Putt-Putt Trail

After we had talked of hiking and biking, a young Hispanic man told me that I should ride a trail known to locals as Putt-Putt.  It’s great biking, he said—easy.  But his description of how to find it was less than great.  

There is no word in English for “going somewhere without caring whether or not you get there.”  A vacilador does this in Spanish.  There are many hispanic people in Jackson, Wyoming.  Most of them serve the tourist industry which is about the only industry here.  Their relaxed and friendly nature makes things work around here.  Why would we want them to leave?  They have worthy goals, whereas mine for today is merely to see where the bicycle takes me.

Unlike workers who serve breakfast and clean motel rooms, I’m a vacilador, set out on a bicycle not caring if I find Putt-Putt or not. 

I rode just a mile in early morning to the Virginian Café and stopped cold.  I sat sipping coffee in its warmth until nine in the morning, when the thermometer outside the window finally rose above freezing.  Then I donned my winter coat and thick gloves, went outside and thought about sadly scorched souls in sunny summerland of the magic kingdom.    

I rode east until I was out of Jackson and found a little sign pointing up a dirt road, saying “Trailhead.”  Another sign read “Putt-Putt.”  I had found it, but it was not an easy trail to ride.  I soon gave up trying, and walked the bike instead.  No, I did not fall off, the bike is merely resting there on its side.

Off to the right I saw a small cabin, its door swinging open.  I called as I approached it curiously, thinking a young Hispanic man might answer, but no response.  Inside was a shamble of things.  I shrugged unknowing, then returned to the trail and resumed pushing the bike up the hill. 

The day was warming fast, and I shed some layers of clothing.  Rising above Jackson I looked down on the town and wondered what the young man had been thinking when he told me I would like this bike trail and that it was easy.  

The trail led into aspen woods and, still pushing the bike, I felt better about being a vacilador.  It seemed that good things lie outside of cities, and I could learn something in this good place.  

How could anyone think that riding a bicycle on a trail like this is more fun than walking?

A pair of hikers came along and thought it strange I’d be here with a bike.  “Do you actually ride it,” they said, and offered to take my picture if I would. 

I came into some deep woods, where a river runs through it.  Whose woods these are I do not know, but they were very pleasant and inspired thoughts of an earth that was very old when I came into it.

On the Putt Putt path, she plants her bike
in the grasses and sizes up the deepening trail.
The roots of an old pine grasp the ground
as if to say “this is where I began,”
“this is where I’ll end.”

       Lois P Jones

Hunting season begins soon and I’m advised to wear bright orange so not to look like an elk or a deer.  It’s a hunt prescribed to prevent overcrowding of these native animals.  Meanwhile it seems to me there are too many people here in summer.  Now in fall, hunt completed, there are not too many.  

At dusk deer meet

      Lee Collins

in deep pines, content
to mingle idly, ruminate grass,
but delicately intent
mindful of someone shooting
far ahead,
they pause to look, mouths agape
tasting that cold bitter air.  

I finally came to a smooth dirt road on which I rode easily, and came pleasantly back into Jackson.  It could have turned out much differently.