The Growlers’ greasy, hairy little singer pranced around the stage with a hand on his hip moaning into the mic while his band strummed out jangly, psychedelic beach goth for the half-full ski lodge bar crowd. The band had to be wondering how the hell they ended up in Wyoming on a Wednesday night in April. The locals looked a little puzzled by the whole scene, too. But not Mikkel, Danny, Jack or the rest of snowboarders dancing around with beers raised overhead. They knew exactly what they were doing here. Partying.
Meanwhile, up beyond Targhee’s resort boundary in a catski-only zone known as Kansas, the headlights of three Prinoth park cats glowed through the darkness as the crew from Snow Park Technologies worked the graveyard shift beneath the moonlight and the jagged silhouette of the Tetons. When the sun came up a few hours later there would be no icy, early morning pipe practice or high-stress qualifiers. No coaches or judges. No bibs, no Jumbotrons, and no mandatory doubles. None of the normal contest crap. Not at Peace Park.