Day 13: Mighty Bland

Most of day 13 not much happened. Food, writing, shit, shower, shave. His-and-hers hot tubbing.

Another low-key day. That was, until the evening.

The evening was very Bland. Capital B because Bland is a proper noun, a force of nature, a fellow Alfred grad. Bland is awash in bubbles, rumbling sonic sculptures, five-person river-floating hammocks, and more innate enthusiasm than Old Faithful. Everything about the next three days was quintessentially, iconically, undeniably Bland.

Mr. Bland Hoke is a rare Jackson, WY native. In both senses of the word, but what I really mean is that basically no one you meet in Jackson actually lives there, let alone was born and raised there. The population is only a few thousand, but it swells to the hundreds of thousands at various times throughout the year. Skiing mostly, but a handful of other desirable outdoor activities as well, bring perennial flushes of the adventurous and well-to-do. And for good reason, they have an incredible natural asset next door- Teton National Park.

Getting across the Tetons is tricky, with a 10% grade at times. There’s no way my shepherding wagon would have made it over the pass. Cousin Mike said the one and only time he’s seen his father lose his cool while driving was a snowy evening on that pass (Uncle Glenn taught driver’s ed and is preternaturally calm behind the wheel). Mike and Dan held hands in fear for their lives. Thankfully for me, I had summer weather and not my truck.

I rolled into Jackson just after 9 pm, sun setting, but still plenty of light out. Made my way over to Bland’s shop after some confusing over-the-phone directions. First thing I noticed pulling in was the giant metal tree sculptures at the entrance.

Must be Bland’s handiwork, I thought. Actually, come to think of it, there were a bunch of metal moose along the highway, were those his too? Bland is a public artist, mostly in metal, but also reclaimed/upcycled materials, and currently concrete. His work is epic and awe-inspiring, just like Jackson Hole. Throughout our visit, I became increasingly convinced that he is the living embodiment of his natural surroundings. It’s no surprise then that his artwork is everywhere.

I pulled up to his shop and before I could even get out of the car he was standing there, in a pouncing stance, ready to spring into action: “Drop your things, put on some pants, let’s go.” Bland then disappeared into his shop, leaving me in his vapor trail to ponder what was about to happen.

Bland re-emerged with a homemade adult kid-carrier that he vice gripped to his e-bike (if it was anyone else, I would not have gotten on this thing…) We’re chasing the sunset- to the mountains! Annnnnnd we’re off.

Bounding, bouncing, me in the adult-kid-carrier, Bland booking it, the looks on the faces of people out walking- I can’t help but laugh uncontrollably. It was ridiculous, and a little unnerving, but so so fun. Bland is a progenitor of amusement. He brings the party. Here’s a little bit of what it was like:

There was no way we were going to make it to the mountain top before the sunset, but I love that Bland was excited to try. We stopped right at the highway. It wasn’t even clear to me how we would have gotten up the mountain. Would we have taken the highway and biked on the shoulder? Doing that with this setup would be nuts. I wouldn’t put it past Bland, he’s kind of nuts. But the best kind of nuts. He’s like Alex Honnold, Christo, and Pee-Wee Herman all rolled into one.

We chatted with some passersby, a mother and daughter. I casually called them sisters, they loved it. They wanted to know all about Bland’s creation, the adult kid-carrier. And somehow we got on the topic of my trip, Bland declared himself my hype man and pulled out his phone to show them photos of what I’d built. They made a bunch of suggestions of places to go in Wyoming that were part of the Trail. I humored them, but knew I’d never make it to anywhere they were suggesting. The Greater Bland region of Jackson Hole is all that I’d have time for.

Bland mentioned that there was a strange tunnel under the highway with amazing resonance. That there were spots in the tunnel where you could hit certain frequencies and feel your whole body pulsate. Why are we still standing here next to some cows, let’s go do that.

We went to the tunnel and things got downright shamanic.

We rode back to Bland’s shop, which was made a little more precarious by his bike light dying. He fashioned something together out of bungee cords and a shop light. It worked, mostly. Though I couldn’t really tell as I was turned around getting the trailing view. It was kind of like those 90’s station wagons that had a third row of pop-up seating in the trunk where you’d face backward and watch the world disappear. That was always my favorite place to sit in a car, I liked the uninterrupted view. This was a more entertaining, though less comfortable, version.

Bland’s shop was pretty much exactly what I would have expected. Post-it notes with amusing ideas scribbled on them, a giant mustachioed dustpan, metal sculptures in various stages of completion, piles of reclaimed materials, and lots of adventure gear.

I felt like a kid in a candy shop, I just kept pointing to stuff and saying “What’s that!” Bland was very happy to oblige, it had probably been a while since a fresh set of eyes peeked into his world. There were sculptures to show, custom-built machinery to explain, fun kinetic stuff to demonstrate, and best of all the Rumble-a-tron 5000 (or something like that). The RT:5000 was not at all what I was expecting, I inquired as to the purpose of a cantilevered beam hanging off a wall, and the next thing I know Bland has me laying down on a dirty foam pad. He explains that soon I will experience the raw vibrational force of the Butt Kicker, i.e. the sub-woofer right under your ass. What do music do I want to feel? He gives me the option between happy-dancy and meditative, I choose meditative. Bland puts on a Sigur Ros song, that honestly seemed like it was 30 minutes long, but it was only 8. It’s a long-baseline that keeps breaking like waves. The Butt Kicker (that’s the actual brand name, btw) is mounted to a piece of plywood, the mattress is right on top, so you feel everything. It’s a pretty incredible experience. I should have asked for a sampler, 30-60 seconds of a variety of styles and sounds. I don’t know if that’s actually an option, but it should be. Oh, and I still don’t really understand what the thing attached to the wall is about. Maybe the bedframe will get suspended in the air? Bland probably explained it, but I was too distracted by the butt-kicking I was receiving to retain the information.

Around midnight we headed back to Bland’s house. I got there first and let myself in, wasn’t 100% sure it was his place (no number outside), but the epic DIY cat-climbing structure in the living room assured me that I’d wandered into the right condo. I made friends with the two cats. One was more skittish than the other. It always surprises me how much personality cats have. I grew up with a lot of cats, and they are each their own special snowflake. Pro tip if you meet a skittish cat: get low, be still and make purring sounds. Works 67% of the time, which, in cat years, is pretty impressive.

Bland rolled in on his souped-up OneWheel shortly after me. That thing goes surprisingly fast, he also added a beefier battery to it to extend the range (and maybe the speed too?) Bland explained the weekend’s options while I sliced up the celebratory pineapple I’d brought from the fanciest gas station store I’ve ever been in. Seriously, this place was huge, had a bar with craft beer, kayak rentals, and fresh produce all right next top the normal spinning hot-dog crap that you’d expect to find. I actually asked the cashier why the place was so nice, she laughed and said she didn’t know. Well, is there anything close by? Jackson is an hour away, she said with a shrug. This was in middle-of-nowhere Idaho. It’s incredible that such satellites can be sustained almost exclusively by a far-away wealth center like Jackson. It was a damn good pineapple.

Okay, back to Bland.

So we’re talking about maybe going on the lake, camping on an island and th… AHHHH TINY HAND

WHY IS YOUR HAND SO TINY?

OH GOD, WHAT IS HAPPENING?

I melt onto the floor into a pile of laughter while Bland nonchalantly strokes his chin with the tiniest of hands. Somehow his hand has shrunken severalfold into a doll-sized hand. It was so unexpected and weird and great. Thank god I didn’t have anything in my bladder, I would have peed my pants right then and there on the kitchen floor. While I lay dying, Bland casually continued attempting normal tasks with his tiny hand. Of course, he couldn’t actually hold a glass or fold a piece of paper, and so even the most mundane activities were gut-wrenchingly funny.

And then there was the Kitty Toss.

I have never seen anyone rough house with a cat. What I know about cats suggests that this shouldn’t even be possible, let alone enjoyable, for a cat. So, we’ve moved out of the kitchen, Bland’s put away his tiny hand, we’re still talking about the weekend’s activities and then he just blurts “kitty toss!” and grabs his cat by the tail and flings it. But he flings it with a twist so the whole cat flips around in the air. Cat lands on its feet, looks a little stunned, and then he does it again. The cat, not only doesn’t lose its shit, it sticks around for several more tosses. Mind blown. Everything I thought I knew about cats just got kitty tossed out the fucking window.

I’ll see if I can get Bland to send a video. My phone was dead and charging through all of this. It was almost two a.m. by this point and, frankly, I needed to charge too. What kind of adventurous shenanigans awaited on the morrow?