Kudos to The Wall Street Journal’s real-estate reporters for unearthing some of the juiciest stories set in ski towns. Earlier this year, the newspaper reported on a between a millionaire and a billionaire over a disputed property line and two furry dogs. Then, just last month, theWSJ told us about the equipped with a private ski gondola. We all had a good laugh at that one.
The latest story is just as goofy. Last week, the Wall Street Journal reported that homeowners across the West are spending tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars into their abodes to ease the effects of the thin air on their bodies. These devices—and the system of pipes, tubes, and ductwork that deliver the enriched air—start around $30,000, and can run well north of $250,000. According to the ³,these systems can effectively lower the perceived altitude of a bedroom by thousands of feet.
Yep, if you’re rich enough, you can now disrupt the effects of high altitude on your pulmonary system. And this technology is only going to to become more accepted in ski towns, the newspaper said.
“Home oxygenation is where motorized shades and lighting control were 15 years ago,” David E. Luckan, the president of a company called Invigor8 Air Design, told the newspaper.
My initial reaction after reading this story was, of course, to barf just a little bit in my mouth. Anyone who lives at high altitudeknows that the side-effects of the thin air—the dizziness, lethargy, and insomnia—go away after your body produces a few billion extra red blood cells. This process can take a few days or weeks, and afterward, you can sprint up staircases or shotgun beers without keeling over.
My assumption is that the homeowners in question don’t spend enough time in their fancy mountainside chalets to acclimatize. After a few days on the slopes, it’s back to the Bloomberg Terminal in New York City or Dallas. Meanwhile, their multimillion-dollar homes sit there uninhabited, while further down the hillside, local restaurant workers and ski lift operators pack themselves into sardine-can condominiums, or , due to the dearth of affordable housing.
After calming my frustration, my next feeling was confusion. For years, top cyclists, triathletes, and Himalayan mountaineershave purchased systems that remove oxygen from the air to trick the body into thinking it’s at high altitude. But these systems require the athlete to seal herself in an airtight plastic to prevent O2 molecules from entering and escaping. How could a typical bedroom trap air like a hypoxic tent?
And finally, I wondered about the massive amount of electricity these devices must consume. Do the streetlights in Aspen flicker every time the billionaires fire up their oxygen engines?
With so many feelings and questions swirling in my mind, I decided it best to phone up one of these companies: Altitude Solutions, which is based in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. The company’s founder and chief operating officer, Adam Roberts, told me that he’s been installing oxygenation systems in Colorado homes for the last 20 years. The demand for the systems ramped up during the COVID-19 pandemic, with so many people from sea level moving to the mountains.
“We used to install one or two systems a year, and now it’s that many in a day,” he said. “Ten years ago people thought we’d be out of business.”
I asked Roberts how his system compares to a hypoxic tent, and why an oxygen-enrichment systemcan function in a normal room while an oxygen-deprivation machine cannot. He told me that most homeowners need to install airtight gaskets and window coverings to eliminate major leaks. But his machines pump out so much oxygen that they simply overcome the air that escapes.
“It’s like pouring water into a bucket that has holes in the bottom,” he said. “If you flood enough oxygen into a room, you’ll get ahead of the leaks.”
I also asked him about the electrical consumption. One of the oxygenation units uses 1,100 watts from a typical 110-volt outlet to provide enough oxygen for a typical bedroom. Using one is kind of like running your microwave or blowdryer all night long—yeah, not something any of us would do. But also not enough to drain the local electrical grid.
OK, but what about the moral conundrum? Should we really create technology that allows the mega-rich to pursue a lifestyle that erodes the social fabric of mountain towns, chases out middle-class workers, and leaves millions of square feet of valuable real estate unused for most of the year?
Roberts was silent for a few seconds when I brought this up. But then he chimed in with some additional data points. Yes, some of his clients are wealthy out-of-towners who want to enjoy those two weeks out of the year when they visit their fifth home. But not all of them.
“There are locals who have grandkids who comes in for a few days each year and they just want that person to be able to sleep at night,” he told me. “Or they want grandma to come up and visit for another five or ten more years. For them, this can be life-changing.”
Roberts said that the annoying side effects that people experience at higher elevation—specifically the insomnia—impacts young, old, sick, and healthy. For these unfortunate souls, an oxygenation machine can make a vacation to the slopes actually enjoyable. “Imagine coming up here and you’re so sleep-deprived that you can’t get off the couch,” he said. “It ruins the experience for anyone.”
And then Roberts laughed and told me about a subset of clients who install the systems for an altogether different reason. No, it’s not to help them ski better. “We do have clients who bought the systems because they are heavy drinkers,” he said. “They feel better in the morning because their hangover went from a ten to a seven.”
Alas, when I added boozehounds, small children, and the elderly to the customer list, I found it much harder to detest oxygen-enriching systems and the people buying them. Yes, they are absolutely a luxury item—one that burns through a ton of electricity and, at the moment, serves mostly wealthy.
But a private ski gondola they are not. Talking to Roberts reminded me of scenes from my wedding, which my wife and I held at 9,000 feet elevation in Colorado’s Sawatch Range. More than a few of our out-of-town guests staggered around the ceremony, bleary eyed, having tossed and turned the previous night with headaches. If I’d had the ability to erase their altitude hangovers, I’d have gladly done so.
Thus, while oxygen-enrichment machines do make me cringe, I’m inclined to place the technology alongside snow-making cannons, infinity pools, and chairlift loading carpets—ski resort technology we love to hate, but grudgingly accept. And sometimes use.