The best part about driving a Subaru through downtown Jackson Hole is the anonymity it provides. You just blend right in. It's as if you become part of a secret cult of yahoos that think they know the punchline of an existential inside joke. I struggle with the contradiction that exists when I drive a Subaru. But I also struggled with the one of me at a rodeo in shorts and flip-flops, and with that ever-nagging reality that is my love for Starbucks coffee. At what point, I wonder, does the culmination of so many contradictions act to negate them altogether, remove the veil of self-projection, and leave the stark reality that you've just become one of
them? Oh, shit. And oh well; we're having a blast.
Without accepting the implicated premise, we did accept that we were in
an overt tourist town (think Cusco, Peru without the pushy vendors), and
that it was okay. In fact, the slack-jaw beauty of that valley really
can help one overlook the crowds of idiots and obtain a sublime level of
zen (don't giggle, I'm still not accepting the premise).
We really did enjoy Jackson Hole: we found a beautiful campsite in the
hills east of the elk refuge that helped keep our costs in control, or
at least to help offset the trips to the coffee shops and ice-cream
vendors and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, and to the town theater where
we watched an amazingly funny, witty, and talented troupe of actors
perform "The Ballad of Cat Ballou". We hiked up to a brilliant
high-mountain lake one day, and visited the village and ski resort
another. We sat in the park at times, and looked at dresses (it's what
we do) during others.
We drove a little, walked a lot, and dreamed the entire time -- because that's what we were there to do.
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