Answering the Call of the Wild West

Of course, fashion didn’t entirely exit my life in Wyoming. My wardrobe simply expanded to suit the new locale. Gaultier and Gucci stayed home in the closet. Into the suitcase every summer went vintage bandannas, snap-front shirts, riding britches and Ralph Lauren sweaters scored at the brand’s outlet store (regrettably now a T-shirt emporium) on Jackson Hole’s town square. The Italian brand Miu Miu became an unexpected, if ridiculously expensive, source for Wyoming-appropriate footwear. The morning I woke up to find a field mouse nesting in one of my embroidered suede Miu Miu moccasins I had to respect her taste level — those moccasins cost more than most mice make in a lifetime. But I evicted her nevertheless.

Hard to say goodbye

Friends and colleagues find all this a bit curious. Understandably. For those who know me chiefly from a world of air kisses and shopping sprees, photo shoots and fundraising galas, it’s hard to envision me do-si-do-ing at the Tuesday night square dances at the Rustic Pine Tavern, or digging through musty T-shirts at Dubois’ Opportunity Shop thrift store, aka the Opp Shop. But with each visit to Wyoming, saying goodbye only became more difficult. Boarding a return flight to Dallas I once cried so hard an attendant stopped to ask if she could help. When I explained I was just sad to be leaving, she leaned down and gently asked, “If you love it so much, why don’t you stay?” Upon which I turned to my husband with an accusatory stare and wailed, “Yes, why don’t we?” I don’t recall his exact answer, but it likely made note of Wyoming’s greater call for forest rangers than fashion editors.

Though I still relished my work, the pull of the West followed me even on biannual trips to cover the seasonal designer collections in the world’s fashion capitals. In Paris one year, I distinctly remember walking the cobblestoned streets from a Chanel fashion show in the Cour Carrée du Louvre to my Saint-Germain-des-Prés hotel marveling at the City of Light’s beauty. Immediately followed by the thought But it’s no Wyoming. I was utterly serious.

A cabin in the woods

Van loved the West at least as deeply as I did, but horses not so much. Around our 15th trip to the Bitterroot, he made the offhand comment that, for all the money we spent to get there, we might as well be paying a mortgage. That was all the opening I needed. The very next summer, in 1999, we spent exactly one day looking at real estate, then used the money saved for the college education of the child we’d never had to make a down payment on a very humble cedar-plank cabin advertised — quite accurately — as having one of the valley’s best views. Sheltered from Dubois’ notorious wind by robust Douglas firs, limber pines and one glorious aspen, the cabin sits just a half-mile from America’s first national forest, the 2.4-million-acre Shoshone. The “view side” looks northward across the Wind River Valley to the imposing Absaroka Range some 70 miles away. In the near distance are Dubois’ cinematic badlands, a craggy geology of vermillion-, mauve- and verdigris-banded buttes worthy of John Ford or Georgia O’Keeffe. From our deck, I can see the mountains that rise directly behind the Bitterroot, a mere hour’s drive away.

For the first 15 years we owned it, we spent no more than a few weeks at the cabin each year. I’d head to the Bitterroot to ride, leaving Van to stain the deck, replenish the woodpile, or tackle any of the countless other chores that come with home ownership. But at least three or four days we always spent exploring together. Free of TV or internet (but eternally grateful for Wyoming Public Radio), we’d drive the 80 miles over Togwotee Pass into the Grand Tetons or Yellowstone, or pack a lunch and bear spray for a hike to a nearby glacial lake. (Key to the successful use of bear spray, according to the clerk who sold us our first canisters: “Spray it on the bear, not on yourself.”) When the sun and temperature dropped, we’d build a fire, play CDs, read books. It was as idyllic as it sounds. Who cared if there was no dishwasher or mail delivery, and “emptying the trash” required a 12-mile round trip to the dump? Not us.

Hayes and her husband, Van, decked out in Dallas.

Courtesy Tracy Achor Hayes

The idea that we might someday spend an entire summer in Dubois was almost too delicious to imagine — until 2017, when my husband retired from his graphic design job in the marketing department at the Dallas Morning News and I found myself laid off from the editorial director position I’d accepted the year before with the edgy Dallas fashion retailer Forty Five Ten. When we headed to Wyoming that July, Van once again told me not to worry: If I got bored, or missed restaurants, friends and stores too much, he’d simply drive me to Jackson and put me on the next plane back to Dallas.

But that never happened.

In fact, we extended our stay each year, from six weeks to 10, then 12, then 16. “Summer” now stretches into mid-October. We’ve put in a garden, taken up kayaking, and for my 65th birthday, went to the rock yard and picked out four huge granite boulders to anchor the landscape. I still ride at the Bitterroot, but also now volunteer there each Sunday to greet guests — a role as satisfying as any fashion scoop or photo shoot. Bonus: It’s the one day of the week when I have a semblance of a reason to “look cute,” maybe even put on a dress and a little lipstick. Nothing too fancy, though.

Putting differences aside

The past four years in Dubois have also imparted a valuable lesson that involves neither the grandeur of nature nor the safest way to secure a kayak to a roof rack: People who vote differently from me aren’t my enemies. They’re the neighbors who offer to lend a chain saw, share firewood, or simply wave a friendly hello at the post office. They’re people who love this corner of the world deeply enough to live here year-round, shoveling snow long after we’ve drained our pipes and hightailed it back south. I like to think we all gain perspective from knowing someone “other.”

As I write this, it’s mid-October and I’ve been back in Dallas less than a week. Yesterday, I put on a Dries Van Noten dress and drove downtown to meet girlfriends for lunch at the flagship Neiman Marcus store. Tomorrow, I’ll have my first haircut in months and Van and I will join friends at a favorite Vietnamese restaurant for dinner. The city has its charms. But at night, lying in bed, I hear the hum of the air-conditioner punctuated by occasional sirens and drag racers. The vast Milky Way is visible only in memory. With eyes closed, I picture the Dubois cabin. Above our sofa hangs a giant metal W salvaged from some long-forgotten sign. Most people assume it stands for Wyoming, which it does. But also for the Wonder of nature and the Wisdom of age.

I’m so grateful for all three.