Teton Quotes

Surely our people do not understand even yet the rich heritage that is theirs. There can be nothing in the world more beautiful than the Yosemite, the groves of giant sequoias and redwoods, the Canyon of the Colorado, the Canyon of the Yellowstone, the Three Tetons; and our people should see to it that they are preserved for their children and their children’s children forever, with their majesty all unmarred.

It is safe to say that the Teton Range is as breathtaking as any mountain landscape one could ever see.

Whatever happened, she had seen the sun come up once in her life over the Grand Tetons. It was impossible not to know there was a God when you saw

I was still a boy when I left the Ozarks, only sixteen years old. Since that day, I’ve left my footprints in many lands: the frozen wastelands of the Arctic, the bush country of Old Mexico, and the steaming jungles of Yucatán. Throughout my life, I’ve been a lover of the great outdoors. I have built campfires in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, and hunted wild turkey in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. I have climbed the Grand Tetons of Wyoming, and hunted bull elk in the primitive area of Idaho. I can truthfully say that, regardless of where I have roamed or wandered, I have always looked for the fairy ring. I have never found one, but I’ll keep looking and hoping. If the day ever comes that I walk up to that snow-white circle, I’ll step into the center of it, kneel down, and make one wish, for in my heart I believe in the legend of the rare fairy ring.

The Portuguese have a proverb: A verdade e como o azeite; mais cedo ou mais tarde vem a tona. "The truth is like oil; sooner or later, it rises to the surface.

The moon was just starting to rise above the Tetons, shining

Some of us are blessed, or cursed, with a dream, and have to bare claw and fang to claim it. To anyone with a diehard dream I want to say: Put aside all the kneading and fretting. Choose your trail. Jump. Watch a moose as it paws through a great depth of snow to get to the antelope bitterbrush underneath (you want to grow that kind of persistence). Deflect naysayers for now; they’ll come around in the end. Be open to the sturdy graces that show up. Welcome friends, regardless of species. Beware of trappings; they tend to transmute into traps. Trust thyself.

we’ll get to the lake before dusk.” Without waiting for

Nine million years ago, the Tetons didn’t exist. The land around Jackson Hole was just a high grassy plain. But then a forty-mile-long fault opened within the Earth, and since then, about once every nine hundred years, the Tetons experience a really big earthquake, enough to jerk them another six feet higher. It is these repeated jerks over eons that have raised them to their present majestic heights of seven thousand feet.

I’ve been trying to think of words to tell you how all this makes me feel.” “The Tetons?” “Yeah, but not just them. All of this. All this . . . you know. These places. Nature. It makes me feel different. But I just can’t figure out what words to use.” “Most people say it makes them feel smaller. Like the world is so big, it makes them feel insignificant.” “No,” Seth said. But then he didn’t immediately elaborate. “Bigger,” he said after a time.

By the 1770s, the Teton Sioux had overrun the Arikara, or Ree, on the Missouri River and made it as far west as the Black Hills, where they quickly ousted the Kiowa and the Crows. Over the next hundred years the Sioux continued to expand their territory, eventually forcing the Crows to retreat all the way to the Bighorn River more than two hundred miles to the west, while also carrying on raids to the north and south against the Assiniboine, Shoshone, Pawnee, Gros Ventre, and Omaha.

We have all seen the posters and prints of the bends of the Snake River curling beneath the sharp granite towers of the Grand Tetons. The water is black and the peaks are dusted with new snow and the cottonwoods along the banks are yellow, their smoldering ranks throwing the scale of the mountains into perspective, because the tall trees look tiny running along the bottom of the picture. It may be morning and the river is covered in mist that moves over the water like smoke, and there may be one man fishing, his fly rod bent back mid-cast. If he is there, it is only to remind us that the grandeur and shocking beauty are not of human scale. That the most indisputable beauty may be the one that people cannot ever touch. That God exists up there somehow, in the peaks and remote lakes and the sharp wind. Who know why that picture stirs joy. It speaks directly to our impermanence and our smallness.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

on pitch-black asphalt and through manicured grounds where the only other vehicles were Range Rovers, Mercedeses, and BMW SUVs—or golf carts. The Grand Tetons walled off the western horizon like tiger teeth. To the east was the Gros Ventre Range, to the south the Hoback Mountains, and to the north Grand Teton

she could ride out and try and meet the expedition before they arrived in the valley. They had to be close. Lucas had been

I have seen that in any great undertaking it is not enough for a man to depend simply upon himself.

In 1857, to encourage continued settlement of the West, Congress passed the Pacific Wagon Road Act, which among other improvements to the trail called for the surveying of a shorter route to Idaho across the bottom of the Wind Rivers and the forested Bridger-Teton wilderness to the west. Frederick W. Lander, a hotheaded but experienced explorer and engineer, was assigned the job. He made Burnt Ranch the trailhead and main supply depot for the trail-building job, which became one of the largest government-financed projects of the nineteenth century. Lander hired hundreds of workers from the new Mormon settlement at Salt Lake and supplied the enterprise with large mule-team caravans that ferried provisions and equipment from U.S. Army depots in Nebraska and eastern Wyoming. “With crowds of laborers hauling wood, erecting buildings and tending stock,” writes historian Todd Guenther, “the area was a beehive of activity.” The engineers, logging crews, and workers quickly hacked out what became known as the Lander Cutoff, which saved more than sixty miles, almost a week’s travel, across the mountains. In places, the Lander Cutoff was a steep up-and-down ride, but the route offered cooler, high terrain and plentiful water, an advantage over the scorching desert of the main ruts to the south. Eventually an estimated 100,000 pioneers took this route, and the 230-mile Lander Cutoff was considered an engineering marvel of its time. This

Grand Teton literally translates as Big Tits National Park. The area was named either by French-Canadian explorers or a Native American Sioux tribe (depending on which version of events you believe) because of the peaks’ resemblance to a pair of breasts. If the National Park Service renamed it Big Tits National Park they would undoubtedly see a dramatic rise in visitor numbers, but it might perhaps leave a few tourists feeling short-changed.

What if each American landowner made it a goal to convert half of his or her lawn to productive native plant communities? Even moderate success could collectively restore some semblance of ecosystem function to more than twenty million acres of what is now ecological wasteland. How big is twenty million acres? It’s bigger than the combined areas of the Everglades, Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Teton, Canyonlands, Mount Rainier, North Cascades, Badlands, Olympic, Sequoia, Grand Canyon, Denali, and the Great Smoky Mountains National Parks. If we restore the ecosystem function of these twenty million acres, we can create this country’s largest park system. It gives me the shivers just to write about it. Because so much of this park will be created at our homes, I suggest we call it Homegrown National Park.

It might seem preposterous to equate a walk in your yard with a trip to Yellowstone. Your yard surely will not provide breathtaking views of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, Bridal Falls, or the Teton Range, but there is much that Homegrown National Park can provide without the expense, crowds, reservations, or traffic jams of a monumental road trip. And it can provide these

Another time, Dora Davis from Oklahoma started yelling at Rachel LaThorpe for stealing her parking space outside the Jenny Lake Visitor Center one summer day in 2017. Dora got so worked up, screaming and cursing, that her heart stopped. Suffering an out-of-hospital cardiac arrest was usually the end for most people, but it was Dora’s lucky day because Rachel—the woman she’d just been cursing at—was a nurse and began CPR. Teton rangers responded and continued treating Dora, and days later she walked out of the hospital with full neurological function.

The West is full of mountains imprinted with pedestrian names. But the French-Canadian fur trappers, openly lustful, had it right when they named the Tetons for their wet dreams.

Those they knew they did not hesitate to characterize, often in a heartfelt fashion. They wrote of their friends the Mandans, “These are the most friendly, well disposed Indians inhabiting the Missouri. They are brave, humane and hospitable.” Of the Teton Sioux, the opposite: “These are the vilest miscreants of the savage race, and must ever remain the pirates of the Missouri, until such measures are pursued, by our government, as will make them feel a dependence on its will for their supply of merchandise.

from that valley near the Tetons, over past the Wind River

Their era was ending when Jim Clyman got to Independence in ’44 and found Bill Sublette, who had first taken wagons up the Platte Valley in 1830, now taking invalids to Brown’s Hole for a summer’s outing. It was twenty-one years since Jim had first gone up the Missouri, forty years since Lewis and Clark wintered at the Mandan villages, thirty-three years since Wilson Hunt led the Astorians westward, twenty years since Clyman with Smith and Fitzpatrick crossed South Pass, eighteen years since Ashley, in the Wasatch Mountains, sold his fur company to Smith, Sublette, and Jackson. Thirty-two years ago Robert McKnight had been imprisoned by the Spanish for taking goods to Santa Fe. Twenty-three years ago William Becknell had defied the prohibition and returned from Santa Fe in triumph. Eighteen years ago the Patties had got to San Diego by the Gila route and Jed Smith had blazed the desert trail to San Bernardino Valley; fourteen years ago Ewing Young, with Kit Carson, had come over the San Bernardino Mountains, making for the San Joaquin. There had been a trading post at the mouth of Laramie Creek for just ten years. Bent’s Fort was fifteen years old. Now the streams were trapped out, and even if beaver should come back, the price of plews would never rise again. There were two or three thousand Americans in Oregon, a couple of hundred in California, and in Independence hundreds of wagons were yoking up. Bill Sublette and Black Harris were guiding movers. Carson and Fitzpatrick were completing the education of John Charles Frémont. Forty years since Lewis and Clark. Think back to that blank paper with some names sketched in, the Wind River peaks, the Tetons, the Picketwire River, the Siskidee, names which, mostly, the mountain men sketched in — something under a million square miles, the fundamental watershed, a thousand mountain men scalped in this wilderness, the deserts crossed, the trails blazed and packed down, the mountains made known, the caravans carrying freight to Santa Fe, Bill Bowen selling his place to go to Oregon, half a dozen wagonwrights setting up at Independence … and, far off, like a fly buzzing against a screen, Joe Meek’s cousin, Mr. Polk, preparing war. Whose country was it? III Pillar of Cloud ALL through February Congress debated the resolution to terminate the joint occupancy of Oregon, and by its deliberation, Polk thought, informed the British that we were irresolute.

I wasn’t totally flat, but my chest resembled hills, while Cynthia’s looked more like the Grand Tetons.

The Unbidden An unbidden grace seizes me, compelling me to be what I know I ought to be. To let it in I know I must let go. This is the grace of aspiration, The gravitas of one hundred New Year’s resolutions, with peaks of love, death and transience jagged as the Teton’s crown. With a nervous laughter I imagine it as the frazzled smile on a cartoon character. There is altitude in grace; I’m anointed sherpa of my landscape. Fumeroles of memory erupt through my soul, pointing to a underground river of propinquity. Time and space fuse, the desperation of the disparate is vanquished. In the mindscape of grace, everything flows in two directions. Memories ripple forward and are joined by new events cascading backwards. My sherpa calls this swirling cauldron life, the manufacturer of all meaning. Without the epiphany of the unbidden, we are without compass and forever lost.

The kids crawled into bed and Dee unlocked the door and went back outside. Walked down to the road and stood at the crest of the pass. Thirty-five miles away, Grand Teton punctured the bottom curve of the sun and the nearer peaks were catching alpenglow. The snow and the rock the color of peach skin.

Backpacking with my family in Teton wilderness, I am recurrently struck by the question of footing. With each step, the foot has to come down somewhere. Climbing or descending over boulder fields, steep inclines, on and off trails, our feet make split-second decisions for us about where and how to come down, what angle, how much pressure, heel or toe, rotated or straight. The kids don’t ever ask: “Daddy, where do I put my feet? Should I step on this rock or that one?” They just do it, and I’ve noticed that they find a way—they choose where to put their feet at each step, and it’s not simply where I put mine. What this says to me is that our feet find their own way. Watching my own, I am amazed at how many different places and ways I might put my foot down with each step, and how out of this unfolding momentary potential, the foot ultimately commits to one way, executes with full weight on it (or less if it’s a hazardous situation), and then lets go as the next foot makes its choice and I move forward. All this occurs virtually without thinking, except at the occasional tricky spots where thought and experience do come into play and I might have to give my youngest child, Serena, a hand. But that is the exception, not the rule. Ordinarily we are not looking at our feet and thinking about each step. We are looking out, ahead on the trail, and our brain, taking it all in, makes split-second decisions for us that put the foot down in a way that conforms to the needs of the terrain underfoot in that moment.

That mountain is so big (Grand Teton), and as a kid anyway, it made me think of God. And I used to think that if I was that mountain, nothing could move me or scare me. Nothing could hurt me. Now I think I'm finally getting it. God is like that mountain for us and we can hold on to Him. ~Harper to Heath.

It was puzzling to me that not once did the ultra-wealthy I spoke with wax romantic about the working poor in the large city where they had once worked or lived. The working poor in New York City or Houston were one thing, but the working poor in Teton County were another – even though members of both communities share a struggle to keep their heads above water, facing low wages, high rents, and dim prospects overall for scaling the socioeconomic pyramid. Why was one romanticized as a paradigm of virtue and happiness, and the other not? The difference, it turns out, is that the working poor in Teton County have become a vehicle for escapism for the ultra-wealthy, in large part because their struggle takes place in a locale that is geographically remote and environmentally exotic.

have to kill whoever’s chasing you. Can you do that?” Corman hesitated. “I—I never kilt nobody before,” Corman said. Slocum weighed the man’s words. Corman was obviously frightened, scared of losing his life. But was he also afraid of killing someone, even in self-defense? That was what separated the men from the boys. Corman had years on him, but perhaps not much wisdom. “Ever shoot a Winchester? Or a Henry?” Corman nodded. “Both,” he said. “I have a Yellow Boy.” He paused. “Back at my digs.” “That’s a heavy rifle,” Slocum said. “The Winchester is lighter.” “I know.” “Well, if push comes to shove, you can have my Winchester. It’s loaded. Just jack a shell into the chamber and start shooting.” “Do you think it will come to that?” “You’re the one being chased, Corman. What do you think?” Corman went silent. But he listened to the wind, and wisps of fog, or cloud, were beginning to seep into the cracks of the boulders around them and creep along the ground like thin cotton batting, ever so slowly. Slocum checked the Winchester and handed it to Corman. He went to his bedroll and took out the sawed-off Greener shotgun that he kept rolled up in it. He grabbed some shells from his saddlebag and put two in the shotgun, and snapped the barrel back into the receiver, where it locked. The shotshells were all double-ought buck and, at close range, would tear a man to pieces. Besides the Colt .45 six-gun on his

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