Girlfriend Getaways

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Where the Boys Are

Don't believe us when we say that Jackson Hole is crawling with hot guys?
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Debbie crunches the numbers. "That works out to be," she says, "one man every five minutes."

We put our coats right back on and head for a place the boys from the shuttle told us about. The Mangy Moose Saloon is a local hangout with live music and microbrews on tap (Snake River Pale Ale is a local favorite). It's a five-minute walk from our condo. A reggae band is playing to a packed house: ruddy-faced gents in ski hats swill beer and bob their heads to the beat. I strike up a conversation with Pascal, a swarthy 30-year-old from Denver wearing a faded University of Colorado at Boulder hoodie. We chat about Jackson Hole, where he's been "shredding" on his snowboard for nearly two weeks.

"Guess how many days I skied last year!" he commands.

"How many?" I ask.

"Seventy-five! And guess how many I surfed."

"How many?"

"Forty-five freakin' days, man!"

I nudge Debbie. "He surfs and skis," I say, with a wiggle of my eyebrows. "Isn't that great?" Back home, of course, a 30-year-old guy who calls me "man," doesn't have a job, and lives in his van isn't too great a catch. But here--well, when in Rome, dude. Debbie and I order a second round of Jäger shots and strike up a conversation with one of the few other women in the bar: Kristin, a 23-year-old cocktail waitress from Kentucky. She has lived here a year and is, we're surprised to discover, single. "We have a sayin' about all the men up here," she says. "The odds are good, but the goods are odd."

We scoff at her and spend the rest of the evening snapping up cell-phone numbers like they're lottery tickets. By the end of the evening, as we strut back to our wood-paneled palace, Debbie and I are feeling so irresistible that we can barely fit our wool caps over our swollen heads.

"We...are...moving...here," I pant.

The cluster of mountains framing Jackson Hole has long seduced adventurers. In the early 1800s, a group of French-Canadian fur trappers gazed lustily upon the voluptuous peaks and named them Les Trois Tetons (politely translated, it means "the three breasts"). Two hundred years later, the area is known as the Grand Tetons, and in the center of it all is Teton Village--a dozen or so hotels, ski shops, bars, and restaurants.

When we finally make it to the Village Center, it's nearly noon--and the place is dead. "Where is everyone?" I ask. "There," says Debbie, pointing up at the mountain, where a red aerial tram carries sardine cans of begoggled people to the 10,450-foot summit. In the distance, we can see vague sprinkles of skiers carving their way down the mountain.