Way out West

Gee it's lovely, roaming in Wyoming. The cowboys left long ago, but the elk, bison, pronghorns, coyote and moose are still at large in a chilly wilderness. Quite a contrast with baking, uptight Utah, epicentre of the Mormon universe

WYOMING - the name alone conjures up images of stagecoaches, Indians, John Wayne and a thousand Western movies. A huge, empty state where pronghorn antelope outnumber people; where rough, tough wranglers and ranchers would shoot first and ask questions later.

History confirms this is pioneer country all right - it is where the first settlers came through on the Oregon Trail, where the Native Americans were driven out and cattle ranch wars raged violently. Nowadays it seems cowboys are as rare as the gold dust sought after by prospectors.

I arrive in Jackson - once a dusty cow-town, situated high up in the mountains at 6364 feet - to take part in some adventure activities, but also to discover the Old West. First impressions are that I've found the quintessential Western town, with clapboard houses and little red brick shops lining a tree-shaded square.

However, an arch of tangled elk antlers at each corner is perhaps just a little too twee, and a walk down the perfectly honed wooden planked sidewalks leads me past an emporium of designer clothes stores, craft shops and galleries, whose prices reflect its new- found bohemian population.

At the Huff House Inn, over a breakfast table groaning with pecan granola, blueberry muffins, apple cakes and steaming coffee, my wonderfully homely and generous landlady confirms my suspicions. She tells me that within the population of 5000 there are 100 lawyers, 11 dentists and 45 MDs. "In recent years Jackson's become the centre of a skiing boom which has sent real estate values through the roof," she says. "You won't find any cowboys living here any more."

I decide it's time to leave behind the Cadillac Grill, the Mangy Moose and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in favour of some true wilderness. Though the cowboys may be thin on the ground, the landscape of this incredible region has remained unchanged since those pioneering days. Following the route of the Snake River Valley, we head up into an empty topography, made all the more spectacular by heavy overnight snow falls. We're travelling to the National Elk Refuge which, having been established in 1912, played a major part in saving the community of Jackson from disaster in 1948 following a devastating blizzard. It was completely cut off from the outside world for nearly a month, until its inhabitants used the huge herd to trample the deep snow, creating a landing strip big enough for a plane to bring in essential supplies.

We soon find the main herd spread out along the river valley, their incredible numbers further swelled by numerous bison. I'm told that this region is as close as you can get to a perfect eco-system, aside from Alaska, and we continue in search of wildlife. We don't have to wait long: we spot eagle trumpeter swans in the river, pronghorns eating sagebrush and a solitary moose among the willow bushes. Straining my eyes in the dazzling white-out, I excitedly make my first sighting in the distance, only to be informed it's a herd of cattle from a nearby ranch.

The next morning we are treated to sensational blue skies and - with the curtain of cloud lifted - the jagged Teton Range looks awesome. Our jeep makes light work of ice-covered roads and drifting snow which often towers above us as we probe deeper into the wilderness, passing the remarkably lifelike outline of the Sleeping Indian mountain. Cathy, our highly knowledgeable guide, takes our small group shoe-snowing in the shadow of these pointy peaks, to learn the skills involved in tracking wildlife.

We've only covered about a mile in the shoes, which seem incredibly cumbersome, when I discover just how effective they have been. When I take one off for a moment to undo a tangled lace, my leg simply disappears into what I now realise is a six-foot drift. Cathy drives us on, and but for her sharp eyes we would miss the abundant wildlife surrounding us. Her tracking skills find us a pinemartin, a red-squirrel, a short-tailed weasel and even a coyote close by. Yet again the weather begins to change, with a sudden blizzard coming from nowhere and I make my second tracking-spot. Unfortunately it's a husky out for a stroll from a nearby farm.

I'm woken at some unhealthy hour next morning and stagger through the freezing darkness into the waiting jeep for a long journey up to Yellowstone Park and another winter activity. I've foolishly agreed to go snow-mobiling and although I used to ride a motorbike some years ago, I'm a little sceptical about hurtling through icy forests and mountains on little more than motorised skis.

After several hours we arrive in the park, whose stark drama was intensified by the devastating forest fire of 1988. A dozen years later, the bleak, petrified stumps of hundreds of thousands of trees are reminders of the nature's incredible power of destruction and confirms scientific belief that it could take a century to return to its former state.

In the midst of this incredible natural creation, I am suddenly immersed in a blue fog of polluting fumes, surrounded by loud snarling beasts whose riders, black-suited and helmeted, all look like Darth Vader. The incongruity seems lost on the excited participants, and with a deafening roar they thunder off into the surrounding forests. For the next few hours I cling to the handlebars of my screaming machine, my thumb suffering constant cramp pressed against the accelerator, my eyes squinting through the dazzling white as I hope to catch up with my companions.

We drive for hours, covering a ridiculous 85 miles, round sharp bends and up and down steep ravines. All the while I wonder just which tree is going to be the one that will finally end my progress. We stop briefly at Old Faithful Geyser in time to see one of its regular blow-outs, which occur every 79 minutes exactly, and then we're off again across the snowy wastes. Finally we reach the visitor centre with darkness closing in, and as the engines are cut, an eerie silence falls again over the park. As our jeep crunches across the frozen landscape, my lasting memory, apart from snow-blindness and aching limbs, is a white blur which might well have been Yellowstone.

To date, I've seen designer sidewalks and motorised bucking- broncos, but I've yet to meet an old-timer or a gunslinger. Just where are all the cowboys? My guide tells me she has arranged more adventure activities, this time in the desert - and images of red canyons, towering rock formations and gangs of desperados comes to mind. Even more exciting is the bizarre prospect of driving from the icy expanses of Wyoming to the arid dust of Utah, in around four hours.

After Wyoming's scenic splendour, we pass through the empty north- east of Utah, across the Wasatch mountains and arrive in the alkaline flatness of the Great Basin plain which almost surrounds Salt Lake City. The city is part of an interminable urban sprawl known as the Wasatch Front, a 175-mile corridor where 80 per cent of Utah's residents live. But this is no cowboy town either. The pioneers who decided to stop in this flat, empty place were not prospectors, ranchers or lawless wanderers - they were Mormons, who dreamed of turning Utah into a modern-day Jerusalem.

The huge Zion Bank looms among the downtown grid-plan pattern of glass and steel offices as I make my way towards the multi-spired edifice of the Mormon church's world headquarters. As Michael, my sharp-suited, smooth-talking guide leads me past the gigantic temple where only "sealed" members may enter, I ask, "Are Mormons an exclusive society?"

"No," he replies and quickly changes the subject. "We provide a welfare system for all our members," he enthuses. I ask about the poverty of the street people I have just encountered outside. "All are welcome into the church," he replies.

Having discovered that to be a Mormon you must give up caffeine, tobacco and alcohol, as well as donate a percentage of your salary to the church, I tell him I've heard that the local Mormon farmers grow their barley to sell to Budweiser and I've seen Mormon kids outside the church drinking Coca Cola. But I'm no match for his spin. He manages to avoid answering any of my questions, but still retains that immaculate smile. The tour ends with a handshake and a door shut firmly behind me.

I am probably viewed as a hopeless case, but in the best biblical tradition, I decide to head out into the wilderness in my never- ending quest. John Wayne said the wide, scrubby plains of the Colorado Plateau best defined the West and I'm soon bumping through a dusty red dirt landscape of saltbush and tamarisk. In a battered old jeep we cross the empty high mesa of San Juan County, deserted save for windblown tumbleweed, and continue down the Shafer Trail, a mere thread of track which drops vertically 1200 feet down the side of the canyon wall.

As we edge round a series of perilous hairpin bends and teetering boulders, my guide Jani, dressed in ripped denims, a worn leather jacket and battered Stetson, roars with laughter as I explain my search. "You were lookin' for cowboys in Jackson? Well I reckon, I sure wouldn't be usin' you as a tracker out here. You gotta go back to Cheyenne or Laramie; you gotta go back east to find the West."

As her taut muscles rein in the unruly jeep, it dawns on me that although my search hasn't unearthed any cowboys, it has finally uncovered the modern version of the species - a rough, tough, weather- beaten, all-action cowgirl Need to know Trailfinders, Glasgow (0141 353 2224) organises flights from Edinburgh via Amsterdam to Salt Lake City, Utah, for #275 plus #50 tax.

Inter West Adventures represents several adventure travel companies within Utah, and can arrange a complete package for any time of the year which is tailored to individual needs. Contact them at 197 E. Stonepark Circle, Draper, Utah 84020 (001 801 495 2592).

Copyright 2001
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