David E. Jackson would have understood why the pretty alpine park on the Snake River bears his name.
In quest of beaver for the high hats of London and Paris, he roamed the place for a few years. He may even have wintered there among the Crow and Shoshone in 1829. He would have talked to other white folks about the high valley, and that's often all it took to attach a name to a place in the Rocky Mountain fur trade era.
He would not have understood why Jackson Hole, Wyoming, is the center of the universe this week.
Dave trapped beaver. He traded pelts to other businessmen from St. Louis and Taos. A prime pelt bought him eight ounces of whisky diluted with creek water to 25 proof. Or four pounds of black powder. Or enuogh vermillion and other squaw foofooraw to guarantee warm companionship in his winter lodge.
The plews he didn't need to buy mountain fixin's were traded for drafts on St.Louis banks -- drafts freely convertible to dollars which, in turn, were literally as good as gold. Such were the days before political piracy evolved into its only logical outcome, the Nixon Shock.
Now, suppose another Jackson -- President Andrew -- had sent an emissary to Jackson Hole. Maybe his treasury secretary Sam Ingham. Sam would relay word that Washington had decreed that a beaver skin was worth only a half-pint of whiskey in this winter of 1829. And next winter it might be worth only a couple ounces. Or maybe a pint again. It depended on a lot of things the old fur trapper wouldn't understand.
You just go ahead and picture Davie Jackson getting red in the face and reaching for his Hawken. It's a pretty vision, and I won't interrupt you for a second or two...
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A serious omission occurs two paragraphs back. Sam wouldn't have really understood what he was talking about either. Was he just a particularly clueless public titter? Was he a victim of an historical time when no one really understood economic theory and practice?
Nope. Direct your attention to the current hero of Jackson Hole, one Ben Shalom Bernanke, chairman of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System. He's scheduled to make his annual speech to big bankers gathered at Jackson Hole day after tomorrow. Anticipation holds world market gamblers in thrall. They await his answer to the over riding question:
How many imaginary beaver skins will Ben create?
Now, why would Ben want to do that, push a computer key or two and make the pixie dust whirl, eventually resolving itself into rodent fur existing only as 101010101010101010s in Ben's laptop?
Because the real beaver aren't fucking fast enough. That's why.
So the bankers and other plutocrats are hoping and praying that Ben will foretell, via hint and nudge, another economic Viagra dose. Just like he did last year at Jackson Hole when his coy words presaging QE2 sent all the Warren Buffet wannabes into orgasm.
The general view is that he won't stand in the shadow of the Grand Tetons and actually announce another slurp of free mother's milk*, but we can probably count on another hint-nudge.
(N.B. The term "Weimar" has been strictly outlawed in the entire mountain west until Ben and his entourage are safely back in the sanctuary of Never Never Beltway Province.)
It isn't time to use it yet, but a handy Hawkens can be a comforting thing.
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*It's my little essay and I can mix salacious metaphors all I want.
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