My favorite novel is “Cannery Row” by John Steinbeck. That novel painted a vivid picture of destitute characters living their version of the good life in a rough and tumble place.
While taking my family on vacation, at first glance Cannery Row appeared exactly like the image imprinted by the words from a page from oh so long ago. It took but a few minutes to realize that the modern-day Cannery Row was an illusion and a deception. It had turned into an expensive tourist trap. Gone were the gritty canneries steadily churning the bounty of the sea into neatly canned foodstuff, her slime lines begrudgingly manned by colorful characters whose ambition and work ethic extended no further than the minimum required to purchase the next bottle of cheap wine.
While the fronts of the old Cannery buildings remained, behind those old familiar facades were expensive eateries and boutiques. The fringes of society had been replaced by beautiful people in very expensive automobiles and gawking tourists. Disillusioned by the reality of what Cannery Row now was versus what my imagination thought it should still be, my son and I wandered off away from the fabled strip.
The touristy vibe quickly melted away with each step in the opposite direction. Wandering down a weedy and junky alleyway barely a half of a mile away revealed a derelict pickup truck with no tires and up on blocks, its windshield busted out. A warm skunky plume wafted out of the windshield opening as three young men sat in the cab, doors closed, smoking a joint. I do not know where they were going in that ratty old pickup that was heading nowhere, but they renewed my shattered belief in Cannery Row.
As we age our roles in life change and even reverse. My son was embarking upon a snowboarding excursion and graciously took his old man along. It was his trip of his planning and making. I was merely along for the ride. He was going to show me his world in his way.
The first leg of the journey was spent enjoying a few lovely and leisurely days with family in the ranch country of Wyoming. Our element.
The second leg was spent in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. His element.
From a grade school history class came my imagery of Jackson Hole as the annual wild and wooly rendezvous point for fur traders and Natives and mountain men and trappers. Later came the pop culture imagery of a dirt bag’s haven inhabited by scruffy bums in stitched up and duct taped threads looking no further ahead in life than the next gnarly day on the slopes and the hedonistic night that followed.
My son’s mind was swimming in images of world class snowboarding.
Jackson Hole is a truly fascinating place. By outward appearance it remains very western and quaint.
But the local country boy log cabin law office is that of world-famous attorney Gerry Spence and that alone is a stunning reminder that this is indeed not your ordinary cow town. Rich folks’ jet in and buy a “cabin” the likes that would make Jim Bridger cringe at that use of the word with massive stacks of Monopoly money because they can. And because this is the place to be and be seen.
At night the clubs brim with attractively stylish and unstylishly hip partygoers. Not a single duct-taped moonboot to be seen.
Certainly, the air of a rarified atmosphere exists in town.
The dirt bag disciples of the mountain also want to be there. They work as many jobs as it takes to scrape by and quadruple up within living space designed for one because it is expensive beyond imagination to be there, and because it is their destiny to be there. Free or discounted lift passes are a cherished employee benefit and highly desirable perk. On a powder day their hard work high burnout universe is brought back into balance by a lap on public land before or in between jobs.
The bumper stickers proudly proclaim Jackson Hole to be a quaint little drinking town with a skiing problem. Realistically, Jackson Hole is a white-hot ultra-high end real estate market with a not so quaint gentrification problem.
But it seems that each of the true believers that has figured out the way to remain there and enjoy and love the Jackson Hole outdoors for what Jackson Hole outdoors really is, whether rich or poor or somewhere in between is a truly beautiful person willing to share a secret handshake that cannot be bought or sold.
From the parade of friendly folks to the pretty young woman willing to teach an old man a little tech to the exotic Italian beauty flirting cheerily in broken English to the South African pilot who brought the wisdom of the universe to bear, the mountain and her disciples had a very egalitarian feel. It could be the well-grounded hedge fund bazillionaire on one side sipping on a silo of PBR or the destitute dirt bag disciple on the other scraping pocket bottom for the next waffle and silo of PBR; everybody seemed to be feeling the same vibe 10,450’ above sea level.
Pure egalitarianism at its best.
Unless of course you happened to be talking about the Jackson Hole real estate markets. There the biggest gun will never win that knife fight but a wheelbarrow full of cash always will.
The Unexpected Minimalist 