The Last Frontier

Jackson Hole, Wyoming
Skiable acreage 2,500 (plus 3,000 acres of accessible backcountry)
Famous residents Harrison Ford, Dick Cheney
Ratio of expert to beginner runs 5:1
Iconic run Corbet’s Couloir
Must-have accessory Spyder U.S. Ski Team jacket

IT'S THE SPEED I LOVE.Born in B.C. and raised on not enough days at Grouse and then Whistler and Blackcomb, I believe that every good ski run, like every good road trip, has to be full-tilt boogie.
It became as clear as the big sky above me on my third day in Jackson Hole that I just might have found my perfect two-lane snow top. Up until then, I’d put in my time on some of the most challenging and exhilarating trails a skier can tackle anywhere. It was good, but I hadn’t had my perfect moment. And then, I did.

It was about halfway down the feline curves of Riverton Bowl on Rendezvous Mountain, just after Jane’s Addiction’s “Mountain Song” had ended and the Australian country-punk ballad “Jackson Hole” (fittingly, from a record called Rattlin’ Bones) kicked in on my iPod. The frayed chorus, “Better in Jackson Hole,” was gospel as I tucked in and arched down the sunlit slope toward far-below Teton Village. The song and the autobahn velocity aligned the experience: it was magical. And that feeling—whether snowboarding, hiking or saddling up to a fine steak—was easily attained again and again at the Wyoming ski resort.

Some ascribe it to the entrancing Rocky Mountain light that permeates the place. Others say it’s the uncrowded feel of the 2,500-acre resort, which has one of the lowest skier densities around. Credit the pristine and varied terrain, including the powder-stash chute of Corbet’s Couloir (called “America’s scariest ski slope”) and the unpatrolled backcountry. I dipped a pole in all of them because, on any mountain worth its snowfall, people always like to dare and to talk. Once you get past them, you meet the ones who say less.

“Man, this just is the best,” snowboarder Brian May proclaims with an ear-to-ear smile. Pointing up to the peaks of Après Vous, the second peak in the area, he says, “It’s all right here.” With his long hair, winter beard, layers of gear and perpetual shades, May has the local look of studied casualness nailed. But don’t mistake that nonchalance for a lack of intensity or sophistication. For all the wealth and luxury here, Jackson Hole, like Brian May, isn’t about showing off. Like an old-school cattle drive, it’s about going up and coming down that big mountain—preferably fearlessly, and well.

It’s that attitude, already familiar to those used to skiing in the Canadian West, that makes Jackson Hole the new frontier on the international slopes scene. It has a passionate snowboarding culture, heli-skiing and the opportunity to respectfully scamper through nearby national parks on snowshoes, sleigh or sleds. Plus there’s Big Red, the new lift (replacing the beloved, legendary old red tram) which, in just over nine minutes, whips you up 4,139 vertical feet to get the big picture.

Originally, mail carriers skied this terrain to get the post to scattered farms and ranches. Today, the privately owned resort is a playground for presidents, movie stars and CEOs. Platinum cards are on the table but airs, for the most part, are not. Walking around the town of Jackson (about 20 kilometres along the bus- and shuttle-frequented road from the resort), giving my tired legs a stretch, I can understand why pioneers would throw off the stiff collars of the East to head here. Local rancher hangouts rub shoulders with gourmet dining and yoga studios. In this low-lying valley, you can breathe, and pick up the traction that comes from that liberating breath.

I felt it the next day, following Jill LeBlanc of The Hole Hiking Experience at a reassuringly determined clip. Along with a wry doctor from Little Rock, I huffed and puffed behind as LeBlanc, who had a glowing perma-tan that put George Hamilton’s to shame, surveyed Yellowstone National Park’s ridges and routes, pointing out snow-hidden streams, animal tracks, ice-packed ponds and the eco-détente of new- and old-growth trees. It was an exhilarating perspective, like walking a new city at street level after you’ve seen it from the sky. Dodging branches dolloped in snow, putting one foot in front of the other on ground that’s under six feet of the stuff, you feel heartpoundingly alive.

At the end of that intoxicating third day of skiing, overlooking the knobbed pine of the Million Dollar Cowboy bar, my perfect moment on the slopes stuck with me. Like this old bar, like the mountains, that tune kept the confidences of the trail. “Better in Jackson Hole.” Better, like a double shot of song and speed, with a chaser of contemplation. On any slopes anywhere in the world, that’s pretty rare and pretty good indeed. wl