The reports from Telluride are…predictable. A fortnight of disruption, culminating in a compromise that satisfies no one entirely. The economics of scarcity are always brutal, particularly when applied to leisure. Sixty percent occupancy decline, they say. A brewpub teetering. One wonders if the proprietors considered offering a perfectly chilled dry sherry instead. It is a superior palliative to economic anxiety.
The pattern repeats itself, does it not? Park City last year, now Telluride. A demand for remuneration, countered with a reluctant concession. The Ikon Pass crowd, emboldened by access, will undoubtedly descend upon the newly reopened slopes, their brightly colored outerwear a jarring contrast against the muted tones of the aspen groves. They will, of course, miss the point entirely. They always do.
The Jackson Hole situation is more…nuanced. A rejection of unionization. Perhaps they understand the inherent fragility of solitude. A pristine powder run is a sacred space, best left undisturbed by collective bargaining. Though even there, one anticipates the inevitable influx. The faint scrape of edges, the insistent whoosh of the uninvited, descending at an alarming rate.
Here, on the Sultan Express, the faded yellow lift towers stand sentinel against a cerulean sky, framed by mercury-colored clouds. The grooming on McConkey’s Bowl is, I am reliably informed, exquisite – the texture of a freshly pressed linen suit. If one must brave the masses, begin on Ninety-Nine Ninety, proceeding with deliberate speed. It offers a brief respite before the true congestion sets in.