593“
By Christmas, I’d traded my old, tattered gloves for burly, warm ones. The sunny-day lens for my goggles remained buried deep in my gear bag. After a seemingly endless string of storm days, it was clear that something special was happening in Jackson Hole. You could feel it in the tramline and in the packed mid-mountain cafeteria. Meanwhile, laundry and dishes piled up at home as my wife and I traded mornings on the tram. We didn’t have a choice. This
