Jackson Hole

You have to get to the Jackson Hole airport two hours ahead of time. It's only two lines for security and six planes or so all leave within ten minutes of each other. It's a circus. Once you get through security, we all sit in one huge room with giant windows that look out on the Grand Teton and its brother peaks. Right THERE. An airport in a national park. The view is so majestic that it looks fake. So grand, it silences you like church. But you lose sight once the room fills up with travelers and bags.

This is the epitome of people watching. This one room with six gates.

You see the folks from Vermont. Sweatered and ready and looking very similar to the Jackson locals.

You see the Washington DC crowd, lined up to buy the NY Times that was no where to purchase in town but thank God it's here. Even if it is three days old.

There's the New York Lauguardians, dressed in black, heading back to their mountainous skyline.

And here's our Chicago group. Bears sweatshirts, Cubs hat, earphones in.

This is where my husband excels. People watching. People listening. He's the guy who hears what people are saying a table over at a restaurant but blinks twice and asks "what did you say?" to the person at his table seated next to him. He talks to strangers. Makes new friends. Misses nothing.

He has an eye on the lady across from us. I know he does not like how she has her leg draped over two additional chairs. How she gets the people she is with to get her a box of that individual pizza that always look so good. (Until you see the person looking for extra napkins - greasy hands flailing about in the air.) I know I will hear about her when we take our seats on the plane.

I love this man.

I get up and walk to the huge windows. Take in the Tetons one last time with a sad heart. And in my mind I am back on Moose Wilson Road. Every day this trip - we got up for the sunrise to look for wildlife along the road. Windows down, without a word. Moose Wilson Road curves like a rotini noodle through the mountains. And on one rainy morning we came around a bend and were face to face with a black bear.

It was wrestling with a bush - shaking it like a near empty bottle of Parmesan cheese - looking for berries. A shake and then a bang at the bottom. The berries, I had learned, never popped this year because of global warming. Not enough snow the season prior, nor rain this summer.

The bear gave up and walked across the road in front of us. His paws the size of dinner plates, each claw the length of a knife. But his fur so thick and his face like a teddy bear.

I love this bear.

My bear. It passes right in front of me and stops - turns around and heads the other way.

During this time, another car silently pulled up next to us. We all look at each other with eyes wide, smiles huge. Humans watching a bear. As if we are the luckiest people in the world to see this. No words pass because we all know that will break the spell.

That morning. A furry black bear on the road. I can't even tell you -I am sure I do not remember- anything else we did that day. On the plane we talk about the guy Chris met in line and how funny he was and the pizza box lady. We look at the pictures of my bear. We take off and watch the Tetons. Silent, without a word.