Tetons of Fun

The youngest of the Rocky Mountains, the Tetons are perhaps the most dramatic, seemingly rising from flatland (it's relative in the Rockies), jagged, glacier-capped and looking like something from a movie set. And perhaps they are—Harrison Ford has a ranch here, which may explain why we can't get a room in Jackson Hole on a given Saturday night, but more about that later.

The wildlife, plantlife and colors in Yellowstone are vivid and awe-inspiring, unlike anything we have ever experienced. But Grand Teton is a welcome change of pace: quieter, smaller, warmer, a place where we feel more ownership. To quote our campsite neighbors, Susan and George, at Jenny Lake, "You can hold Grand Tetons in your hand." This is after they told us to live simply and care deeply (Susan) and gave us permission to have kids because our dog was very well-behaved (Susan), and threatened to bear-mace our dog, (George) who followed them into their tent at 7pm and asked permission to fart (George) before the happy couple remembered what oysters did to George. And then we didn't hear from them for the rest of the night.

The bike path in Grand Teton National Park winds 8 miles through the park with the Tetons towering behind the paved, mulit-use path.

We ride 7.6 miles into Moose, WY, which we decide to move to based on the name alone (we do see a mama moose and her baby on the ride into town, which must be a good omen, or, at least, a good large mammal). After the ride to Moose, we stop at Dornans for a beer—Moose Drool. It tastes rich and refreshing after our ride, and it's amplified by the mountains behind the patio.

Wine sounds good after three weeks of beer (we should have brought a case of California wine. Feel free to donate to the cause.), and the pizza shop has a liquor store next door. But, alas, West Coast wine costs a lot more when one's in Middle America, so we buy a six pack of local, organic beer, which is more in our price-range. It also takes more room in our camel packs.

Patrick's got the camera at this point. One thing I've learned on this trip: Things that go wrong are usually my fault. The other things that go wrong are because "we" did something wrong, as in: "We ran out of gas" between Hood River and Spokane (translation: Patrick didn't stop to fill up the tank and then we ran out of gas, and waited an hour for AAA to bring us 5 gallons, which barely drives us to the next town with a gas station). And, now, "we" forget the camera at the liquor store. This means Patrick took it out of his pack, set it on the counter and didn't stick it back in after putting three bottles inside his camel pack.

The way he, err, we tell the rest of the story: Patrick rides up the killer hill out of Moose, a winding, steep trail that takes all of our willpower—and lung power—to climb. He's stronger and faster, and beats me to the top. Turning around to snap a picture "of Jess and her red face, riding up the hill," he realizes the camera is no longer in his pack or pocket. Thus, "we" forgot the camera.

I can't complain. He rides back down—and up—the hill to get the camera, and then catches up to me about a half-mile from Jenny Lake. He climbs the incline twice, but even though my legs don't burn like his do, I think the beer tastes just as good back at camp.

—Jessica