4 minute read
Elizabeth Koutrelakos
60 fear and loathing in cooke city
Looking back, I think I was out of my mind. I don’t know what provoked me to leave Jackson during a huge storm, but seven hours later, I was driving delirious and 350 miles away. I couldn’t tell if the sulfuric smell emanated from my body or my surroundings, but the moment I got out of my Chevy Cavalier, I knew I was in a different world. The sign read, “Cooke City, Montana: Population 140.”
Advertisement
I told him I was coming in a letter I sent around Christmas. The lack of phone reception and internet made it impossible to reaffirm plans. Six cars line the dead end street, but I can’t find a parking spot amongst the hoards of snowmobiles. I enter the lodge my friend, Travis, claims to be residing in, but the front desk rings empty. Twenty men line the bar; a nest of door keys tells me it isn’t very busy.
A woman appears behind the doorway, her lips are moving. As I walk closer, I see a hole in her throat, and she speaks through a voice box. I silently curse all the cans of chew I ever touched and ask if she knows my friend.
“Oh yeah, he’s one of those crazy ice climbers,” she smiles. “Check room number zero one.”
I wander past myriad unlabeled rooms smelling of stale cigarettes unable to find room number zero one. My search continues outside until I spot a herd of snowmobilers staggering in the shadows. I retreat to my car for safety and doze off. A little puffball of hand taps through the snow on my windshield and takes me inside.
Dazed, I enter a tiny hotel room Travis shares with his friend, Dustin. Soggy ropes hang from every corner and the room emanates a faint smell of mildewed boots and unwashed polypropylene. I carve out a
WORDS: ELIZABETH KOUTRELAKOS ILLUSTRATIONS: KELLY HALPIN
little nook for myself on the damp carpet and promptly fall asleep.
We go to a great breakfast joint at the end of the road. Actually, it’s the only breakfast place at the end of the road. Given the low price of the meal, I prepare myself for a gut bomb but am pleasantly surprised by the tastiness of my huevos. It all seemed like a strange trip: that this restaurant existed, that it was so delicious, that I wanted to vomit. Maybe I was starving. After finishing my coffee, I head to the bathroom and am surprised to see my many options. I spy a toilet, a set of curlers, and a tanning bed. Tanning suddenly seems adventurous and intriguing. I’ve never been in one of those fake sun boxes before, but it suddenly seems as necessary as the toilet. It would feel so nice to lay down again.
By noon, we break a trail through
61
seemingly monotonous lodge poles and find ourselves in below-zero temps at the bottom of a beautiful piece of ice called Hydromonster. There’s a sparkling ice cave in the second pitch that seems like a tempting relief to my sweats and fever. The chills kick in; my hands shake as I watch Travis send the second pitch.
“You’ll be fine,” Travis tells me. “You aren’t really climbing ice if you aren’t leading ice anyway.”
I tie in and throw my tools into the ice. Spindrifts fly from the top of the cliff into my face. A sudden urge tempts me to let go of my tools, my breakfast, my body. Cold hands bring me back into reality.
I don’t remember the top. All I know is that I had a strong urge to faint at the bottom. We splitboard out in pale winter light, getting our skis caught on downfall and clumsily soaking our boots in creek puddles.
Fluorescent lights advertise the only restaurant open late in the night. The menu offers a variety of burgers with explicit names I knew were disgusting but had no knowledge of how or why. I settled for a Hot Carl. It was as good as it could have been.
I leave the same way I came, not knowing my departure until I find myself on the road, in a delirium, hypnotized by the still falling snowflakes. A prolonged rest stop enters the timeless realm. Thoughts of elk and wolves having dance parties fill my dreams as I lay in Boiling River Hot Springs. A park ranger awakes me to inquire if I’m intoxicated. He lets me go after I pass the Breathalyzer, then points his finger at me to leave immediately. The time was after dark, and I could be charged with loitering. I keep moving, floating down the black and white road in my little blue car; my wipers are my music and sing me songs to keep my eyes open.
Upon my return to Jackson, the doctor tells me I have the flu. Maybe I was sick the whole time, but its possible that Cooke City exists in another realm of reality. The only thing that’s true is that nothing is certain, and my favorite part of ice climbing is when it is through. ek
Elizabeth Koutrelakos The joy of the Tetons ultimately brought Elizabeth Koutrelakos to the range nine years ago, and she has since vowed to never leave.
