Joni & Jackson Hole

I spent the summer of '97 working in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I lived in a log cabin on the banks of the Snake River. Life was good... and new. Everything was new. I was eighteen years old. I was so young. I didn’t know a damn thing. The fact that I could smoke a cigarette without worrying if anyone saw me was a trip. Just a week before, I was still ducking in and out of the boys' room for a Marlboro between classes.

The cabin next to mine was full of girls from northern California who were whitewater guides. I was in awe of them. They were beautiful, athletic, and had a way of living life that was different from anything I had seen in Georgia.

They wore Tevas, had big smiles, and seemed to always be in motion.

None of them were older than 21 or 22, but to this Atlanta boy, they were women—not the girls I had just graduated with.

I can’t remember their names, but one of them, a stunning brunette—tall, poetic, and effervescent—took to me like a big sister. I loved her, but not romantically. I just loved her because I knew she cared for me... like a little brother.

She’d pop into my cabin and greet me with a big hug that felt so good... so safe in her tanned arms. She’d massage my shoulders and ask me about my life. I knew she liked to take care of me. Life was perfect, and I knew it.

It seemed like every girl at the lodge that summer took to me in that manner. I guess they saw an innocence in me that needed to be protected. I look back and it makes me tear up. But they’re tears of joy and gratitude.

This particular gal introduced me to Joni Mitchell. As she’d scratch my back and run her fingers through my hair, a tape of Joni played.

Her tenderness and Joni’s voice were heaven to me.

I don’t know where she is, but I hope she’s loved.