Skiing in Suits

I rolled off of the pullout couch, shoving my glasses on to witness the one sight I had driven 17 hours for: a storm. I peeped snowy peaks in Salt Lake, small walls of white guiding me through Yellowstone, little spits over a few days, all coalescing into 4 inches in Bozeman, Montana. Valley snow almost always means the mountains have even more. I rush to wake up my mates, throw on my gear, eat a quick Eggo, and head for the hills.

It’s set to be the first day I’ve skied at Big Sky, the third largest resort in the US with a notoriously business-forward model of planning. I’ve always sneered at the idea of skiing’s corporatization; it takes away from the soul of the sport, from the stoke of a dawn patrol powder call, that first carve on fresh corduroy, those little 10 year old groms sending drops that you get sweaty palms just looking at. It brings resorts exclusively to the uber-rich who go up for 3 half days in a season and removes the support systems of those who just want to get some turns in for cheap. The sport costs enough already— a good setup is almost a grand even with used gear. A day pass alone at Big Sky sets you back a ridiculous $245 without included tram fees (yeah, they charge for that too).

If you’re like me, home is still transitory and an Ikon Pass is the best way to make sure you get some days on the snow. At most major resorts it pays itself off after two uses with a college discount and without one it takes four.

That being said, I was nervous to hit Big Sky. I’d never skied one of the dreaded ‘vail resorts’ that skiers and boarders alike lump into the corporate chain that Ikon has monopolized. Everyone has a horror story of them being insanely expensive and busy, getting screwed by the guest services or the patrollers, or just sitting in a 3 hour lift line.

The stoke of a mountain that big was unbelievable. Traverses and chutes, fresh snow everywhere, I don’t think I waited in a line all day. It only got better throughout the week with more snow. Some part of me had to reckon with itself, that nonprofit-grown local mountain kid fighting with the guy with a shiteating grin who was willing to drop 25 bucks on a ride up the tram—I wanted to die, but it was the best run of the trip. Being in Montana, most of the locals either work at the resort for a pass and hate themselves for it or ski the small Bridger Bowl and despise the assholes who sold out. Once in the latter I’d moved to the former, getting a third face shot from the same hundred yard pitch. By the end of the trip, I was ready to book some CAT skiing.

I guess my reconciliation comes from the changes in ski culture we’ve seen recently. Despite the danger, backcountry is becoming a frontrunner in films and the average skier’s experience. I’ve only been a few times, but more and more it seems like taking a few avalanche and snow science classes has gotta be my path forward. There’s growing pains here too; we’ve seen so many skiers die in the past few years to avalanches, some inbounds. It’s part of the sport, I suppose, but it definitely weighs into my buying of an Ikon pass. Hell, I might get priced out of the sport, but for the time being, it’s hard to imagine that I’d stop jumping at any chance I get to get on the snow. Skiing is about the fun of it all—how can I refuse a 1500 foot pitch of fresh snow at a 35° slope? That’s heaven, even if I have to pay 25 bucks a shot or hike for 3 hours.