Jackson, Wyoming
I somehow avoided altitude sickness during my week in the Wyoming mountains — a good thing to be without, especially amid such landmarks of elegance and power. Though I come from a state of mountains typically blanketed with pines, I prefer the mountains whose altitude rejects signs of life. Those with sharp angles and snow-powdered crevices, those that take on the faint pinks of the alpenglow in early morning, those that make me wonder what it’s like to be a bird. Instead, I’m knee-high in ungroomed snow. I trudge at the feet of these kings, reveling in the moments they decide to peek out from behind the clouds.
Jackson presents a dichotomy of backgrounds: generational wealth alongside ski-obsessed free spirits. My roommate was a ski instructor at the time of my visit, pointing out the polarizing extremes of these seasonal dwellers. The local town holds incredible culture and art as well. On a solo exploration of the downtown streets, I meandered in and out of art galleries, pausing to muse at canvas bison and listen to the owners’ stories.
I enjoy such walks alone, with uninterrupted time to ponder, observe, and learn. On my last day, while my roommate worked on the slopes, I embarked on another individual expedition, setting out with a backpack and a pair of earbuds. I woke up that morning with no agenda, no pre-planned research, and decided on intuition (and recklessness) as my guide. On a trail behind resort employee housing and through mural-lined underpasses painted by local high school students, I found myself on the side of US-191. Cars and lifetimes passed me by on this strip of road and land, evermore in the shadow of the mountains. I befriended swans and cows, grieved a rather unfortunate elk on the side of the road, and stumbled upon a ranch. No wonder they call this land of the cowboys.
I walked seven miles that day. Seven miles of complete mental and social liberation. I wouldn’t have minded continuing on at my own leisure, except for the reality of needing to return to the apartment to pack for my flight at 4 a.m. the next morning. At an arbitrary point of sidewalk, I turned around and walked back along the same route. I guess I always have to come back from these moments of silent, solitary freedom.
