JACKSON SOUL
A
s a Powder magazine correspondent for almost twenty years, I've had the good fortune to ski Jackson a number of times under pretty optimal circumstances. The ski media experience comes with no (or negative) money, and an ungodly amount of dragging ski luggage around airports, but the job does have its perks—lift tickets, the odd bar tab, sometimes a stay in a condo or slope-side hotel, once or twice a year a seat on a helicopter or a bunk in a remote alpine hut. Every now and then you get to ski something really cool, like a couloir or whatever. That's the stuff that other people visualize and fantasize about when I tell them what I do. There definitely are wonderful places out
Stellar terrain takes backseat to locals’ charisma
By The Jaded Local
there that are worth a trip just for the quality of the skiing itself, like Chamonix, Alaska, or the high peaks of the Sierras’ east side. And heli-skiing is basically crack. But the biggest perk of all is the opportunity to hang out with passionate skiers and feed off their energy like some kind of twisted ski vampire. And for that, nothing compares to Jackson. I'll go just to ski groomers on rental skis if I get to aprèsski at the Moose with some locals. Yes, the turns here are stellar: the terrain is large-scale and varied, the snow deep and frosty cold. But what generates the power here isn't the topography or the snowpack dynamics. It's not the size of the vertical drop or the plush hot tubs at the slope-side hotels.
The real power of Jackson is the skiers themselves, the self-reinforcing psychic energy of like-minded weirdos who have built a community and a culture on a solid foundation of hard work and pure hedonism. That tram is bolted to more than just the ground. As a skier it's easy to get distracted by surface here. And the surface in Jackson is serious: the sprawling, morning tram line of people bristling with backcountry gear, the avalanches, and scary-steep terrain. Human bomb holes below towering cliffs, pre-dawn hikers on the Pass skiing with headlamps, skiers teetering over the void on the edge of Corbet's, pros filming on scary lines. It’s a compelling vision of risk, action, and pushing
The real power of Jackson is
the skiers themselves, the self-re-
inforcing psychic energy of like-
minded weirdos who have built a community and a culture on a
solid foundation of hard work and
Wade McKoy
pure hedonism.
Jackson soul skiers, 1988, from bottom left: Dawn Mecham, Jamie MacIntosh, Pat Cambell, Doug Coombs, June Glick, Dave Muccino, Mark Kessler, Jeff Arnaut, Ty Vanderpool, Tom Bartlett, Chris Leveroni, Drew Canada
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the limits in a dramatic landscape, one that's been plastered all over the media for decades now. There's nothing fake about that vision—there is more than enough gnar to go around in the Tetons, and plenty of people are out there pushing it. But that's just the shiny outer coating on something far less serious and much more powerful. Which is the skiers themselves—the ski community here is bigger and stronger than anywhere. I live in a ski town, but Jackson is a skier's town. The godfathers of the Jackson Hole Air Force, the ski patrollers and guides, the TGR pros and bros, the powder hippies on the Pass, countless hard-working anonymous skiers hustling three jobs to get another season on that big red box… they've built something bigger than a ski area here, and whether anyone else knows it or not, they run this show. It's an invisible empire of friendship and positive vibes, a massive mountain of high fives, hooting in the trees, and laughing over beers afterward. In a world where so much energy is expended on pointless, exploitative, or just plain toxic endeavors, that's something to be proud of. Cheers Jackson Hole Skier and Jackson Hole skiers, and here's to fifty more. I've got this round. Hans Ludwig is a senior correspondent for Powder magazine. A more telling bio of Ludwig and his alter ego, “The Jaded Local,” may be found on page 113.
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