Blizzards in Jackson Hole by Bradley A. Evans

At the lodge in Wyoming where I worked summers in college, we got three squares a day in the employee cafeteria.  By the end of the second week, you had the meal plan figured out: meatloaf on Mondays, lasagna on Tuesdays, etc. The food wasn’t bad, but the repetitiveness left something to be desired.

Breakfast was served when the chefs shuffled in. If you didn’t know any better, you might have mistaken them for a gang of escaped convicts. They drank Budweiser for breakfast and smelled like ashtrays, but they were affable and entertaining, especially when the LSD kicked in. I suppose it goes without saying that a kitchen full of acidheads
makes for an unwonted work environment.

Lunch was a simple affair, usually bologna sandwiches on white bread with ice-cold whole milk. The afternoon shift would arrive, the morning shift would go home, and the folks who had the day off came in wearing Teva Alps, Baggies, and tie-dyes. If anyone, male or female, owned a pair of shorts with an inseam longer than five inches, they
never wore them in public.

Supper was communal and always a blast. The fly fishermen talked about their catch, the hikers spilled the beans on non-tourist trails, and the photographers waxed poetic about their Yellowstone adventures. After supper, everyone who wasn’t on the night shift would head back to our cabins on the Snake River to listen to music, play volleyball, smoke pot, get naked in the hot springs, shoot pool at the employee tavern, or knock out whistle pigs with our fly rods.

I know what you’re thinking: “What in the hell is a whistle pig?”  They’re yellow-bellied marmots; picture a fatter version of a squirrel.  Like the gopher in Caddyshack, whistle pigs dig underground burrows and pop their heads up every once in a while.  We’d take our fly rods out to practice casting, and just like in Whack-A-Mole, we’d pop those little shits square on the noggin.  Occasionally, curiosity got the best of one of our resident dope fiends, who’d stick his arm in a hole and raise holy hell when he got bit. “Sum bitch! That little f**ker got me. I got half a mind to drop a grenade down there!”

At least once a week, a group of us would head into Jackson for a “real meal.” And I’m not talking about the highfalutin cuisine at The Wort; I’m talking about a burger joint on Cache Street, a few blocks north of the Antler Arches – a little place called…Dairy Queen. There’s nothing particularly special about it, except for the 25,000-acre National Elk Refuge that sits across the street.

You see, we didn’t have much in the way of sweets at the cafeteria. Humdrum cookies and an occasional bowl of ice cream were all we got. So, when we made a trip to Jackson, you can bet we hogged down on greasy burgers, onion rings, and Blizzards. My mouth is salivating just thinking about it. And the views, my God, the views!

Only in Jackson can you enjoy a Blizzard in front of a treasured American landscape.

Contributor Bradley Evans is a good buddy, a UGA grad, and an idea guy. We’re lucky to have his thoughts here at RCS…more to come.