Renewed, legendary lift tests resolve

By Bobbi Barbarich, Vue Weekly

I prefer to support the underdog. Unfortunately, small family-run ski hills rarely generate enough cash or cred to compete with the big resorts. So I either end up resenting overpriced burritos at the posh lodge or questioning my principles as I struggle up a tiny T-bar. For 2009, I resolved yet again to ignore Whistler and seek out the little guy.

But before my re-firmed resolution came into effect, I agreed to drive 16 hours south through raging snowstorms to the legendary Jackson Hole. Located on the southern edge of Wyoming’s Teton Mountains, Jackson Hole is where John Wayne filmed his first speaking part in a movie. It’s where Nancy Greene won the 1967 World Cup. It’s the quintessential range on which film-virgin athletes prove their worth, launching themselves into snow-star status. These mountains make legends of their conquerors.

As such, I was expecting dramatic, imposing cliffs and treacherous terrain with every turn. Instead, I arrive at a humble mountain peeking over a tiny village. The folks speak with a mild twang and the coffee is reasonably priced. There are no jagged peaks—within view—to threaten my sanity. Naively wondering what the hubbub is about, I buy an egg sandwich. As it turns out, I stumble upon the Egg McCollister.

In 1942, the ski industry was beginning to break ground in the Tetons but the area remained famous for its wildlife. Paul McCollister, a young radio-advertising salesman from California, enjoyed a good elk hunt in the valley that year. He returned to the Tetons a few years later to fish and, while he still wasn’t a skier, he bought some land and started spending summers there and winters in the Sierras.

It was in the Golden State where McCollister developed an addiction to slaying snow instead of elk. After a skiing stint in Europe, he returned to Jackson Hole with a vision: the Jackson Hole Ski Corporation. At 41, he retired and became a ski bum, vehemently researching ski area development. Jackson Hole Mountain Resort opened in 1965, and he now has a delicious egg breakfast muffin named after him.

Beyond his taste for eggs, Paul’s vision was a grandiose resort rivaling the world-class superstars—and it’s mostly been achieved. Yet a humble, practical feeling prevails over the resort. Throwing my wrapper in the trashcan, I hop on the Bridger gondola.

The gondola carries my friend Jay and I over 800 metres in a little less than 10 minutes. As our pod swings in the wind, I start to get a sense of what JHMR (jacksonhole.com) is all about. From the base, it’s nothing remarkable. But as the gondola ascends, ragged cliffs, snow-filled crevasses and masses of trees spark my attention. It’s stunning.

JHMR sweeps over 2300 acres of extreme in-bounds terrain and drops nearly 1300 vertical metres—more than anywhere else in the States. If you’re so bold as to think that’s not enough, you’re welcome to slip through the border gates in Rock Spring, Cody’s and Casper Bowls or on Après Vous Mountain to challenge yourself with another 3000 acres of gnarly backcountry madness.

Opaque black clouds squat atop Rendezvous Mountain, slewing snow over the peak. Disembarking the gondola, we can hardly see the mottled cliffs hanging above us. Our choices for descent are few; many of the runs sport a sign with a mocking orange circle stating “closed.” We’re left following a good portion of the majority down Lupine Way, a swaying blue run connecting several traverses on the way to Casper-Bowl Chair, one of 10 lifts on the mountain.

“I’m gonna go there!” I squeak to Jay as we pass over a boulder forest lined with trees on the Casper chair. “It’s closed,” he replies, a refrain I would hear throughout the weekend. “Damn,” another phrase muttered repeatedly. We had come a tad too early to experience all that Jackson Hole has to offer.

Although the gates on JHMR borders were closed, few people were talking about the lack of snow. White fluff was flying hard, plastering trees, buildings and “closed” signs for one of the first major snowstorms of the year. It didn’t come a moment too soon. Jackson Hole’s renowned tram, closed for the past 28 months, was set to take flight up Rendezvous Mountain.

The dormant tram was 40 years old when it closed in August 2006. An apprehensive sigh fell over the valley but locals’ quad strength increased exponentially as they were forced to hike roughly an hour to drop into the backcountry. The tram used to whisk 300 people every hour to Corbet’s Couloir, Rendezvous Bowl and Pucker Face beyond that. Since that August, they’d had to get there on Shank’s Pony. Says Victor Raymond, a real estate agent in Teton Village, “The tram allows everyone access to why people come here in the first place. For those years, we had to work to get there.”

Raymond has seen huge changes at JHMR since he became a local 26 years ago. In 1997 JHMR intensified development of Teton Village and installed the gondola, coinciding with Jackson Hole carving its niche as the resort to ride.

“Things are pretty slow right now, considering the economic crisis. Maybe not the best time to install the tram,” he says. “But the tram makes Jackson Hole what it is. Anybody who wants to ski this area has to go to the Bowl and the country beyond. Unfortunately or fortunately, a lot more people can get there now.”

I hadn’t yet hopped into these bowls as the tram, shroud in gossamer fabric, crouched in its dock. No one would ride the tram until the next morning.

As I bump between baby pines and diverted rocks, I ponder why, despite early season conditions and limited run access, I’m falling in love with Jackson Hole. Maybe they put something in my egg sandwich. Or in my Pabst Blue Ribbon in the Village Café, a tiny pub that blared Black Diamond Heavies while we ate our scrumptious tofu wraps, which didn’t even amount to $20 total.

At 6 pm, gondolas and chairs sleeping in their stations, a crowd of 2000 people forms below the clock tower tram dock. AC/DC’s “For Those About to Rock” elicits devil horn signs from onlookers. White spotlights sear through falling snow to highlight the big red box. The shiny fabric drops, Santa rappels out of its belly and the crowd erupts at the first sight of its beloved tram. These people are serious about their little Hole.

Truthfully though it’s not so little. The new tram doubles delivery to Rendezvous bowl: 650 people per hour will now have the opportunity to drop into Corbet’s without working up a sweat. I doubt that many will—Corbet’s is an intense chute, preceded by a two-storey drop onto a 55-degree slope. If you happen to land on your feet but miss the immediate and vital right turn, you eat rock. Corbet’s is a hallmark for Jackson Hole—thousands of acres cater to expert, if not crazy, skiers and riders.

The following morning, I stand with 500 others waiting to board the tram. Michael Berry, president of the National Ski Areas Association addresses the shivering crowd, answering a question most conscientious skiers and riders eventually ask: “Will resort development such as this tram, that allows more people into the environment, impact the pristine nature of our mountains?” The crowd pauses. “The answer is the same as it was in 1965. In short, no.”

According to JHMR ski instructor Theo Meiners, “Jackson Hole is an island of optimism, one of the core communities in skiing. The tram represents hope, a vehicle to continue the adventure.”

The mountain’s muddled mysticism was starting to dissipate from my goggles. Resort owner Jay Kemmerer, who bought Jackson Hole Ski Corporation from McCollister in 1992, has strong bloodlines in Wyoming. JHMR, as ski industry maverick, thrives because of the Kemmerer family’s dedication. Thanks to them, it’s one of the last independently owned resorts in North America. For over 100 years, Kemmerers have been investing in Wyoming. The tram is no different. They paid for the tram, all $31 million, in an effort to draw people to the state.

“The resort doesn’t make any money,” Anna Olson, assistant communications manager, divulges to me. “We don’t operate at a surplus. Jay, his wife, Connie, and his sister Betty love this area. They want it to succeed, so they invest in it without pulling money out of it for themselves.”

At that, Betty Kemmerer breaks a bottle of champagne across the red box’s bosom and the first car is off. In the third car, frosted windows hide the mountain view. Nine minutes from smooth take-off, the doors slide open and a blast of frigid air numbs my nose. Over 200 feet clamber out of the tram like cattle. I can’t see a thing for the blinding wind and snow, but I can tell I’m missing something spectacular. I ride through the voluminous bowl half-blind and completely ecstatic. I won’t get to see much more, but it’s a reason to go back.

Seeing Jay Kemmerer and his family and listening to tourists and locals describe why they love Jackson Hole, I decide I’m not reneging on my resolution. It’s a big resort, sure. It’s world-renowned, definitely. But McCollister and the Kemmerers have managed to keep the small-town, respectful feel I love about lesser-known resorts. Maybe it’s the fact that even in its class you can still find secrets from Jackson Hole to keep to yourself. But perhaps it’s more that the people respect those secrets, and they encourage you to find one for yourself.