Every life contains a single universal truth. Mine is simple. I have never skied Grand Targhee Wyoming when it didn’t dump.

Shrouded by forty–three inches of twelve degree powder, the differences between up and down, left and right or any of the other directions that hold you upright and centered and not spinning out of control, faded in the cold, white light of the Wyoming morning.

During those roughly two dozen days, storms did not simply sprinkle flakes across the runs––but raged, dumped and obliterated all visibility until my skis become more important than my eyes in sorting out the bumps, drops and pitch changes that lay buried beneath the yielding, white surface. 

The heavens opened above Grand Targhee, Wyoming on the night of February 24th and the world closed down to a shimmering curtain of flakes. Forty–three inches of cold smoke powder fell in fourteen hours and the following morning––as the clouds retreated across the Tetons and plows fought their way up the circuitous mountain road from Driggs, Idaho––it appeared as if an enormous pillow had split a seam and dumped a million tons of prime goose down on Targhee’s glades, bowls, gullies and back country extreme. From that morning on, the late February tempest was referred to simply as “The Storm.”

Those skiers who were lucky enough to reach Targhee’s 9,862-foot mountain summit, quickly learned what it means to live in a white room. Shrouded by forty–three inches of twelve degree powder, the differences between up and down, left and right or any of the other directions that hold you upright and centered and not spinning out of control, faded in the cold, white light of the Wyoming morning. The powder choked noses and throats, clouded goggles and formed swirling, crystal contrails on “Arrowhead,” “The Headwall,” “Crazy Horse,” as well as a dozen other runs that fall between old growth fir into steep, untracked meadows. 

Every life contains a single universal truth. Mine is simple. I have never skied Grand Targhee Wyoming when it didn’t dump. During those roughly two dozen days, storms did not simply sprinkle flakes across the runs––but raged, dumped and obliterated all visibility until my skis become more important than my eyes in sorting out the bumps, drops and pitch changes that lay buried beneath the yielding, white surface. 

Affectionately known as “Grand Foggee,” when the sun does light Targhee, the Grand Teton’s west face towers above the resort’s five lifts, 2200 vertical feet and 1500 acres. And this doesn’t include an additional 600 acres reserved for cat skiing on Peaked Peak or Targhee’s surrounding back country where expert skiers follow alternating glades, meadows and chutes down to Targhee’s access road. 

During the ski season that  runs––weather permitting––from Thanksgiving to April 15, the ski area captures 500 inches. That figure totals 41, twelve-inch storms, or roughly a foot dump every four days. Mount Moran, Mount Owen and the Grand’s twelve thousand foot summits impale storms that dump their snow on Targhee.

A moist jet stream, arctic temperatures and an orographic lift provides the power behind Targhee’s prodigious annual precipitation. The greatest orographic effect occurs when mountains rise perpendicular to the flow. On a map of the Western United States, between Oregon’s Cascade Mountains and Driggs, Idaho,  few if any ranges rise to rake the moisture from passing low-pressure systems. In Targhee’s case, because the Tetons are oriented slightly northeast to southwest, the resort benefits most from a west to slight northwest storm. It’s a game of inches not thousands of miles. If the flow had shifted thirty miles to the west, “The Storm”would have missed Targhee.          

Named after the last warrior chief of the Blackfoot Indians, Targhee sits on the Idaho/Wyoming border just outside Grand Teton National Park. Because Grand Targhee is located on the Teton’s west slope it receives greater precipitation than Jackson, Wyoming. Case in point, during “The Storm,” while Targhee witnessed forty–three inches, Jackson––which is roughly forty miles to the southeast––recorded less than a foot.

Located thirteen miles down the canyon, Driggs serves as Grand Targhee's economic base. Compared to other resort towns, from the local Spud Drive–In to the Teton Tepee, Driggs is still primarily a farm town where big hair, fur coats and other conspicuous displays of consumption still draw quizzical stares from Teton County potato ranchers and hay growers.

While Targhee runs a daily bus from Jackson, the big storms consistently close Teton Pass, preserving the resort’s untracked for Driggs, Victor and Tetonia locals. Though the powder tends to get skied out by the weekend, from Monday through Friday pass holders who commute the hour from Rexburg, or Idaho Falls, will discover untracked pockets in glades and below “Mary’s Nipple.”

Still, you don’t need a forty–three inch storm to fall in love with Targhee. Arrive during one of February’s twelve-inch storms when the visibility varies between whiteout and twenty feet and the snow curls over your head, you will believe you’ve discovered paradise. In this case, you’ll be right.

Distance from airports, nearby cities: Idaho Falls, Idaho is 87 miles away via highways 26 to 31 to 33. 

Jackson Hole, Wyoming is 42 miles via Highway 22 to 33 across Teton Pass 

Avg. annual snowfall: Ski Season: Winter 500 inches. Deepest winter 787 inches. Deepest storm 43 inches.