Letter 14
Road Tripping - Part 2 (Finding A Place)
Dear Reader,
About seven years one of my grad-school mentors pulled up in front of my house as he was passing through Kansas City. Over the years Michael Grinfeld had kept in touch with me, even stopped to see my newborn son during one visit. This time he was mending from a small stroke. We were going to dinner and he said, “let’s go to your favorite place in the city. No matter where that is.”
I paused and was dumbfounded. Tired from a hot summer day entertaining my young kids and juggling freelance projects he offered the gift I needed at the time: he showed up and insisted I do something for myself. We headed downtown to the River Market to a Vietnamese restaurant where I go about once a year and we had the place to ourselves.
I have thought of Michael since then, more so since his death in 2021, and especially when social-media mogul news takes a twist. He had strong opinions about the dumbing down of journalism and this effect on democracy. He was an attorney, a journalist, a teacher and a gifted photographer. He would have found an original way to capture the beauty of Jackson Hole, I am sure. This geologically and photogenically rich area was the next stop on this summer’s road trip.
Sigh.
I set my expectations low about what the area would be like since we moved away 14 years ago. More money had poured into the valley. Those with means escaped from Covid madness with second homes in Jackson, Wy. It would be different than when we lived there among the working class – me at the newspaper, Jason at the hospital lab.
But we rolled into town on a mid-July day, dropped off our bags and drove the National Elk Refuge Road.
Then something unexpected happened. A feeling of aching elation engulfed me. Two years living there? Five days visiting ahead of us? This is not nearly enough time. The ache was a bit existential – I only have so many more years to hike these trails. What about that butte? That should be climbed. The Teton Range? Somehow it’s more gorgeous than I remember.
The last two times we were here pregnancy hormones possessed my body. Several factors had made moving back to Kansas City a reasonable option when we did so right before our son was born. And I am standing there snapping photos wildly of my kids playing in the creek next to a field of wildflowers in the center of some of the world’s most beautiful public lands, the iconic Cathedral Group of mountains in the background, and my emotions are taking over as I understand how much I have gained in bringing these two beings into the world, who love playing in the mountains as much as I do.
But with the choices, and the compromises, and the adaptations, there also comes a sense of loss and questioning: Who was I before? Who am I now? Why am I holding my breath to keep tears from forming?
There wasn’t anything to do but throw myself into whatever family-friend adventure for the next week. The four of us climbed the “town hill” of Snow King. We walked far into Cascade Canyon. We met up with my former editor, Angus Thuermer Jr., who is still doing great natural resources/environmental journalism (check out this outstanding feature about how the Tetons’ famous skyline changed). We saw a bear and cub on a trail near String Lake.
On Tuesday I remembered that One Ton Pig had a weekly show at the Silver Dollar. I watched in awe at the dancers swinging away like professionals dressed in hipster overalls and hair buns and sundresses with boots and running shorts and boots, others with hats and big belt buckles. I still had on my hiking pants but made sure to add a fresh top with straps because the first set started with head nods and smiles, then the top half of me started instinctively swaying in my chair with my head rolling along. By the time it was intermission I couldn’t help it, I was out on the floor, out of practice , but finding a home at the end of the stage with another woman freestyling. The fierce Western sun coming in the windows behind the band was much lower now but the sweat started to trickle and I closed my eyes as a way to snap the moment, lock it in memory.
During one of the band’s breaks, I went to the stage to buy a T-shirt, which I never do. One of the band members came over and asked what size I needed and we were both squatting next to the bin, our eyes squinting at the shirt tags.
“I need my reading glasses,” he says.
A loosened laugh that shakes my back and vibrates throughout my throat erupted. It’s the one that comes out when I feel alive with joy.
“I do too!”
Luckily someone had the foresight to put together color-coded rubber bands with a key for what color band indicated what size.
“This is clearly a purple rubber band?” I confirm as he thanks me.
A few days later my daughter and I stripped to our swim suits mid-morning and gingerly walked over lake stones through the freezing waters of String Lake. We held hands so neither of us would chicken out as we jumped forward, dunking our heads under into the glacial frigidity. I emerged and shrieked happily. Her eyes shone with amazement. It didn’t matter that we were cold and wet the rest of our hike.
The morning we left was methodical. Time to return. Driving back we listened to Son Volt (be sure to read Thomas Crone’s feature on the group’s new album, as well as TC’s Substack) through the Wind River Reservation in central Wyoming. An all-day drive helps to recalibrate perspectives.
During that dinner with Michael seven years ago I had expressed, maybe even half apologized, that I wasn’t enough of a journalist since I was also choosing to be with my kids as much as possible.
“You just wanted to be human,” he reassured me of a natural urge to have children, have a family.
One of his other sayings sticks with me too:
“The world is a beautiful place and all you have to do is show up.”
Thanks for reading. Hope you find and do what feeds your soul. And do it as often as you can.
Warmly,
Traci