Encountering a regular geyser in the Wyoming mountains

THE exhausted French fur trapper staggered out of a deep forest in Wyoming, weary eyes alighting on a majestic snow covered mountain. Nostalgic for home comforts and the embrace of his wife. he knew just what that peak reminded him of.

The evening sky sparkled with firework frenzy and enough bangs to set off an avalanche

“Le Grand Teton,” he exclaimed.  Big Tit, to you and me.  The name stuck, according to folklore of America's cowboy state. The Grand Teton National Park was established nearly a century ago, although the title sometimes causes the odd titter among more strait-laced visitors.

But you won't embarrass the locals or planeloads of Brits who flock to this impressive mountain range, home to what is arguably the best ski resort in the US.

I'm not arguing. I've skied from Kashmir to Colorado, from Vail to Verbier, Tignes to Turkey, Morzine to Morocco, Banff to Bulgaria and I can vouch for Jackson's place at the peak of 'em all.

And it's not just the superb skiing that appeals. Where else do you get to pilot a powerful snowmobile on a 100 mile round trip through Yellowstone National Park?

Sadly we didn't spot Yogi Bear or his companion cub Boo-Boo – the TV cartoon characters of fictional Jellystone Park. Yogi, with his catchphrase “I'm smarter than the average bear”, was no doubt hibernating as temperatures dipped well below zero.

But we were dressed for whatever Nature threw at us: thermals, ski suit, fleece, wind-proof, weather-proof survival suit. It was the nearest I'd been to a onesie and it morphed me to Michelin Man.

With kit worth $1,000 – crash helmet, visor, serious gloves, big boots – I was snug as a bug, although hardly able to walk to my gleaming $9k machine for a briefing: throw your weight into the bend, lots of hand-signals to turn and stop, brake, throttle, how not to overturn or bash into a bison.

Bison in the park

 

We'd seen six enormous males trudging along the Snake River valley to seek  shelter in the forest. At 2,000lbs they'd be the victor in any collision. Meandering moose and errant elk must be avoided too, but the roar of the snowmobiles gave wildlife fair warning. The 700 grizzlies and 1,000 black bears which inhabit the 2.2 million acres of Yellowstone were in hibernation and best seen in spring.

Vroom-vroom and we were off in a crocodile line led by a couple of experts on a ride of our lives. Slipping, sliding, powering round bends, criss-crossing the Continental Divide we juddering along at speeds of up to 60mph (or so one of our party boasted, but even 35mph seemed swift) along a snowy track lined with pines and spruces shedding powder snow from their boughs as if shrugging off an overcoat.

We were on a mission – a date with some old geyser.

Old Faithful erupts

The geyser Old Faithful, famed as the most predictable geographical feature on Earth, was due to erupt. With almost cuckoo-clock like reliability it did just that. A spume of hot, steaming water whooshed 120ft into the air, hissing for 10 minutes into the grey chill.

Old Faithful is the pressure valve for Caldera Volcano, which erupts every 70,000 years. We were standing right in it. “When did it last erupt?” I asked nervously. “Around 70,000 years ago, so we're overdue for another.  But we really don't know diddly squat,”  admitted our guide.

The geyser was discovered in 1870 by an astonished expedition who named it Old Faithful for its dependable eruptions. By 1882 it was often used as an outdoor launderette. Cottons came up Daz bright but soldiers found their woollens torn to shreds. Old Faithful uses up to 8,400 gallons of water a spurt but lacks a gentle cycle for delicate fabrics.

We'd timed our picnic in a yurt with thawing hot coffee so we could witness one of the world's wonders, which happens these days every 93 minutes and attracts summer spectators of up to 5,000.

Only mad-sled dogs and Englishmen/women, (plus a trio of Mexicans, a family of German tourists and a few North Americans) turned out in December to watch the spurting spectacle. But boy, it was worth it.

As was our wondrous Wildlife Tour. We walked in the footprints of the early intrepid trappers, ranchers and prospectors beside sagebrush, waterfalls, frozen lakes and warm springs for sightings of bald eagles circling imperiously overhead, elk, coyote, long horned sheep – a lamb snuggling close to mum while rams foraged for food.

We were walking in the snowy And, as if we hadn't enough variety on our Wyoming wanderings, we added culture to the mix, with a trip to the National Museum of Wildlife Wildlife Art, built on the lines of a Scottish castle.

One of Wei Wei's Circle of Animals

Not a dusty exhibit in sight but bright, beautiful paintings and big, bold sculptures depicting animals and birds of the region. We lucked out to see a visiting installation of The Circle of Animals/Zodiac Heads by contemporary Chinese artist Ai Weiwei (now over). Rabbit and rat, rooster and dragon, tiger and horse, boar and ox, horse and monkey – each 800lb. bronzes, were all standing proudly and playfully on pedestals against a stunning snowscape.

Food figured large in our travels.  Like an army marching on its stomach we skied  on ours.  You build up such an appetite in the cold eating is guilt-free whether it's fine dining on wild boar bacon wrapped bison tenderloin or juicy cheeseburger.

With plenty of eateries on the mountains and down in Teton village you can feast in a wide range of restaurants, cosy cafés, welcoming hotels and bars belting out country and western music with craft beers. For retail therapy we hit Jackson town's myriad shops selling everything from elk horn bottle openers to locally distilled vodka.

Jackson Hole, named after Virginian trapper David Edward Jackson and now nicknamed The Big One, knows  how to party. To celebrate the 50th anniversary of this rugged resort the evening sky sparkled with firework frenzy and enough bangs to set off an avalanche.  We hunkered round a fire pit, nursing hot cider toddies as Father Christmas delighted snowball fighting kids by arriving by gondola.

Next day we skied The Big One, which is great for off-piste and extreme skiing.  The infamous Corbet's Couloir needs nerves of steel and sure technique.  That impossibly steep and narrow gulley, with menacing rocks either side, was not for me. Its gaping maw gave me the collywobbles.

The closest I got to the couloir was a mountain restaurant named after it. Instructor Michael and I feasted on braised pheasant pasta and chocolate tiramisu, celebrating that morning's opening of three new pistes served by a brand new high-speed chair lift.

And guess what it's called: The Teton. Now that would have made the French trapper proud.