Somehow we survived the night at Nancy's Guest Haus. None of the stuffed animals had come alive at night (as expected), nor had anything crawled out of the carpeted bathroom floor. We had slept quite soundly, in fact, under Nancy's warm handmade quilt. Good thing, because we had two full days of skiing waiting for us at Grand Targhee in Wyoming.
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| Grand Targhee, Wyoming |
As we rolled up to Grand Targhee, my first impression was that we had unknowingly transported ourselves back to 1973. The old wood ski lodge oozed memories of brightly colored puffy jackets, skinny skis, and bad hair. Andre commented in astonishment that absolutely nothing seemed to have changed since the last time he had skied there in
middle school. In Andre years, that's back about 27 years, which would have put me most likely sitting on a training potty receiving little treats for having resisted the urge to take a pee on my mom's oriental rug. But this information is neither here nor there.
The days at Grand Targhee were cold, big surprise. Sometime during late morning of the first day we asked a lifty what the temperature was. He mumbled through a mouthful of cookies and milk (spitting crumbs wildly) that it was "not quite 0 degrees, dudes!" Our previous routine of skiing a few runs and then heading in for hot chocolate to warm up continued. Not only did Grand Targhee live up to our newly formed temperature expectations, but it also added a new challenge:
wind. Although the wind chill quickly became enemy #1 (taking things from COLD to #@&%ing COLD), it
did make for some very breath-taking scenery. The wind had pushed thick layers of supple snow around the heavy trunks and thin branches of each tree. Drenched in sparkling blankets of tiny crystals, the world around looked like something out of a mystical fairy tale or Dr. Seuss book. The views were, again, endless. The snow stretched itself in thinning layers into the flat lands below, while the jagged peaks of the Grand Teton mountains erupted into the cloudy sky behind us. Different variations of white stretched from under our skis all the way into the farthest reaches of the sky above us. Only on the second day did the sun peek through for a few glorious hours, revealing small pockets of robin's egg blue that had been hidden away behind the clouds. All the locals suddenly emerged during this time, rushing around like preoccupied ants in unstable ski boots, muttering about the rarity of these kinds of days.
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| Our winter wonderland |
Yes, we seemed to have planned our ski trip during the coldest, most miserable week of the month, but the snow was incredible and our spirits were high. Our bodies however... well, they would sing a different tune. We adorned ourselves with as many layers as we could find stowed away in our ski bags. Gators and vests helped protect us from the bitter wind. For the first five minutes that is... Before we had even slid off the first chair lift, all feeling in our toes had vanished. Snot numbly dripped from our noses and was carried away in the wind well before we were ever aware of a drainage issue. We huddled together, heads down, eyes shut tightly.
When we took refuge in the lodge I whipped out my dad's old trick for warming up cold toes: stick those stinky feet in your gloves. I casually sat there with hands for feet, sipping my hot chocolate (enjoying a secret stash of whipped cream someone had slipped us), when I looked up to see Andre's scrunched up face staring at me. This is a normal expression that I receive from him on a regular basis. I explained my dad's toe-to-glove wisdom and returned to my steaming cup of creamy heaven, looking like a Big Bird-human hybrid. Moments later, lost in seas of chocolate bliss, I felt warm hands grab hold of feet (still numb and aching - my dad's method not working fast enough). This must be what everyone had been telling me that I was missing during all my independent single years. Impromptu foot rubs followed by surprise rice crispy treats (because you mentioned
once how much you loved them) - okay, sign me up!!
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| Glove warmers |
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| The truest definition of LOVE |
We decided to camp out in the parking lot of Grand Targhee on Tuesday night. A bartender in the lodge had assured us it was okay as long as we parked out of the way - the snow plows had been known to cruise over forgotten, snow-covered cars in the wee hours of the morning. We made a mental note, bold and highlighted in our minds. We took turns changing out of our frozen ski clothes and visiting the restroom (a.k.a.: the trees). As I used my turn to weasel out of long underwear and twist into cozy sweats, a fox trotted up to the truck, sniffing where Julep had just run around outside. As I crouched half naked in the truck, only one leg in my pants and a sports bra still hooked over my head, throwing one arm up towards the ceiling, I locked eyes with the fox. He stared, unblinking, at me with his head cocked to one side. I'm not sure how many of you have ever been judged by a fox, but it's quite uncomfortable. They have a sophisticated, all-knowing look about them which is exemplified when the opposite party is frozen in a contorted, mangled mess, seemingly unable to figure out how to use either opposable thumb well enough to get dressed. The fox never moved or took his eyes off of me until I slipped and tumbled into my mess of clothes, shaking the truck and scaring him off.
Our days skiing at Grand Targhee marked days five and six of our 8-day journey. It was soon time to head back toward our beautiful, sunny Colorado. We had one more night of camping planned and then a real bed was within our reach... and a hot shower... AND being able to change privately without the peering eyes of wild critters. That's basically the American Dream, right?
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