As a surfer-snowboarder based in San Diego, the idea of traveling to the American West come winter never crossed my mind. In fact, with the first flutter of a snowflake, I habitually head to the hills for ski season — be it Mammoth, Big Bear or an unfamiliar mountain far from home. Setting fresh tracks with hiking boots rather than a snowboard seemed a waste of precious powder.
Until of course, I had a couch affair with Yellowstone. The Netflix original series visually took me to the outer range of Montana where cowboys are as branded as the cattle they drive and the horses they break.
In all my years, never had a Hollywood product inspired me to pivot my winter plans for an unknown destination. But somehow Yellowstone succeeded. I became one with the Dutton family ranch, turning the fictitious drama into a biopic in my mind, longing to visit this agrarian West where locals fought to keep the wild wild.
