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Fur Company with David Jackson (and by the way, that’s who Jackson Hole and the Lake are named for—even though Colter had come through first, years before) and Bill Sublette, they brought about the most efficient and successful fur trapping operation in the Rockies. They were the first to bring goods by wagon into the mountains and to the Mountain Men’s rendezvous. Ironically, they probably accelerated the sharp decline in beaver and fur prices that led to the end of what they most loved in these Shining Mountains. There’s a Mount Jedediah Smith over on the west side of the Tetons, I’ve been over there last summer, just to have a look around. It’s right next to Mount Meek—over by Alaska Basin—named after Joe Meek, who was one of the wildest of that hair-raising bunch. What a bunch they were, and what a time, a Shinin’ Time, that must have been up here. I wish, well, never mind… “

      “And how did Jed Smith end up, Dick,” I asked.

      “Well, unlike Colter, he died with his boots on, killed in a fight with Comanches, way down on the Santa Fe Trail, in 1831, at the advanced age of 32. His entire career of exploration and beaver trapping in the Rockies had lasted but a short eight years. He had tried, once, to leave the mountains and settle down, like John Colter did before him, but of course he couldn’t do it, so he came back. If there was a “greatest” of the Mountain Men, Jed Smith was it.”

      “And what about David Jackson?”

      “Interesting. Almost nothing is known about Jackson, where he came from, where he went after Jedediah was killed. He first turns up, with Jed, at Ashley’s big fight with the Arikaras along the Missouri in the early 1820s. He was with the group traveling the Santa Fe trail when Jed was killed, a decade later. But, before and after, nobody knows. Like that song says, he came with the dust, and he went with the wind. He was judged by his peers to be one of the best brigade leaders of the beaver hunts, knowing just where to go, and how to stay alive to get there, and keep your hair in the process. “

      After a bit, the sky clouded over some more, the mosquitoes got bad and the no-see-ums showed up, and Jim announced that it was time “to go up to the Lodge and do some more serious fishing.” Larry, who was as shy as a cat at a dog convention, decided to head back on his own to the bunkhouse. It was no trick at all to move easily around the park road system; all summer long the tourists, and the Park Service vehicles, would pick up any young person who stuck his, or her, thumb out, day or night. No one on either side of that Fifties’ deal worried about there being any threat to their personal safety. About the only bad thing I ever heard happening was when one of our crew was in a car that bounced off a bear that was crossing the road at night over by Signal Mountain. The bear ran off, but the car had to be towed. Nobody was hurt.

      So Jim, Dick and I got back in the Ford. Jim was driving, Dick was in the shotgun seat, and I was in back snugged up between the silent ghosts of John and Jedediah. We meandered up to the Lodge, perched on a bluff overlooking the lake.

      I don’t remember much about the architecture or interior lobbies of the Jackson Lake Lodge, because I only entered it a few times, and those were to go to the bar. Mostly, as I will relate, the time we spent “at the Lodge” was actually at the recreation hall or single-story dorms for the young college kids who were working there for the summer. They were busboys, waiters and waitresses, maids, outdoor help, etc. What Dick and Jim told me was really nice for the Park Service guys like us, was that the ratio of summer workers at the Lodge was about three females to every male. Ah, hah. I comprehended that arithmetic. As I came to understand it, there was kind of a pecking order, a status chain, among the young people. At the top were the Park Service crews (and evidently it didn’t matter whether you were roughing it in the mountains or driving a garbage truck, if you had the right stuff). In the middle were the kids working at the lodges and concessions in the park. And at the bottom were those unfortunates who were summer help as ‘pseudo-Rangers’, the ‘Flat Hats’ who got to dress up and stand at the campground entry kiosks and sell passes and hand out maps. These unworthies had come all the way from New Jersey, so to speak, to Wyoming, when they could have stayed home and been movie theatre ushers for the summer. As is always the case with young people, the rankings were pitiless. Life is unfair, but I figured it was nicer to be an Alpha than an Epsilon.

      The bar was cool, high-ceilinged and large-beamed, and full of dark corners. Jim led us to a table in the darkest corner of all, but one from which, I soon realized, we had the best view of, not the other patrons, but of the staff moving back and forth from the bar and the kitchens. As we moved among the tourists, to our table in our jeans and denim jackets and boots, I wished I could emulate the unconscious swagger of my two buddies, but, being only four days out of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and new to the mountains, I was not confident I could pull it off. I also wished I had a pair of real boots and a big hat, like Jim.

      “Hi, what can I get for you.” Her silly little name tag said, ‘Sarah, Pocatello, Idaho.’ She had hair the color of October cornstalks, and eyes that matched Jackson Lake. All the rest of her, under the striped apron and above the black flat Capezio shoes, looked equally nice to me. I tried to smile back, and said,”Martini, no olive, just a twist.” I have no damn idea why I said that, as I had never before in my life ordered a Martini, but it seemed to go down okay, and she smiled back.

      “Bourbon, straight up, with water on the side,” said Jim, and Dick said, “I’ll have an iced tea.”

      Well, we had a drink or three, and a couple of hamburgers, and Sarah spent plenty of time around our table. We were about out of both pocket money and time when Dick, who had said the least, but looked around the most, asked Sarah, “Who is that tall girl working those tables over on the other side?” Sarah looked through the dim light, and replied, “That’s Kitty.”

      Dick Robbins said not another word, pushed back his chair, walked across the room, and whispered something quietly in Kitty’s ear. She turned absolutely white, then red, then pink. I thought she was going to hit him, but she just took two deep breaths, looked into his eyes, and smiled. Dick smiled back, turned around, came back to the table, and told us, “C’mon, it’s time to go. I have to start back up Cascade Canyon to camp before it gets dark, and I won’t be back down until Wednesday. We can come up here again Wednesday night. I’ve arranged it with Kitty.”

      Sarah, who had watched the byplay, said, looking straight at me, “Sure, why don’t you all come back up to the rec hall Wednesday, sometime after six-thirty.” She deftly executed a pretty little turn thing, and walked away, slower than slow and twice as sweet.

      We got back in the car, noting that John and Jedediah had gone off somewhere, and started south, taking the Inner Loop road that goes by Jenny Lake and the Jenny Lake Lodge, from which Dick would have the easiest access to the Cascade Canyon Trail.

      The light was fading now; those glimpses of the lakes that we could get showed surfaces of blackening purple. The meadows around Jenny Lake had hidden their blankets of wildflowers. A few deer stood feeding in a dusky meadow; the buck raised his head as we slowed the car in passing, then bent again to graze, unafraid.

      The peaks, beyond the lakes and forest, were also darkening rapidly, losing detail of their outlines. But at their summits, especially where one could make out their southern flanks across the canyons, a glistening, shining pink light of alpenglow flared up for a few minutes, and then vanished.

      We dropped Dick off, watching him stride into the twilight, his flashlight still in his hip pocket, and continued on south toward Park Headquarters.

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