The TP Lodge
The thing I love most about living, excuse me, driving in Montana is that the place just screams open intox. Until a few years ago Montana was one of the only states left where you could actually have an open container in your vehicle, yes that means the passengers not the driver. Although he had to be not as half cocked as the rest of the car, able to function enough at least. There is just something about Montana, a feeling right when you get into your car saying, "open a beer you idiot." If the state also allows one to carry a gun in their car that has to be visible to other patrons, ie a gun rack on the rear window of the car. Along with the Win 300 in the back window of the all American GMC one also needs to have a beer in the cup holder. (I am not championing drunk driving, simply relaying the feeling of this humble state.)
I went to Grand Targhee in Alta, Wyoming earlier in the week with my buddy AJ. Let me give you a little background on AJ. The man grew up in rural Georgia, wears something that resembles an American Flag at least three times a week, bleeds red white and blue, points the Khular on a regular basis, has the southern country slang speak flowing when he speaks, and most importantly, is a genuine sonofabitch. We wake up at the ass crack of dawn on Monday morning and begin the 4 hour drive down into Wyoming. This journey could not have taken place on a better driving day, being a blue bird and 35. Perfect driving weather. Granted, the ski day ended up being around 50, sticky, and cat tracked to death for the time we meandered down to the flat lands of Sacajeweia. After skiing we checked into our hotel, let me tell you a bit about this place. We stayed at the Teton TP Lodge, an old rasta hippy commune style bunk house. When calling just one day earlier to make a reservation, they lack internet or any technology whatsoever, the guy told me, "I'm not going to write down a reservation cuz I don't want to but heres what I want you to do. Write this down man. I want you to come in here and say give me a deal man and I will give you a deal man." This of course spurred hysterical laughter and misbelief simultaneously. The place had a cone shape, like a TP, and inside was a fairly good size space with a sunken couch surrounding a fireplace in the center leading up to a smoke stack some 30ft high. The basement held the bunks, some 15 bunks in one room and smaller individual rooms on the outskirts of the fireplace. It was easily apparent how much of a 70's and 80's party spot this had been until the owner became ill to have his burnout son run the place. All in all one has to get drunk enough to fall asleep and stay asleep until ski time arises in the am. Would I stay there again? Hell yes.
After leaving Targhee on the second day of skiing we made a loop back down to the TP in order to retrieve forgotten items following a long day of snow blading, which is not only for gapers by the way. If you want a real leg burn, snowblades are the ticket. Aj and I pull into the TP parking lot, run inside to grab the items left behind, come back outside to the gorgeous 50 degree weather, crack a beer, and are met with the upmost hospitality by a retired NYC Brooklyn cop. Dan Tanner started the conversation saying we needed to have some beef jerky firesticks with our beers, of which he proceeded to give us all he had left, great guy. He then told us how the TP used to include all meals, a lift ticket, and all the booze one could drink in a sitting before one of the owners became sick. Since then the owners sons have been running the infamous TP to no avail. For 20 bucks a night what can you expect? Dan told us the previous owners welcomed everyone but never made any serious money, just spread the hospitality of the west. God that is how America used to be, welcoming to the fullest extent.
