Cowboys, caviar have a place in Jackson Hole

There is a moose in the middle of the road. He’s standing there looking at me, chewing a vine that dangles from his mouth. With each munch, the vine bobs up and down. I brake before I hit him and he looks away, bored. There aren’t any other cars in sight on this two-lane stretch of highway. I sigh and shift mine into park.

I’m only a few miles from my destination: Jackson Hole, Wyo. It’s the middle of February, and the Teton Range lining the horizon is shaded violet and midnight blue. Down the valley to my left, there’s the National Elk Refuge, home to between 5,000 and 7,000 of the luckiest creatures ever to wear antlers. They wander the land as though it’s the Garden of Eden, unaware that not every member in their species has it so good, or that many people would rather see them on a plate.

I look back at the moose, and just when I wonder whether I should honk my horn, he saunters off the road, still chewing his vine. I drive on, and half an hour later, I pull into Jackson Hole’s Teton Village. Situated at the base of the slopes, it’s a series of palatial lodges trimmed with twinkling white lights. Valet attendants run to and fro, fetching keys and cars. Minutes ago, I was in the company of a moose. Now, I’m in the company of the moneyed.

The grand dame here is the Four Seasons Resort, a five-star, five-diamond accommodation. It’s a place where the staff members don’t just warm your ski boots overnight, they also put them on your feet in the morning, clicking every last stubborn buckle into place. After a day of skiing, you can soak in the hot-springs-style whirlpools, and when you’re ready to dry off, a staff “snow bunny” will fetch you a towel from the warming closet.

It isn’t just the Four Seasons that’s high-end here. Jackson Hole is home to more than 25 impressive galleries displaying and selling works by some of the world’s top artists. Works by Frederic Remington, Charles Russell, Jeremy Houghton — they’re all here. And if you’re in the mood for fine dining, there are plenty of options, including the Million Dollar Cowboy Steakhouse, where an 18-ounce bone-in rib-eye doesn’t cost $1 million — but will set you back a cool $69. And that’s before you add a $13 side of lobster mac and cheese.

It’s a strange dichotomy, being in the heart of this remote, untamed region, yet having access to the extravagances of a metropolitan city. When the Four Seasons opened in Jackson Hole in 2003, it was the first luxury hotel in the area (and the company’s first mountain resort), and more than a few people scratched their heads. Back then, there were five people per square mile here, the slopes catered to extreme skiers and the nearby national parks didn’t necessarily draw a Four Seasons crowd. Not to mention, only a small airport connected Jackson Hole with the outside world. So who was going to make the trip? Turns out, plenty of people — and it transformed Jackson Hole.

The Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, owned by a local family, began expanding its beginner and intermediate terrain. White-tablecloth restaurants began to open their doors. In 2006, the town’s annual Grand Teton Music Festival nabbed acclaimed maestro Donald Runnicles to serve as music director, upping the pedigree of its performers. Matthew McConaughey, Sandra Bullock and Jim Carrey turned up on the slopes.

Yet even as it evolved, Jackson Hole managed to hang on to its identity as a Wild West kind of place with wild skiing to match. The ski resort can get as much as 400 inches of snow annually, and Jackson Hole’s Rendezvous Mountain has some of the country’s most legendary terrain. The drop spans more than 4,000 vertical feet, some of it treacherously steep. The most harrowing slope is Corbet’s Couloir, a cliff-start chute some call the scariest in America. Heck, even getting to the top of Rendezvous is a feat: The nine-minute ride is too windy for a chairlift, so you have to take an enclosed aerial tram.

And I want to ride that tram to Rendezvous Mountain. Not because I’m an adrenaline junkie, or even an above-average skier — just because I want to experience what makes Jackson Hole alluring to snow bums and stockbrokers alike. But I’m starting to question my sanity. The tram is packed with skiers and snowboarders wearing the right gear, holding the right equipment, bearing the right nonchalant expressions.

Me? I’ve got a twitchy smile. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

When the tram’s doors open, the sky is an eerie red and the wind whistles. I have to duck my head to see, focusing on my boots as I exit the platform and plod, step by deliberate step, toward the snow. By the time I click into my skis, everyone from my tram has already taken off. The visibility is about 6 feet; beyond that, it’s just a dizzying blur of white. I tip my skis over the edge of the bowl and begin to descend in wide, slow zigzags. My heart knocks against my chest, and I feel myself sweating in spite of the cold.

In this moment, all that exists are me and this mountain. It was here before Jackson Hole became the destination du jour, and it will remain even as the town below comes of age. All who carve their way down its slopes, be they celebrities or seasonal staff, have to summon the same inner strength to face its challenges.

And right now, it’s my turn.