// WisdomWorld/Wisdom. With an attitude.

The area around Jackson, Wyoming is probably one of the most beautiful places in the world. The scenery is second to nowhere, and the fishing is world class. Why then, do I cringe every time I find myself in Jackson proper?

You know, as a kid, I used to spend my summers camping with my grandparents at the Hoback Campground along the Hoback River and at the East Table Creek Campground along the Snake River. Campgrounds that my Grandpa helped build decades ago. We made friends with the people in the neighboring camps, and did things for each other like cut firewood and cook meals. Once a week we would journey into Jackson for groceries, get a quick meal at McDonald’s, and wander through the shops around the square.

Back then, Jackson was just a little town, with a few historic downtown hotels, a couple of tourist trap souvenir shops, one or two outdoor shops, and a lot of bars. And yes, there were ski lodges and dude ranches. There wasn’t, however, a celebrity resident to be found. The cost of living was reasonable, property values were reasonable, and the buildings looked old and rustic because they were old and rustic. Back then, the people who lived in Jackson worked in Jackson, and visa versa. Everyone said hello to everyone else and common courtesy was the rule.

After the trip to town, we drove to Astoria hot springs and swam in the pool under Grandma’s watchfull eye. Then, when we were worn out, we headed back to camp, freshly showered and in clean clothes, usually with a cheap souvenir toy in our pocket and a smile on our face.

Things in the Jackson area have changed, though. First off, Astoria is no longer there. Good old Arnold Schwarzenegger bought it a few years back, leveled it, and built a gated community where it used to stand. My kids will never get the chance to swim in the naturally heated spring water pools. In town, things aren’t much better. The town is a commercial nightmare. Everywhere you look is another national chainstore, and between each of those is “boutique” that caters to the rich and famous. Emphasis on the rich part.

The square is surrounded by high dollar souvenir shops that sell “I Love Jackson” t-shirts, and $5000 end tables made of old barn doors. The outdoor shops sell designer hiking boots and $300 pairs of sunglasses. The historic hotels are reserved for the ultra rich and most of the bars are gourmet restaurants now. And yes, the ski lodges and dude ranches are still around, just way bigger and way more expensive. All the best land has been bought up by Hollywood celebrities and uber rich international jet setters. The cost of living has gone through the roof, property values are off on a space shuttle mission somewhere, and what’s worse is that most of the people that work in Jackson definitely don’t live in Jackson. They carpool daily from not-so-nearby towns in Idaho. Most of the people who live in Jackson definitely don’t work there. They’re not really the kind of people who need jobs if you know what I mean. The South side of town is populated by rich people, and the North side of town is populated by rich people who think the South siders are poor slummers. The buildings still look old and rustic but now it’s because they have laws in Jackson that say they have to be that way.

The worst part, however, is the complete change in the attitudes of the people who live in and frequent the Jackson area. At the campgrounds, the welcome signs have been replaced with lists of rules and the friendly neighbors have been replaced by self important jerks who think that a campground is just a place to sleep between trips to the museum. A few years ago one had the nerve to come banging on the door to my parents camper because they were running the generator to power my Grandpa’s oxygen machine. When my Mom tried to calmly explain to him my Grandpa’s needs, his comment was that maybe my Grandpa was too old to be out here and maybe we should take him home. As I said, my Grandpa helped build these campgrounds, and this lowlife piece of garbage had the nerve to say that? A good old Wyoming threat of bodily harm sent the guy packing, but it doesn’t change the underlying problem.

In Jackson proper, things aren’t much better. During a short walk around the local grocery store I was run into by three different people and their shopping carts. Not one of them even gave me a nod, let alone an apology. I smiled and said hi to at least a dozen people, and I got nothing in return. No one said hello, no one said excuse me, no one said sorry, no one smiled, hell, no one even acknowledged my existence. They were all in their own little worlds, scurrying around like they were afraid of any extraneous contact with the outside world.

You know, I’ve experienced that before. It was in a grocery store in California. Same atmosphere. Same fear. Wyomingites, however, should be different. We have always been friendly. We have always been courteous. We have always treated strangers like friends. These folks that live in and frequent Jackson aren’t Wyomingites though. They come from all over the world to live in Wyoming, but they don’t want to be Wyomingites.

They put stickers on their cars that complain about the minerals production on Wyoming lands, but push for changes to the Wyoming Constitution that will allow them to take excess funds from the counties that benefit from that mineral production and funnel it into their own county. They push for environmental protection laws that make the average Wyoming residents lives tougher, then fly back to their homes in L.A., New York, Paris, and London in their private jets burning more fuel in a one way trip than most of us will burn in a lifetime. They have turned this once quaint and historical town into a commercialized spaghetti western, and then alienated themselves from the rest of the state with their holier than thou attitudes and actions.

I miss the old Jackson, but fear that I’ll have to live with the new Jackson whether I like it or not, because, you see, it is spreading. The Jackson “attitude” has worked its way down through Bondurant, past Pinedale, and is even worming it’s way into Boulder. I can’t imagine it will come much farther South (no more trees) but its close enough to Rock Springs as it is. Ranches and ranchettes throughout the Windrivers have been scooped up by investors and people too late to the party and too light in the wallet to settle in Jackson, so the average person will never have a chance to retire to a cabin in this beautiful part of the world.

So I’ll stick around down here in this high mountain desert I call home, and only head north to Eastern California when I absolutely have to. Preferably heavily armed.

Wisdom