A Lake Finally Lives Up to Its Name

By Dina Mishev

I’ve been to Lake Solitude at the back of the main fork of Cascade Canyon in Grand Teton National Park close to two dozen times. How many times have I enjoyed solitude there? Once. Two weeks ago when I had to ski to get there.

I had solitude all the way up and down Cascade Canyon too. (That’s about eight miles each way.)

Yes, it’s work to get to Lake Solitude in winter — in summer too, for that matter — but I’m a fan of seeing familiar places rendered unfamiliar. And I had never seen this part of Grand Teton National Park covered in snow.

A benefit of wanting/waiting to see this part of Grand Teton until late spring? It was nearly 50 degrees when I put my skis on and headed out of the Bradley/Taggart Lake parking lot.

Skiing across Jenny Lake in a t-shirt with the vents of my ski pants thrown open to a warm(ish)

spring breeze, I thought there was nothing better in the world. Although taking a break for a few bites of a Nutella-dominated sandwich in a patch of sunshine on the far shore was a close second.

And then — several hours later — I finally reached Lake Solitude. There wasn’t a single other person in the entirety of that canyon, one of the busiest in the park in the summer. Now that was the best feeling in the world.

Heck No to Heli-Skiing

By Dina Mishev

I could have been heli-skiing in Sun Valley, Idaho, the first weekend in April. It would have been free. I have never been heli-skiing before.

My husband was telling me to go. Gal and guy friends were telling me to go. My cats were telling me to go. My heart and my skis disagreed however.

To have gone heli-skiing the first weekend in April would have meant that I missed the last weekend ofthe Jackson Hole Mountain Resort’s epic (557 inches of snow!) 2010–2011 season. I missed the closing weekend of the 2009–2010 season because I was at a spa in Mexico. Boo. I wasn’t going to miss the best party on snow two years in a row. I don’t think the heli-ski guys believed me when I called with my answer: “Thanks, but no.”

The weather Sunday morning wasn’t auspicious. Wagnerian clouds scudded across the sky, spitting snow. That was better than the previous few days though when the same clouds were spitting rain. Walking off the tram at the top of Rendezvous Mountain was like time traveling to January. Except in January there were no skiers descending Rendezvous Bowl wearing frilly, sequined tutus over their ski pants. Or a giant piece of foam cut and spray-painted to look like a slice of pizza.