INTO THE MOUNTAINS
about pitching a tent. However, once I discovered
the temperatures dipped down to the 30s when
the sun went down, I decided to book a stay at a
Heart Six Ranch in Moran, instead.
My Arrival
Like the city itself, which has a population of just
under 12,000 people, the Jackson Hole airport was
small. Well, small enough for it to nestle comfortably
at the southern base of the Grand Teton mountain
range. As I stepped off the plane and onto the
tarmac, I counted the snow-covered mountain
caps directly in front of me. The mountains were
unlike any I had ever seen.
“I hope you enjoy your stay in Wyoming,” the
lady said with a smile as she walked by with her
luggage rolling noisily behind her.
I watched her walk quickly ahead of me and into
the airport. She had been so kind, and yet I had
never bothered to ask her name. I was thinking of
our interaction on the plane when my thoughts
were interrupted by the sound of another plane
flying overhead. I guess names were irrelevant at
this point. It was time to gather my luggage and
pick up my rental car.
Twenty-Six Miles
Even though the temperature was only 50s in
Wyoming that day, I rolled down every window in
my rental so I could take in the spring air rolling off
the mountains. I quickly typed the address to Heart
Six Ranch into Google Maps, and it informed me
that I only had 26 miles to travel from the airport.
However, what Google didn’t mention was that
I would be driving through a national elk refuge
that housed 25,000 acres of wildlife, or that I would
also encounter some of the most beautiful views of
the Grand Teton mountains during my commute.
By the time I reached Moran, I had parked to
take pictures at almost every turnabout on the
highway, stopped twice to allow elk to cross the
road and watched a moose graze in a small creek
that was just a few miles away from the ranch.
Somehow, I turned my 30-minute journey into
four hours of sightseeing.
When I finally reached Heart Six Ranch, the sun
was going down, and I was welcomed by a furry,
four-legged “ranch hand” named Leo. His body
stiffened and he began barking as I got out of my
car. As a peace offering, I let him sniff my hands. I
guess he found my smell acceptable because once
he was finished, he walked with me to the lodge
for check in. I had been in Moran for less than an
hour and had already made a friend.
A Cup of Coffee
The next morning, I loaded my backpack with
water, a journal, my camera and a book, and
walked over to the main lodge at the ranch. I
needed guidance on which trails to hike while in
the national park. Leo was sprawled out and still
asleep on the couch by the front desk, but the
property manager was already up and reading the
local newspaper behind the counter.
“I was told I need a big can of bear spray for
my hike,” I said as I slung my bag onto the desk. I
hoped a little humor would be a good way to start
a conversation so early in the day.
“Of course, but how about some coffee first?”
he asked.
As we walked into the dining room, the smell
of eggs drifted from the kitchen and into my nose.
With our coffee in hand, we sat at a large table
made of beautiful, tan wood. It matched the logs
that constructed the entire building and all the
cabins on the property. I sipped my coffee slowly
and hoped it would help me shake off the fogginess
from another sleepless night. I seemed to be having
quite a few of those lately.
“So, what brings you to Wyoming?” he asked.
“I want to hike the trails by the Grand Tetons,
and hopefully do some writing,” I explained.
“Oh, you are a writer,” he said with as much
enthusiasm as he could muster up before 8 a.m.
“What will you write about?”
I picked my mug up and took a large drink of
the hot liquid inside. “Divorce,” I explained after
the coffee was fully down. Something about his
presence made me feel comfortable enough to
finally say it. “Well, not just divorce. I want to start
figuring out who I am after divorce.”
“I see,” he replied.
“I was recently laid off from my desk job, so my
schedule just got a lot more flexible,” I responded
with a sarcastic tone as I played with the loose string
hanging from a seam in my jeans. “I don’t own a
home. I have no kids or even a dog. My marriage
is over and there is no significant other that claims
me. Oh, and my landlord just sold the house I am
living in. So, here I am.”
“I see,” he replied again. “So, you are a gypsy?” His
tone made the words sound more like a declaration
than an actual question. “At this point in your life,
you don’t have anything tying you down to one
place,” he continued. “You, my dear, are a gypsy.”
I had never thought about this title before. Of
course, I had been labeled many over the years:
sister, writer, spouse, friend, coworker and now
there was the heavy title of ex-wife. However, this
one – gypsy – was completely new to me. I wasn’t
quite sure how I felt about it, but I sat there for a
moment and imagined myself trying the word on
like a new pair of gloves. In my head, I pictured
JUNE/JULY 2018 : EXTOL
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