Continental Breakfast

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by Josey Miller

“Yoo hoo!” Grant, the owner of Jackson Hole Outfitters, shouted to Elizabeth, who wanted to use the “last modern comfort” (as Grant put it) of a ladies room before we headed out. Once we’d all applied our SPF 30+ and bug spray—and once Rita and I had adjusted… and readjusted… our cowgirl braids (Rita’s looked legit; mine looked more like Pippi Longstocking)—we climbed into the steel blue pick-up truck. As our very own personal cowboy, Dale, drove us deep into the Bridger-Teton National Forest for a full-day horseback-riding expedition, he hummed along with rodeo-star-turned-country-singer Chris LeDoux.  Like LeDoux, Dale wasn’t born or raised in Wyoming, but he still calls it home. Can you blame him?

(To be continued.)

Read the first part here.

Grub! The first stop on our Jackson Hole, Wyoming girls’ getaway was the outdoor seating area at Shades Café for some delicious veggie burritos and dish about Elizabeth’s latest architecture adventures and Rita’s house hunt.

Next, we were off to Alberton’s supermarket. I, for one, was ecstatic to have a barbecue for the weekend: what a luxury to a Manhattanite like myself. We zipped through the aisles at tourist speed to buy the ingredients for the recipes we’d chosen to cook on two of our three nights: grilled zucchini with olives and fresh mint, Big Daddy’s California turkey burgers, honey-ginger salmon (we used chicken instead of fish) and some seasonal favorites like watermelon and sweet corn. Rita and I chose some freshly ground coffee to share—”Cowboygirl Blend,” naturally—and headed to the liquor store next door for a bottle of my favorite white, Silverado Sauvignon Blanc. (Living in San Francisco, she’d come armed with a bottle of Rosé.) Finally we were ready to hit the road to Star Valley Ranch, about an hour south of the city, where we’d rented a shockingly spacious house.

We were greeted with a note on the door. It started, “Hi, I’m Evan and I’m the house care taker. The keys are in the Weber Grill.” (Uh, you might as well just put them in the doorknob, Evan.)

Read the third part here.

by Josey Miller

I joined one cowgirl—the San Francisco cowgirl, Rita—at the Denver airport.  Ironically, our Denver cowgirl’s plane had left hours earlier; she was already buying time (and a very cute fleece jacket) in our final destination.  But, after coffee and catching up and a brief delay for me and Rita and said shopping for Elizabeth, the three of us were finally reunited for our girls’ getaway weekend in Jackson Hole, Wyoming .

I met both Rita and Elizabeth in New York City a half a decade ago.  Elizabeth was sitting on the couch during a holiday party at our mutual friend’s Hell Kitchen apartment.  She laughs with her whole soul and, as soon as I heard the sound, I knew I needed it in my life.  Plus, she was wearing a pair of plaid pants that could only be worn by someone with a relaxed, retro style and complete comfort in her own skin.  I loved that.  And then there was Rita.  My friend, her neighbor, was throwing a luau party and, when I walked in, I saw a tall blonde girl with a huge smile drinking a can of Kirin out of a brown paper bag… with a straw.  Simply put, how could I not be her friend?  Over time, brunches and bars and rockbands and boyfriends, we—along with several other transplants from across the U.S.—found each other and formed a bond.

But then all of them with only a few exceptions—including me—moved away.  Becca, from Massachusetts, moved to New Jersey.  Kaitie, from Florida, moved to Pennsylvania then DC.  Rita, from Pennsylvania, moved to California.  Elizabeth, from North Carolina, moved to Massachusetts then Colorado.  I’m from Illinois and moved to New York by way of California. 

And here we were—Rita, Elizabeth and I—reunited in Wyoming… greeted by this aerial view:

(To be continued.)

Read the second part here.
Read the third part here.