Climbing Cliffs and Jumping Off

Grand Teton, Day Two.

It's Sept. 12, but we're losing track of dates and days of the week, and beginning to measure time by places and activities. We won't remember today as Sept. 12, but rather as the day we hiked up into the Tetons and cliff jump into crystal-blue Jenny Lake.

We take the Cascade Canyon Trail, which loops around Jenny Lake before climbing about 5 miles to Hidden Falls, and then another steep mile past the falls to Inspiration Point, elevation 7,200 feet. We're speedy on the uphill trip (Patrick race-hikes), scaling rocks to pass foreign tourists and small children with walking sticks, eliciting comments from an older Southern couple sitting on a log: "You're fast now, but we'll see what you look like on the downhill."

What we look like on the downhill: Stripped down to our skivvies and soaking wet. But first we find Inspiration: A bottle of beer, alpine smells and turquoise waters hundreds of feet below.

On the hike up to Inspiration Point, we realize what we've been missing: Cliff jumping. And then we see her: a massive boulder, as close to a foothill as we've seen in the Tetons, rising about 15 feet above Jenny Lake. It's a hot, dry day and the lake calls to us. Once we see the rock, we know where we'll be stopping on the hike back down to our campsite.

We both jump and dive off the rock into Jenny Lake and the glacier-fed water instantly soothes our hot skin and refreshes us. Fellow hikers cheer and laugh at the crazy kids swimming in their underwear in the icy lake.

While we're sunning on top of the rock, we see a monstrous rainbow trout swimming in the lake, lazily hunting for flies on top of the water, not the least bit worried about landing on someone's dinner plate (yes, we do wish we'd brought a fishing pole).

It's the perfect day and the perfect place, from the cozy, RV-free campsite at Jenny Lake to the 12-mile roundtrip hike, to swimming in clear, cold waters—and, at least for me, it's made even more perfect by the promise of a bed and a shower, which will be our first in a week, at the end of the day. We plan to stay in Jackson, and I've got visions of plush pillows, claw-foot tubs and clean hair dancing in my head. We'll have a night out on the town, dine and drink at a cowboy bar, and I'll wear makeup for the first time in a month and my sole dress that I brought to last four months on the road. It's past Labor Day so we figure tourist season ha ended, so we don't make hotel reservations.

Big mistake.

There is no vacancy is Jackson, and I'm melting down. My scalp itches and my hair is matted and forming dreads. Patrick stinks, the dog stinks, I stink and, from the three of us sitting and sweating in it all day, the truck especially stinks.

Patrick tries to make me feel better by blaming our poor planning on Harrison Ford, who owns a ranch in Jackson.

"Damn Harrison. We'd be able to find a room if didn't rent out the entire town to accommodate his out-of-town guests."

This doesn't stop my tears. Jackson's south of where we're headed (Wind Cave), so we decide to drive north east, and we'll try to find a available room in some Wyoming city. We drive back through Grand Teton and Yellowstone, passing herds of buffalo and the sun setting over Yellowstone Lake.

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