Life In The Village: A Hot Tub Centric Journey To Jackson Hole

As a kid, I craved the thrill of heavy turbulence—the bobs and sways of the plane filling my stomach with a pleasant weightlessness—but my days of enjoying in-flight turbulence like an airborne rollercoaster have come and gone. Now, I'm an older, more anxious person who dreads the moment of takeoff and the flash of "fasten your seatbelt" signs. Here began my trip to Jackson Hole Mountain Resort (JHMR), Wyoming, with a descent into my own personal, albeit ridiculous, Inferno.

The first flight was manageable, but the second, from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Jackson, Wyoming, was a different, more aggressive beast. The storm battering the small destination town saw to that. As we neared the Jackson airport, I caught glimpses of dark, bluish clouds outside the window and nothing more. The heavy lurches of the plane sent zaps from my brain stem to my admittedly overreacting fear center. It's embarrassing writing this, but I quickly made peace with my impending doom, deciding heroically that life had treated me well and I was comfortable with passing into the next realm.

Then, of course, we were on the ground—the Wright brothers forged ahead so modern airborne travelers could zip safely through inclement weather—where our driver awaited near the baggage claim.

To those who've never visited, Jackson is an oddball mix of ski bums, professional skiers, and proud members of the upper upper crust. Since our driver was a chauffeur—working in an industry typically utilized by that latter, wealthier category—I figured he might've encountered a billionaire or two.

"Have you given rides to any really rich people?" I asked him as we sped towards Teton Village, Wyoming, through the gathering storm. He didn't disappoint, informing us that one day, he'd picked up a woman from New York who was in town for a haircut with a little purse dog in tow. After a few hours, he brought her back to the airport—the trip took less than a day, making it a display of total, perhaps sickening, extravagance. Then, our driver told us about when he almost collided with a moose while navigating Jackson's roads near midnight. Contrasts bordering on contradictions—Jackson's full of them.

Our first destination was Hotel Terra, a modern lodge located a five-minute walk away from JHMR's base area. Our driver helped us unload the gear from the car, which he handed off to an earpiece-equipped bellman. The bellman asked for my last name, nodded studiously, and then spoke into his earpiece—"Greenwood, party of two. Arrived."—before whisking our luggage away. I made eyes with Amelia, my girlfriend, and co-conspirator for the trip, and stifled a smile. It was already obvious that our time in Jackson would be unlike our usual skiing excursions.

Amelia and I met in college, where we were embedded in a tight-knit crew of skiers and snowboarders. For us, a ski trip entailed cramming as many people as possible into a rental off the hill, cooking enormous group meals, and commuting 20 or more minutes by car each morning to go skiing. This blueprint hasn't changed much since our graduation. We've continued to operate in the gray area between true ski bum and successful dentist, pinching pennies to buy lift tickets and avoiding large food or housing costs whenever possible. In short, it's been years and years since I stayed at a ski resort hotel.

While surreal—at times, I felt like I was being treated like the president of a minor nation—sucking in Hotel Terra's amenities was a thrill. The lobby and floor five, where our room was, were filled with a difficult-to-place perfume-like smell. Amelia spent much of our time at Hotel Terra repeatedly noting and appreciating the pleasant olfactory barrage. A bellman helped us bring our gear to our room—a perfect crash pad for a weekend of skiing—where Amelia met her next muse: the bathrobes. Fluffy, warm, cozy—I could go on and on with the superlatives. Once equipped with these wearable blankets, we didn't want to take them off (my trip notes read: "The bathrobes go so hard).

The bathrobes facilitated our first Hotel Terra investigation. We hopped on the elevator, punched floor six, and stepped out into the frigid night air before taking a warm, inviting plunge. We had the rooftop hot tub to ourselves and took the time to reflect on how picturesque the whole scene was. Flurries of snow descended from the night sky, mingling with the streaks of steam rising from the tub. Behind us, on the towering slopes of JHMR, snowcats steadily prepared the slopes for the following day, their lights piercing the darkened air. Amelia noted that she could "get used to this." I wholeheartedly agreed. We were pleasantly out of our element.

The following morning began at Il Villaggio Osteria, a mouthful of a name for an Italian restaurant that serves a range of breakfast options to Hotel Terra's guests. I went for eggs and bacon—Amelia ordered the potatoes, which were the meal's highlight. I still haven't forgotten them and have vowed to learn how to cook similar potatoes myself.

After that five-minute walk from the hotel, we hit the slopes, joined by a local guide, Tyler Barker, the regional V.P. of Hotel Terra's parent hospitality company. Like many of the people I would meet in Jackson, Barker has figured out how to live some version of the dream. He explained that he frequently took video meetings wearing ski boots so he could jet off for a few laps during his lunch break.

Unsurprisingly, this fantastical iteration of work-life balance meant that Barker was a ripping skier. As he took us through JHMR's then-open terrain offerings, Amelia and I—with our wobbly preseason legs—struggled to keep up. I should've known that this would happen when I learned that Barker was rocking 190-plus Volkl Mantras (a beast of a ski) and 140-flex boots. The incredibly flat light and mixed conditions didn't help our case.

But Barker remained patient throughout the tour, offering information about his employer and the mountain while we circumnavigated JHMR's lower altitude terrain. Then, Barker set us free to explore on our own, which quickly led to Amelia and I taking a break for lunch at the base area—it was our first day on snow, after all.

There, we met Matt Lorelli, my editor at POWDER, who, coincidentally, was in town to film a video the next day that focused on JHMR's latest stunt: Jeans Ski Day. With Lorelli in tow, we headed for the Thunder Lift, which had recently opened and promised fresh snow vis-a-vis the recent storm.

The first run delivered a few immensely satisfying turns above Horn's Hole Traverse. I let out an excited yelp before the crew scooted back to Thunder through the fog, blasting through the chopped up, manky snow. On our next plunge off Thunder, Matt and I—Amelia wisely decided to call it for the day due to the poor visibility—caught a glimpse of some groms posted above a natural feature.

We decided to stick around for the show, which was the right choice. The first grom effortlessly sliced through the cut-up pow, wound back his arms, and hucked a near-flawless cork 720. His comrades backed him up—360, backflip, and another cork 720. The moment was another reminder that I wasn't skiing at my lovable yet dinky home resort anymore. Here, the pulse of freeskiing's future throbbed alongside opulence and glamor.

Taking notes from Amelia, we threw the towel in. Matt's goggles had completely fogged, my shins were battered and bruised beyond repair, and the storm wasn't letting up. We made a dogged return to the base around 3 o'clock, skiing like a couple old guys. With their fearlessness and rubbery knees, the groms had unquestionably shown us up.

Before dinner, I told Amelia I needed another trip to Hotel Terra's hot tub. My beleaguered shins had sprouted golf balls, my lower back was on fire, and my glutes felt like they'd been hit repeatedly with a meat tenderizer—so much for preseason training.

This time, in the tub, we were joined by two businessmen who had traveled to Teton Village for some venture capital networking. They informed us that JHMR and Teton Village were boundless playgrounds for those looking to build business connections. Skiing provided a chance for connection with potential partners, as did the surrounding array of hotels, bars, and restaurants. One of the travelers told us he'd given a literal elevator pitch for his burgeoning business to investors on one of JHMR's gondolas earlier in the day. I suggested they take their quarry to Hotel Terra's golf simulator to whack some balls and talk turkey. I'd nailed my audience—their eyes widened. "There's a golf simulator here?"

Our third morning in Teton Village started with denim. I suited up—ski jacket on top, L.L. Bean flannel lined jeans below. It was my way of participating in JHMR's attempt at breaking the world record for most skiers wearing jeans in one place. The Remarkables—a New Zealand ski resort—had established the earlier record with 102 jeans-clad skiers. JHMR effortlessly smashed this record by a wide margin.

We brewed coffee with the in-room Keurig, which was a godsend. Getting a hit of caffeine before navigating towards breakfast on sore legs proved vital. As creatures of habit, Amelia and I opted for the same breakfast offerings from Il Villaggio Osteria. I stole a large number of her potatoes.

The weather brought good tidings, as did JHMR's ops team. Unlike the day prior, the sky was bright blue, and JHMR had opened Sublette for the first time this season, a lift that accesses high-altitude (read: gnarly, sustained, fun) below the Tram. Thus, we were Sublette bound.

On the lifts to our destination, I finally understood the magic that JHMR espouses. Since I've become a mom-and-pop resort skier, I'm a bit gobsmacked whenever I find myself at "world-class" ski resorts. I fondly recall losing my mind riding Alta Ski Area, Utah's Collins Lift, after a season spent on slow two-seaters. Catching JHMR on a bluebird day produced a similar effect. 360-degree mountain views surrounded us, bookended by the boundless expanse of the Jackson Hole Valley. Above, the Aerial Tram crawled towards the peak of Rendezvous Mountain, a red dot etched against a sea of jagged wintry peaks.

While riding Sublette, we met a Jackson transplant who informed us of a little Sublette-centric hack. According to our new friend, the lift frequently experiences high winds, meaning the crowds typically stay away despite the lift's impressive terrain offerings. I believed him. It was windy on Sublette, but not enough to turn away an enterprising skier searching for a secret stash or two.

While I appreciated the beta, I didn't find myself worrying about lines at all during both of our days spent skiing JHMR. Several years ago, the resort implemented a reservation system for tickets and mega pass holders that, in my experience, has successfully reduced skier traffic to manageable levels (during the Jeans Ski Day, JHMR was at max capacity).

Given the size of JHMR, Amelia and I needed to return to the base by the time we reached the top of Sublette—the inaugural congregation of jeans skiers was taking place at noon. We didn't want to miss it. We burned a lap down Hanging Rock and the Rendezvous Trail, feeling our skis bite the manicured runs. It was a welcome reprieve from the mank I'd fought through the previous storm day.

To be blunt, the base area was a gong show. Jeans-clad skiers—hundreds of them by my estimation (the total count for the day was 3,114!)—had gathered for a group photo. We pushed through the crowd to find Lorelli, who was kitted out in the perfect jeans ski day outfit: a yellow flannel and jeans. In comparison, I looked dorky in my oddball combination of ski gear and baggy denim.

With the group photo completed, we fueled up and headed slopeside again, joined by Chris Kitchen of KGB Productions. Kitchen, whose cinematography rap sheet includes work commissioned by Nike, Patagonia, and POWDER, was there to help Lorelli produce a Jeans Ski Day video. Kitchen carried a Sony digital camera with an impressive gimbal rig. Lorrelli was the talent, tasked with interviewing and skiing alongside fellow jeans-wearing skiers.

As for me, I was tagging along, excited to watch a talented filmmaker with significant cred do his thing. Our first stop was the top of Sublette, where Lorelli rallied a crew of skiers—myself included—to ski a run for Kitchen. Admittedly, my younger self got the better of me. For years, I'd dreamed of becoming a professional skier, and there I was, about to drop in with a fancy camera trained in my direction. I knew that this was probably the first and last time this would happen, so I pinned it at Kitchen's signal, blowing ahead of the crowd, slightly out of control. A patch of ice, which nearly kicked me off my feet, quickly humbled me. I received the universe's message loud and clear: Ian, you're many things, but a professional skier isn't one of them.

After gathering a few more shots, Lorelli, Kitchen, and I briefly congregated on the side of a run where Kitchen delivered a revelation. He noted that most skiers, no matter how talented they are, don't look like they know what they're doing if they're wearing jeans. My goofy outfit inspired his observation. It's true, jeans are the great equalizer. No one was hiding behind a Gore-Tex kit that day.

I joined them for a few more laps, skiing until my legs eventually decided that they'd had enough. With burnt quads, I headed to Teton Mountain Lodge & Spa—the hotel for our last night at JHMR—and met up with Amelia, letting Kitchen and Lorelli finish their work for the shoot.

The Teton Mountain Lodge & Spa, like the Hotel Terra before it, made me feel delightfully out of place. There weren’t any trash cans overflowing with beer cans, nor was there a pile of smelly ski-gear reeking in the corner. In contrast to the ski trip trappings I’d become accustomed to, the lobby was complete with a crackling fireplace, complimentary cookies and warm beverages, and helpful concierge members who, to my shock, addressed Amelia and I as Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood (we aren't married).

Given the increasingly sore state of my body, our first destination was once again the hot tub, which, somehow, one-upped Hotel Terra's offerings. Remember those 360 degree JHMR views I mentioned earlier? All visible from this tub. Sometimes, it felt like I was floating skywards in a gorgeous mountain vista. And it made my sore butt cheeks feel better as an added bonus.

We bid our farewells to the lovely couple we met in the hot tub as we headed downstairs to Teton Mountain Lodge's restaurant—the Spur—for dinner. The restaurant, which has recently been remodeled, was warm and homey. Our orders were taken by the bartender, a man with an unquestionably dignified mustache. But he wasn't only a hero to male grooming fanatics everywhere—he also knew how to make a proper dirty martini, Amelia's favorite drink. "Like seawater?" he asked. Amelia nodded, and he delivered. It tasted like the Pacific Ocean. I was just happy they served Coors Banquet.

I chose the burger for dinner, and Amelia had duck confit, which tasted and looked glorious. While we ate, Amelia informed me of the fine details of cooking proper duck confit. I decided then, and there, that professional cook was also getting scratched off the list of things I'm not, alongside professional skier. Sated, we returned to our room to sleep before flying out of Jackson the next morning.