Words and Photos: Ben Gavelda 2021-01-25 18:27:28
Mark “Howie” Howard. Elsewhere, WY. A platter of wet gear steams on the rugged stone hearth. Wood crackles in the ornate navy-blue fireplace while mopey Grateful Dead plays beneath conversation. Fishing tackle, western trinkets and a large carving of a Native American chief are baked in a warm glow along the walls. Outside it’s bitter cold, black and the wind whips the tall moose brush. It’s a standard evening scene at the Lodge, where powder reigns. The Lodge is just a house on a hill in rural Wyoming. Its location and access areas are sworn to secrecy, but I can tell you a bit about the Lodgefathers who run the joint. I met Mark “Howie” Howard about six years ago. I was with Bryan Iguchi, Mark Carter and Cam Fitzpatrick, and Howie showed up to the trailhead on a ’90s Polaris RMK and followed us around for a few days. As the seasons went on, I spent more and more time exploring with Howie alongside film crews and fellow riders when I passed through Wyoming. And now that I live in Teton Valley, ID, I spend just about every weekend out on the ranges with him. I’ve ridden more powder with Howie than anyone I can think of. Howie’s probably ridden more powder than most people I can think of. But how did this grizzled man from North Carolina find his way into this powdery honey hole? Howie started riding at Beech Mountain, NC when he was 15, in 1987. By age 16, he and a buddy would drive to the mountain for the weekend and sleep there in his dad’s two-seat Chevy S-10 pickup. Like many, the allure of the west fascinated him. “I ended up catching a ride with the Grateful Dead across the country and eventually ended up in Bend, OR in 1992,” Howie says. “After that I roamed around other resorts in Washington [state], California, Utah, Montana and hit Jackson Hole in 2000.” There, while working at a restaurant, Howie met a chef and bear of a man named Tim, who owns the Lodge house. He recognized the stoke and respect Howie had for the mountains. Tim knew the local ranges well and engaged in visionary talk of roaming mountainscapes. Years later when a job came up in Michigan, Tim needed someone to take care of his place. Howie fit the bill. “Tim left me house-sitting his place, so I started exploring this area,” Howie says. Being out on the fringe with a midweek schedule meant Howie had few if any riding partners. He toured around solo conservatively. Then he picked up a “yard sled,” the kind often abandoned in rural yards. This pushed him even farther. Eventually Howie began linking up with riders and film crews out searching for the same thing. Word of the Lodge spread, and Howie became the “Lodgefather.” Dig deep and you’ll see a North Face jacket named after him thanks to a designer friend. The powder hostel he oversaw became an underground hot spot. “It’s all about the whole experience,” Howie says. “People love it when we get up early, shred all day, then come back and cook up a big feast. Everyone’s helping out, the beers are flowing and pretty soon someone will pick up a guitar.” These days, Tim is back full-time with his wife Robin and two dogs. Tim retains the role of head chef, resident piano pro, community plow driver and chief storyteller, among many other titles. Howie now drives big rigs in the summer and winds down to a couple serving shifts when the snow starts stacking. He still rents a room at the Lodge for the winter. I book another for weekends all season. The large film crews, jam sessions and parties have whittled down, but are not gone. Howie picked up a new sled a few seasons ago, which has expanded his access potential dramatically. Riding powder as much as possible is still his sole focus in life. Miller Lite and the New England Patriots are tied for second. This season Howie will be 47 years old. He’s living proof that the dirtbag dream doesn’t have to die.
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