Fear & Loathing At The Hill Climb World Championships
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By
Ryan Dunfee | March 26th, 2014
As we troll along Virginian Avenue in West Jackson searching for a place to park, it’s plainly obvious we are no longer in ski country. From the cockpit of my cute little diesel German wagon, I can actually see the underside of the dozens of lifted oversized pickups that line the avenue like some sort of
motorcade for the leader of some backwoods Montana militia. We squeak in between two such personal tanks and, upon exiting the vehicle, surmise that the top of our ski rack is barely as high as the license plates on the vehicles in front of and behind us. I think about putting together some sort of sign to display on my dash so someone doesn’t mistake my VW for a Prius and intentionally run it over, but just decide to go ahead and drink anyways.
We’re at The Virginian Saloon--Ground Zero for
the celebration of winter redneckery known as the Hill Climb World Championships. We aim to find out what happens when people other than rich ski dorks take over Jackson Hole during the winter months. To do this, we position ourselves in the heart of the mob and see how long we last before we’re found out as the middling suburban ski folks we really are. Through a veil of cigarette smoke, we stumble into line before paying our cover to a lady with a manicured brunette mane topped with a deer camo baseball cap. A large Hawaiian gentleman I understand to be the bouncer waves us into the saloon, and into the heart of darkness we go.
They must have a collective half-foot on the average skier, which would explain why all their trucks are lifted. The gentleman we stand behind in line for whiskey is so tall there are cirrus clouds floating around his deeply sunburnt face.
The first thing that strikes us is the sheer size of the humans in this place! They must have a collective half-foot on the average skier, which would explain why all their trucks are lifted. The gentleman we stand behind in line for whiskey is so tall there are cirrus clouds floating around his deeply sunburnt face. Sunscreen is not on the accessories list for this crowd.
Pasty men wear the sun’s bright pink ruination of their faces as a badge of pride, the outline of their sunglasses neatly delineated in white. They owe their makeover to endless hours spent pounding Budweiser in the sun while ogling over neon graphic tees covered in skulls and gearhead catchphrases like “Octane Addiction.” Such wares are peddled in a sort of NASCAR-style infield beneath the slopes of Snow King, up which hundreds of snowmobilers adorned in bright one-piece suits toil with the ceaseless pull of gravity.
They hammer the gas out of the gate and peel over a number of man-made rollers, the shriek of gasoline-fed adrenaline piercing the Sunday quiet. They then bounce in fits and starts up the nearly vertical top of the mountain, the studded tracks of their thousand-pound steeds shredding the hillside to pieces as they try desperately to maintain control over their steel animals.
"Cloud of smoke and oil belching into the air as they struggle to maintain their mechanized wildebeests." Jackson Hole Snow Devils photo
As the afternoon wears on, the track is turned into a series of deep ruts and moguls, and the men jump left and right across their machines, clouds of snow and oil belching into the air as they struggle to tame the mechanized wildebeests. The announcer, who is either drunk or exhausted, breaks into random spurts of fast-paced auctioneer babble,
making us wonder if there is a live cattle auction taking place in the venue. He yells at some guy in an orange jacket to come to the stage. Did someone out him for drinking a Sierra Nevada? We’ll never know.
As the Budweiser goes down, more and more individuals enact the bizarre postures of the tribe.
After finishing all the Budweisers I’d packed into the venue, it is time to wander. I spot several individuals feasting on corn dogs. I want one now, and make my girlfriend retrieve one from a vendor whose food cart looks like a forgotten Dip ’N Dots courier.
The difference in style between these slednecks and my tribe of non-motorized snowsport aficionados is plainly evident. Knee-high Bogs boots replace skateboard shoes. Flexfit hats replace slouched beanies, deer camo and neon orange replace made-up kinds of camo and neon blue. Oakley Oil Rigs replace Ray Bans, and Mavi jeans are everywhere; a glance across a horizon of bejeweled back pockets reveals this brand of jeans to be the marquee item in one’s effort to conform to the culture of the snowmobile. And nary a single dreaded lock of hair can be seen.
Across the fence from more greenbacks worth of gear than the richest skiing dentist could shake a stick at. Jackson Hole Snow Devils photo.
We explore further and stumble upon a snowmobile whose price tag appears to be $16,500. Nearby a welded shelf is on sale for $413. It appears several families even own their own full-length trailers, stocked with sleds for mom, dad, and mini ones for the kids, along with full-service repair bays and flashy paint jobs.
The grandeur of the expenditures required to be a full-bore sledhead make skiing look like an activity as affordable as ping-pong, yet snowmobiling is largely maligned as the past time of the white rural poor, while skiing is cast as the pastime of rich suburbanites. How could this be true when the cost of getting kitted out to participate in an event like the Hill Climb is hovering somewhere around the cost of a down payment for a house?
Years later we turn around and find out that, ****!, the cost of a new home in town is four times the state average, and that it costs $65 to get the ingredients you need at the organic grocer to make the prized braised kale crostini appetizer you and your health nut friends all salivate over.
“Cost of living,” my girlfriend muttered as she returned with my corn dog while I wondered aloud about some of the more pressing socio-economic questions of our time. Could it be? Us ski folk like to hunker down in tiny mountain valleys with little to no buildable land in cute little towns full of character. We want to enjoy the view of the breathtaking mountains surrounding us and recreate in the copious national park land that further constricts the availability of housing. We then entice rich city folk to come visit, get some fresh air, and drive the cost of living up further—all while we prey on them for tips. Years later we turn around and find out that, ****!, the cost of a new home in town is four times the state average, and that it costs $65 to get the ingredients you need at the organic grocer to make the prized braised kale crostini appetizer you and your health nut friends all salivate over.
Meanwhile,
the good folks over in St. Anthony, Idaho—a hometown cited frequently over the Hill Climb loudspeakers—have no use for yuppie tourists from Long Island or Nob Hill. Consequently, their median home price is barely averaging $100,000, while the idiot skiers in Jackson Hole are paying seven times that.
That means a lot more loose cash for a snowmachine that can out-accelerate a Porche—and the corresponding monster truck needed to carry it to the unmarked expanse of your choice.
An unlikely venue for finding enlightenment. Jackson Hole Snow Devils photo
Socioeconomic revelation achieved, I approach the last few bites of ground-up pig product wrapped in cornbread with a satisfied grin. At the bar now, I sit by the fire with my woman and a Makers and ginger, watching contentedly as a very wide man of Mexican descent dances with a skinny young girl in Mavi jeans around the bar. The color of their smiles peaks with each passing verse of the LMFAO song that cracks over the maladjusted speakers.
Looking at the pic he seems to be just another kid spouting off at the mouth and does not realize how much the snowmobile community of Jackson Hole contributes to its economy.
