The drive north from Jackson was an easy one. For one thing, there was only one road out of town in that direction, making it essentially impossible to get lost. And once Paige left the activity of the town itself behind, the road opened up, curving alongside the vast expanse of the National Elk Refuge on the right and passing the impressive National Museum of Wildlife Art on the left, a stunning building of native rock that blended into the butte so naturally that it almost seemed possible it had evolved geologically, as had the valley itself. There were very few other cars on the road and one by one, they peeled off alongside the shoulder to take photos of the wide landscape vistas or to pose with other family members in front of the entrance sign to Grand Teton National Park. It wasn’t long before Paige found she had the highway to herself.
Even having read descriptions of the Grand Tetons in her pre-trip research, nothing could have prepared her for her first glimpse of the mountain range. Seeing the sloping butte fall away to the left and the spectacular peaks of the Tetons rise up in the distance took her breath away with a sudden, intense punch. As if to boast about their soaring heights above the valley floor, the highest peaks wore crowns of the previous winter’s snow, a sharp contrast to the October terrain below.
Paige continued driving north. Fading blooms of Indian Paintbrush and scrubby stretches of sagebrush lined the sides of the road. The Jackson Hole Airport appeared in the distance, blending so uniformly with the landscape that, had it not been for the single rise of a control tower, it could easily have been missed from the road. It faded away behind her after she passed the airport junction, marked with a simple, rustic brown signpost. In the rear view mirror she saw a small shuttle bus turn out of the airport driveway and head south towards town. It struck Paige as inconceivable that the small, unobtrusive transportation hub for the area could handle the massive volume that it did.
She focused her attention on the road before her, glancing occasionally at the open fields on both sides of the highway. Bison grazed to her right, clusters of hefty mammals hovering together, a few younger members of the herd standing close to their mothers. A red fox played in the field to her left, sprinting, crouching and then freezing in place to wait patiently for unsuspecting rodents to show their faces. It didn’t take long for the fox to pounce forward and come up away from the earth with a dinner appetizer.
Paige turned off the main highway, taking a right turn onto Antelope Flats Road. Heading east, away from the Tetons, the road meandered around the historic structures of Mormon Row. She had read about this area while doing research. The group of preserved buildings dated back to the early 1900’s, when predominantly Mormon pioneers settled in the valley. Continuing on, Paige turned south, following the road to the small town of Kelly. Set off to the south side of the road, the sparsely populated town appeared to hold not much more than a handful of cabins, yurts and other modest forms of housing. As far as Paige could see, there were no sizable commercial establishments to sell groceries or other necessities, though a small eatery offered coffee and sandwiches. The town clearly depended on Jackson itself to provide a source for most of its supplies.
Paige veered to the right as the road curved west, placing the Tetons directly in front of her. Again, the soaring peaks of the mountain range astonished her. They dwarfed everything around them. Even the sizable buttes in the valley seemed meager in comparison.
Not long after passing the small Kelly post office on the edge of town, she spotted a work shed along the south side of the road, a few pieces of rustic furniture scattered in front. She pulled off the road, feeling the car bounce beneath her as it navigated potholes in the unpaved driveway. She parked the car, stepped out onto the dusty ground and took a look around. A tall easel stood to the left of the building’s doorway, displaying photographs of pine bed frames, sturdy dining tables and rustic chairs, all artistically handcrafted from logs. Twisted bundles of slender tree branches framed mirrors of varying sizes. The designs were elegant in their simplicity, but also creative and woodsy. These were not the cookie cutter designs that she had seen in a few of the more tourist-oriented stores downtown. Several of the pieces were appealing enough that Paige began to wonder if some new furniture might be in order, hard as it would be to ship it back to the east coast.
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted Paige’s imaginary home redecorating. Looking up, she spotted a man in well-worn, dusty work clothes stepping into view from behind the shed. He appeared to be in his mid-seventies, a sturdy fellow with a face that spoke of decades of hard work. He nodded a friendly greeting as he drew closer, brushing sawdust from his shirt sleeves at the same time. A large black Labrador trotted alongside him, his tail wagging an additional welcome.
“Can I help ya?” he called from about ten yards away. “Dan here. Dan McElroy. These are my creations.” He waved his hand towards the pictures on the easel and then immediately signaled Paige to follow him to the side of the small building.
A tall, red barn with a pitched roof stood about fifty yards behind the smaller wood shed. Paige walked across to the barn, following a few steps behind Dan. She looked up at the tall, sliding door with faded, peeling paint on crisscrossed wood planks, pushed a few small rocks out of her way and stepped inside.
A lengthy work table ran along the right side of the barn wall. A table saw sat on one end, a corresponding pile of sawdust on the floor below it. Assorted bins of nails and screws sat in various spots on the work counter and a pegboard holding old tools hung from the wall above the work space. Tall piles of lodgepole pine were stacked around the floor, divided into several batches according to size. Across the barn, scattered pieces of furniture stood in partial stages of completion – a long, rectangular table, a set of outdoor patio chairs, staircase sets of bookshelves and other semi-finished projects.
“What brings you to these parts?” Dan asked, looking back over his shoulder, while reaching for a hammer from the pegboard. He grabbed an assortment of nails from one of the bins, crouched down alongside the rectangular table, and drove a nail into the side of a rustic leg.
“I’m here to do some research for an article for the Manhattan Post,” Paige offered, watching how careful Dan was to work the nails in with precision. She glanced upward, figuring the roof must be at least fifty feet tall. Small rays of light shone through the cracks, casting a surreal glow around the rest of the interior.
“You’re a writer, then,” the man mused. “I’ve known a few of your like in my day. Sometimes nice folks, sometimes trouble.” Paige thought she saw him cast a wink in her direction, but wasn’t entirely sure. He continued to set nails into the wooden legs of the table, moving from one to another in a counter-clockwise direction.
“What’s your article about?” Dan asked, without missing a stroke of the hammer. Paige noticed he was wearing a tan, leather vest, with a few tassels of fringe hanging from the hem. As he moved with the hammer, the thin, leather pieces swayed in the air, dangling like windy branches on a willow tree.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Paige admitted. “But it needs to have some sort of western angle, so the paper decided to feature Jackson Hole. I figured if I could get a sense of the area’s history first-hand, the rest might follow.”
Dan laughed out loud. “You big city folk always crack me up. Thinking you can mosey on in and breathe up a dose of western heritage. Ain’t that easy, ma’am. But I wish you luck anyway.” Dan seemed to pause for a moment, staring at the last nail he had set, inspecting the results of the final hammer stroke he had made. Then he stood, straightened up to his full height, which Paige estimated to be over six feet, and stared at the table for a minute. He turned slowly to face Paige.
“There’s a lot that’s gone on in this area that people don’t know about,” he said cautiously. “Well, some people do, some people don’t.” He paused a few seconds, as if to consider what he had said. “There’s a whole lotta secrets in this valley. The ones people talk about aren’t so much true. It’s the
ones people don’t mention too often that can get a person wondering.”
Paige pondered this for a minute, not sure how to respond. Maybe these were just the musings of a man who lived a quiet life and spent his time alone making furniture, with too much time to let his imagination run wild. But then again, maybe there were secrets hidden in Jackson Hole that even many of the residents didn’t know. Maybe she’d stumbled into something bigger than the mere history lesson she’d expected.
“You’ll see, if you stick around long enough and keep your eyes open and ears alert,” Dan said, watching her as if he could read her thoughts. “Are you just here for a short bit? Or planning to spend some time in our beautiful valley?”
Paige took a look around her. Beautiful it was, there was no question about that. Looking through the barn’s doorway and gazing across the valley, the mountains rose up like monuments to heaven, stretching into the clouds, mist wrapping around the upper peaks. As if to accentuate the drama of the view, a lone bald eagle soared across the sky, landing regally in a tree not far from the barn. The air was clean, crisp and cool and the smell of the woodwork mixed with the scent of late fall.
“I’ll be around for a little while, however long it takes to finish the article,” Paige said, half to Dan and half to herself, as she watched the eagle take flight again.
Dan’s words had piqued her curiosity. Maybe there were more elusive stories in the valley than she had originally expected to find. Her goal in coming out to Jackson Hole had simply been to tie local culture and western history into an enjoyable article for readers. But Dan had inadvertently hinted at something better. If a more unique story could be found, it would give her a better angle, which was never a bad thing. It would take perseverance and, most likely, a bit of luck to search it out, but it would be well worth it. If it even existed at all, she reminded herself. And if it all took longer than she’d originally planned, she was starting to think she wouldn’t mind. It had only taken a few days to grow fond of the area.
“You got a place to stay, city-slicker?” Dan asked, arms folded now, weight shifted onto one leg, hip slightly swayed.
“I’ve got a room at the Sweet Mountain Inn,” Paige replied. “Not much space, but it’s reasonable and clean. Right in the center of town, easy to get around. At least I have it for the next day or two. They may be booked up after that, but there are other places to stay in town. Many of them, it seems, just looking up and down a few blocks.”
Dan laughed. “You’re right about that. We probably have more hotels, motels, inns and lodges in Jackson Hole than you do back there in New York City.” Pausing, he added, “OK, I doubt that’s entirely true. Besides, I’ve never been east of Nebraska. But we sure do have a lot.”
“I think you must need them,” Paige commented, remembering an article she’d seen in the local paper the day before. “You guys get almost four million people coming through here each year. That’s pretty amazing for a town with a population of only nine thousand or so.”
“That many, you say?” Dan said, stopping briefly to take this in. “I don’t know about statistics and that kind of stuff, but I’ve gone into town during the summer months and there’s sure not much room to walk down the sidewalks. I try to stay out here as much as I can. That’s one good thing; you don’t have to get far out of town to find a little peace and quiet.”
Dan looked around appreciatively at the open fields around him before continuing.
“Well, if you decide you need a little more privacy or room to breathe, I’ve got a cabin I rent sometimes. Not very fancy, but plenty quiet. Might be good for a writer type such as yourself.” Dan pushed the table a bit to the side, took a cue from Paige’s silence and waved her over to the door of the barn. She followed him, both out of politeness and curiosity.
Outside, Dan pointed across a nondescript field to a small log structure at the edge of his property. It had a narrow porch, a modest front door, two rustic windows, and a slightly sloping roof with a short chimney on top. Paige took a look at it, not failing to notice the dramatic mountain backdrop.
“If you’re gonna be here at least a little while, I rent it by the week. Only sometimes, and I never advertise it. Rather have it empty than have some wacko stranger in it.” Dan sighed and shook his head, undoubtedly remembering at least one undesirable tenant. “But you seem like a nice lady. You think about it. I’ve had writers in there before, they say it’s a good place to think and get the words out, or whatever it is you writers do. Like I said, you think about it. Eighty bucks a week, in advance. Business is slow right now. Could help me out and help you, too.”
Paige stood silent for a minute. She hadn’t intended to take on regular rent. She wasn’t even sure how long she would stay. And the people who ran the Sweet Mountain Inn were wonderful and had been very accommodating since she’d arrived. But they had also warned her that there were a few nights coming up that were already booked solid. She might be forced to find other lodging if she needed to stay. In addition, it seemed there was something calling to her in this valley, though she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The chance of finding good story, perhaps, or just a needed break from city life. She hadn’t taken a vacation in years.
“You know, I might be interested,” Paige said slowly. “Mind if I take a look at it?”
“Help yourself. Door’s open. Go on in and look around all you want. It’s not too fancy, being as it was built back in the early 1900’s. But it’s got running water and electricity now. You know, electricity didn’t come to this area until 1921,” Dan added quickly, looking quite proud of himself for knowing this fact. “It has a small bath and a nice little fireplace. If you decide you’re interested, I can throw a bed and table in there for you. Maybe a couple other spare pieces of furniture. You look around, let me know.” Dan twisted his neck to the side, making it crack sharply. He turned and headed back into the barn.
Paige looked over at the cabin. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look around, even if just to see the inside of an historic dwelling and get a feeling for the way the early pioneers had lived. She headed across the field and approached the small, rustic building.
The porch was narrow, maybe six feet deep, running the width of the building, which Paige approximated to be around fifteen feet across. A patchy roof slanted out and downward above the porch. Similar to those inside the barn, rays of light peeked through the slats in the porch roof. An old, metal tub rested on the floor, just to the right of the door. A few dried flowers lingered in the tub’s dirt, left over from the warmer summer weather.
Slowly Paige turned the handle on the door and pushed it open. It was dark, but enough light entered through the windows to be able to make out the interior. There were two rooms, one in front and a second directly behind it. A small bathroom sat off to the right of the front room. There was no kitchen, but she could see a narrow, wooden counter and small sink on the far left wall. A cupboard hung above those, the door open to reveal empty shelves.
The main room wasn’t large, but the sloping roof helped it feel more spacious. In addition to the two windows in front, a side window faced west towards the Tetons, which meant there would be good afternoon light. In the far corner was a small, rock fireplace, with a wide hearth and a few fireplace tools beside it in a metal bucket. With each October night seeming colder than the one before, a warm fire wouldn’t be a bad way to end the day, Paige mused.
The back room was identical to the front, though not quite as deep. Paige approximated it to be about eight by fifteen feet. It was dark, with just one small window centered high on the east wall. There was ample room for a bed and a dresser, though not much more than that. A throw rug could be tossed on the worn, wooden floors to add color and, Paige thought with amusement, a little warmth to go with her habit of staying barefoot most of the time. There was no closet, but a few small hooks poked out from alongside the window, which would allow her to hang up a few articles of clothing. Two shelves hung above the hooks, a perfect
place for folded shirts and sweaters.
Dan was outside the barn, sawing a slender piece of lodgepole pine into smaller pieces, when Paige walked back from the cabin. Two sawhorses swayed slightly with each movement of his hand saw. Not far away, the black lab had curled up in the shade of a cottonwood tree and was attentively supervising the work.
“I’ll take it,” she heard herself say impulsively, knowing she was acting purely on instinct.
Dan reached out with a quick handshake, immediately returning to finish sawing through the last inch of a three foot stretch of wood.
“It’s a done deal,” he said. “You can drop the first week’s payment off whenever you want, today, tomorrow, whatever works for you. Oh – and there’s no key. Don’t worry; you won’t need one out here. There’s a latch on the inside of the door, though.”
Paige looked around, summing up her new surroundings. Adding one impulse to another, she tossed out a question for Dan, keeping her voice as casual as possible.
“Do you happen to know where the old Manning ranch is?”
“That’s an easy one,” Dan replied, turning to face the road. “Head right up there a ways, past the fencepost at the end of the field and then around the curve to the left, just a little on down the road until you hit a right turn and then up the hill a bit, not too far but far enough. After that, take a left and then a right. You can’t miss it.”
“Nice place, that ranch,” Dan added while lifting a log from a nearby stack to determine if it should be the next one to saw. “Run down, though, was abandoned a long time. Just recently bought up by a guy from Cody. Supposedly his family lived in that area back in the prospecting days. So they say.”
Above the Bridge Page 2