Go to WWW.DISEAZEBROSINK.COM to visit our graphic novel & comic book imprint site. Now that Episode #0/1 is finished, let us know what you think and whether or not we should start working on releasing Episode #2. New pages coming soon, or not? Click the Like Button!

It had been a marathon 48 hours on the road. We drove nonstop in shifts for the first day, switching with each new tank of gas, burning continuously from Western New York to a rest stop in the high plains of South Dakota, just east of the Missouri River. Covering so much ground at night makes blurry memories. Cleveland was the last city we actually saw. Chicago, Des Moines, Sioux Falls—they’re all an orange glow on the horizon that grows and then fades in the rear view. We crossed the Missouri just after dawn. The river is the most remarkable variation in the landscape. The plain begins to undulate and there it is, then a simple bridge and miles of flat scrub ahead. When you’ve spent a cold December night in a jeep packed so tight with gear that the seats don’t recline and you’re cramped and tired, seeing that wide strip of water is an event.

That day we stopped to walk through the labyrinth washouts at the Badlands and then continued on to Bozeman and found a hotel near the highway.

It was so cold the next morning that I had to hold my foot on the pedal for ten minutes before the engine warmed enough to idle. The parking lot was covered with ice. Exposed skin chapped in seconds. Such absolute cold triggered a self-preservation instinct. My surroundings were not interesting. I had never seen Bozeman, a small city ringed with forested hills that fit the image of Montana that I had carried with me across the continent. My curiosity was reduced to what could provide an escape from the cold and I focused my mind on the breakfast waiting for me in the hotel lobby. From there we set out on our final push to Driggs.

We took highway 191 south through the Gallatin National Forrest and connected to highway 20 in West Yellowstone, which drops down into eastern Idaho. It was a clear day but the transportation department’s hotline warned against snow and ice on the roads. 191 follows the tight curves of the Gallatin River.  It was nervous driving. A convoy of cars and trucks formed because the winding road and the conditions made it hard to pass. I tried to keep pace and carried more speed than I wanted to.

I’ve heard that 191 is one of the most dangerous roads in the nation. A line cook at the Grand Targhee Steakhouse (our employer for the next six months) told me later that there are more than a hundred white crosses planted along this stretch of road, each representing a traffic fatality. I was never able to confirm this. The snow must have been covering them up. He was my age and had a debilitating addiction to alcohol. At the end of the season I drove him to his parent’s house in Oregon. He carried a rock the size of a loaf of bread in his backpack. He had bounced around the inter-mountain west for years working in kitchens, usually getting fired before the season ended, always taking this rock with him when he left.

Mike and I descended a pass south of Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons came into view. Most of eastern Idaho is high elevation farm land. The state license plate reminds visitors of its primary export with this modest boast: “Famous potatoes.” The mountains are a natural vanishing point in this rolling, denuded landscape. Nudged against the foothills of the Tetons, Driggs sits at the edge of a great valley bordered by the Snake River and Teton ranges. We drove through town and continued on to the resort. We had to check in with the human resource staff, and then find a place to live.

Ski Hill RD begins at the center of town and winds up the mountain 11 miles, gaining 3,000 ft, before depositing you at Grand Targhee Mountain Resort.  You pass over the state line into Alta, Wyoming.

The resort consists of four guest lodges and two common buildings. You see several architectural styles, each representing different fits of development over the years: Utilitarian alpine, log cabin chalet, grand western. There is an overarching Native American motif. Lifts are named Dreamcatcher, Sacagawea, etc. The resort logo is a pair of headdress feathers, and as food and beverage employees we were issued a burnt orange vest with a patch bearing that emblem sewn to the breast.

There is a large painting of an Indian chief on the side of the one of the lodges. He presides over the parking lot.

Cast of Characters

Small mountain towns everywhere are populated with eccentric characters. We encountered many during our time in Idaho. Here are just a few.

Joe C: Chief of grooming operations. An ex-Marine, Joe was a taut 50-something with a pinkish complexion and cropped red-gray hair. He usually wore amber shooting glasses and a black jacket with a large US Marines emblem on the back. He and his crew would come in the restaurant for breakfast once their shift ended at sunup before the lifts started to run at 9 a.m. He would take a glass of Crown Royal with his breakfast. He was known to speak casually about murder and spent some time in jail during the course of the winter. I never found out why.

Slim: Liberally dispensing hugs for all the women at the resort, Slim was a veteran lift attendant. Tall and slim (of course), he was a tanned Marlboro man with softer features. He would come in every morning to get his daily bacon fix. If none was available on the buffet, I would run back into the kitchen and ask one of the line cooks to fry up some real quick for Slim. He knew all of the women—by feel if not by name–and paid no attention to me except to thank me for the bacon. Slim is an Old American West counterpoint to the slick young lift attendants at larger resorts like Jackson Hole and Big Sky who are usually imported from Europe and South American and who wield an electronic bar code reader instead of a hole punch.

Chet: Hotel night manager. Chet was the only African American on the Grand Targhee staff. Short and graying, he dressed in a pale blue ski suit and also taught lessons at the ski school. He could be seen slowly making his way down the mountain in quick, delicate turns. He could be seen behind the wheel of his white Chevrolet sedan, hands at ten and two, carefully negotiating the switchbacks of Ski Hill Rd. These images give the impression of an even-handed approach to life. This was not the case.

He is a friendless drunk. If there’s a game on the television he will try to spark deep conversation by asking, stone-faced, as if assessing your role in a conspiracy, what your top three NBA teams are. His demeanor is characterized by an undertone of suppressed rage.

Chet became my nemesis.

CLICK TO READ EAST IDAHO, PART 2