banana boxes in the hallway of the Earthroamer and headed to Valemount where we met our boys, on their reading week break from UBC, our friends the Marcottes from Grande Prairie, Tye (subbing in for their son Scott who couldn’t make it at the last minute) and Tim and Neil, the most enjoyable, careful ski guides imaginable and helicoptered into Mallard lodge. The heli ride alone was worth the price of admission but the week at the lodge, nestled up along the western border of Jasper National Park, spent skinning up and skiing down endless powder slopes, reveling in exhausted lodge life afterwards (see “Ohprey” above) was perfect. A trip of a lifetime nestled into our extended trip of a lifetime.
We are now in New Westminster again, playing bridge with the folks and excitedly talking with our builder and architect about Squamish home.
