Mountain Towns Archives - ��ϳԹ�� Online

Young Americans Are Drinking Less. How Will It Change ��ϳԹ�� Sports Culture?

Miyo McGinn — Sat, 25 Jan 2025 10:00:48 +0000

Mountain sports are��saturated with alcohol. Summit beers, lift beers, après ski, post-ride happy hours, whiskey around the campfire—some days it feels like you could drink from beginning to end of your favorite outdoor activity. But as public health officials issue warnings over alcohol and younger Americans report that they drink less than previous generations, it’s worth asking whether our outdoor adventures should include so much booze.

On January 3, U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy called for cancer warnings to be added to alcoholic beverages, citing research that shows there are around 100,000 cancer cases and 20,000 cancer-related deaths due to alcohol every year. Drinking has also been to problems with the heart, liver, pancreas, gastrointestinal system, and immune system.

The advisory came at the beginning of Dry January, when many choose to give up alcohol for the month after indulging over the holidays. Even before Murthy’s report, U.S. alcohol sales were trending downward. But the percentage of American adults who drink has held relatively steady for decades. “It’s just so built into U.S. culture,” says Adrienne Webster, an addiction counselor based in Bozeman, Montana. “Alcohol is carcinogenic. It’s a neurotoxin. Those things are just facts. But we’re fed this B.S. that we should be doing it all the time. It’s probably the only substance that when you stop using it, people are like, ‘What? Why?’”

In my early twenties, I usually went skiing with a flask of Fireball or an unholy jungle juice of tequila and preworkout powder in my pocket. On hikes and bike rides, I would drink hard seltzers and beers that appeared from friends packs without much thought, and down a couple more in the parking lot at the end of the day. Then early last year, I started taking a medication that made me feel horribly sick if I had more than one drink in an evening. Suddenly, I had to get much more selective about my drinking habits—and cut back, a lot.

Coincidentally, several of my friends and adventure buddies were also rethinking their relationship with alcohol last year, for various reasons. As I began trying to be more intentional about when and what I was drinking, it was nice to compare notes��with people who were going through the same process. Do I really want to be drunk right now, or is it just easy because everyone else is? If I just want a post-exercise treat, or to keep hanging out with everyone after the activity, could going out for ice cream or french fries be just as satisfying as stopping by a brewery?

I was lucky to have supportive friends, many of whom were in the same boat,��as I navigated cutting back on alcohol. Not everyone does. “I see behind the scenes how many young people are trying to abstain, but nobody wants to talk about it, because there’s still so much stigma associated with it,” Webster says. “It’s still embarrassing.”

For Nick Pearson, the founder of the Colorado-based nonprofit Sober Outdoors, carving out a space in nature free of the stigma around sobriety has been critical for his recovery from alcohol use disorder. He spent years working in sales for outdoor brands and drinking a lot in the process, which led him to see firsthand just how thoroughly alcohol and the industry are enmeshed.

“When I finally got sober and went camping again, it was pretty nerve-wracking going with friends that drink,” Pearson says. “I was like, what am I gonna do while everyone’s sitting around the fire drinking? I wanted to create a space where people could experience the outdoors and not have to worry about alcohol being a part of the picture.”

Pearson quickly found that he wasn’t the only person who wanted a substance-free outdoor community. Roughly 900 people have attended the 40-plus outings Sober Outdoors has hosted since it was founded two years ago, and the group is starting to branch out into states beyond Colorado. That community has helped fortify Pearson’s resolve when he goes out with friends who still partake, and he hopes that the broader outdoor recreation culture will take some cues from the growing��sober contingent.

“My biggest wish is that everyone takes a step back, looks at how substances impact them, and asks themselves, ‘How can we change to make the outdoors more inclusive?’ Because the sober audience is so much bigger than anyone even realizes,” Pearson says. “And Sober Outdoors is the proof in the pudding that you can have a great time without drinking—all these people that are hiking and camping and having a blast, without a beer in their hands the whole time.”

Personally, I’ve found that an ice-cold root beer or coke from the snowbank next to the car after a long ski tour hits just as hard as a regular beer. The hardest part was breaking the habit. Sometimes I’ll still take my favorite cider to savor at the top of a mountain, or split a beverage with a friend in the parking lot to celebrate a particularly stellar day on the slopes. But it’s a choice now, not a reflex.

Even if you feel comfortable with your current consumption habits, Pearson and Webster both have suggestions for ways everyone can help make a culture that’s welcoming and supportive of others’ sobriety: educate yourself, don’t make assumptions, and be inclusive.

“Sometimes people aren’t sure what to do when one of their friends stops drinking,” Webster says. “But just act normal and keep inviting your sober friends to things. They might not want to deal with being around alcohol, but it should be up to them.”

Pearson emphasized that you don’t always know what someone is going through, and statistically speaking, there’s a decent chance someone you know and recreate with has an unhealthy relationship with substance use. The National Institute of Health that 28.9 million, or just over one in ten, teenagers and adults in the U.S. had alcohol use disorder in 2023. When you include all substance use disorders, that number jumps to . “Someone may not tell you they’re trying to get sober, or they’ve got a problem with it, or want to cut back,” said Pearson. “But you need to just take people at their word. If they say, ‘No, I don’t want it,’ don’t push it.”

Occasionally, it’s still awkward or just a bummer when everyone I’m out with is drinking and I can’t. And I have no doubt that it’s much harder to navigate sobriety in mountain culture, in so many ways, for people in recovery from a substance use disorder than it is for someone like me. But for the most part, my newly sober-ish friends and I have all been struck by the degree to which our experiences in the mountains haven’t really changed this year. Your real friends won’t give you a hard time for not drinking, non-alcoholic beers truly are pretty good these days, and often french fries actually are the more enticing post-exercise treat.

I’m not asking you to stop drinking, or even telling you that you shouldn’t drink. But I think anyone who participates in outdoor sports, and anyone who drinks alcohol while they do, could probably stand to reflect on when and why they’re partaking. And we would probably all be better off if we asked ourselves what we’re doing, and what more we could do, to make sober people feel more welcome and included.

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Should I Help an Airbnb Owner Bust His Squatters?

jversteegh — Sun, 22 Dec 2024 11:17:51 +0000

Dear Sundog: We recently went to a wedding in a mountain resort town. We rented a condo online because the wedding hotel was fully booked. I had qualms because I know that people like us are driving up the cost of living for locals, but didn’t have a better option so I swallowed the qualms. After a flight delay we arrived a day late. We saw a beat-up car parked in the driveway. As we approached, two young guys who looked like climbing bums tossed some gear into the car, took a look at us, jumped in and drove off. My husband thought it was suspicious and asked me to jot down their license plate number, which I did. Inside the condo it was clear that these kids had spent the night. We called the host, who came over immediately, did a quick clean and changed the entry codes. He told us he was not the owner but a professional host who managed a dozen rentals in town. The actual owner lived out of state. It sat vacant during the off-season.

Later, the host messaged us to say that the owner had filed a police report and wanted our help to identify the squatters. My husband thinks we should hand over the license plate number. I disagree. I don’t have much sympathy for the absentee landlord. The kids hadn’t actually damaged the condo, and frankly it’s not my job to get them in trouble. Who’s right? —Very Resistant to Bending Over for Real Estate Barons Exploiting Locals

Dear VRBO REBEL: First let me commend you and your husband’s coolheadedness: you did not gun down these trespassers in cold blood, which seems an increasingly common response in our country of stand-your-grounders. It appears you have an ounce or more compassion for these loafers even if they made you uncomfortable.

First, let’s agree that this owner is fully within his rights to press charges against these guys—if he can find them. They committed a crime against his property. Your ethical quandary, VRBO REBEL, is a more interesting one: must you be complicit in this version of criminal justice, especially when you see ethical qualms in the behavior of the victim. Indeed, the American justice system has long skewed to value property more highly than humanity. Here’s an example: in the days of the frontier, out-of-state cattle barons owned herds of cattle numbering in the thousands that they hired cowboys to tend. It’s worth mentioning that the steers and cows could only stay alive by munching off grasses on lands that did not belong to their owners. The herds were too big to manage, and invariably some cattle wandered off. Along comes some hungry cowpoke or Indigenous person who seizes a beef and slices it up for steaks. Now he’s a guilty of a hanging offense.

In today’s West, now that beef and lumber and mining are past their prime, the most precious commodity is real estate, specifically rentable residences near some National Park or other natural wonder. When the pandemic brought historically low interest rates, speculators could snap up these properties for far more than locals could afford, and still rent them short-term for enough to cover their historically low monthly mortgage payment. Fill the place with some blonde-wood Scandinavian furniture and patterned shower curtains from Target and voilà: an investment that not only yields monthly dividends but will also presumably gain value over the years. The speculator wins, the visitors like yourself wins, while the actual town residents are squeezed.

Getting back to the cattle analogy, if an AirbnBaron owns so many rental properties that he can’t keep them properly protected from the scourge of townies, then so be it. I guess I don’t see using police work and courts to punish the interlopers as a particularly ethical use of taxpayer money. Just as the cattle baron should have hired more cowboys to guard his cows, so should the rental baron hire a rent-a-cop to patrol his vacant structure.

As for your own question about ratting out these dirtbags, VRBO REBEL, I say hell no. Collaborating with police was not in the agreement you signed. By paying your nightly fee, you have fulfilled your obligations, both legal and financial, to the condo owner. You are not ethically bound to join his posse and help him rope the rustlers. Burn that license plate number with a clean conscience.

Got a question of your own? Send it to��sundogsalmanac@hotmail.com

(Photo: Mark Sundeen)

Mark Sundeen, aka Sundog, has done his fair share of squatting in vacant buildings, such as this cabin near Death Valley, circa 1998. He’s also had his share of strangers squatting in his un-winterized desert trailer. So it all sort of evens out?

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Who’s Got It Worse, Ass-Pens or J-Holes?

jversteegh — Wed, 18 Dec 2024 12:00:43 +0000

��ϳԹ�� spends a lot of time ranking the best mountain towns in the country, but which one is the worst? Is Aspen’s conspicuous wealth worse than Jackson Hole’s false modesty? How many billionaires does it take to ruin a local economy? Is there any hope for the ski-bum lifestyle? Paddy O’Connell and Frederick “Rico” Reimers bring us a debate you only win by losing.

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The 12 Coziest Mountain-Town Airbnbs in the U.S.

Patty Hodapp — Wed, 06 Nov 2024 11:00:52 +0000

The only thing better than waking up in a mountain town is overnighting within minutes of the destination’s best trails, waterways, and ski runs—and I learned this firsthand on a June 2024 Alaskan getaway. I’d spent several weeks hopping between national parks, including bear watching in Lake Clark and . I wasn’t ready for the adventure to end, and a stay at the new Chugach State Park-adjacent instead of downtown Anchorage, meant it didn’t have to.

I spent the 48 hours before my homebound flight strolling the property’s trails, hiking the Chugach-view loop around nearby Eklutna Lake, and crossing off an exciting wildlife spotting: the trip’s first black bear.

That’s just the start of this list’s adventure-centered digs. I scoured Airbnb for other incredible stays in the nation’s beloved mountain towns, from a waterfront abode in my lucky lower 48 aurora-hunting perch—Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—to a postcard-worthy A-frame in my favorite fall hiking spot, the Adirondacks. Here are 12 can’t-miss mountain-town Airbnb homes to add to your bucket list.

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Watch Stars Shimmer Above the Chisos in Terlingua, Texas

The Stardust Big Bend A-frame cabins give you front row access to best dark-sky viewing in the nation. (Photo: Courtesy of Stardust Big Bend)

From this dramatic Stardust Big Bend Luxury A-frame, you’ll be within minutes of Terlingua’s old-western ghost town, not to mention the Maverick entrance to Big Bend National Park. But the cabin’s dramatic Chihuahuan desert surroundings, and the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook it, make it hard to leave the property. Watch from bed as the rising sun paints the Chisos peaks hues of pink and peach, or relax on the spacious deck or hammock as the desert transitions from golden hour to star-speckled night—a signature of the region’s enormous Greater Big Bend International Dark Sky Reserve. Your hangout is one of 11 cabins on the property, and it feels like a home away from home with a full kitchen, one bedroom, two beds, and one bathroom, for up to four guests. Meet your neighbors in the community game room, but note, pets are not allowed.

Squeeze in Ample ��ϳԹ�� Within One Hour of Anchorage Airport, Alaska

This remote Scandinavian-style mountain-town Airbnb in Alaska should be your go to for outdoor exploration near—but not too close—to Anchorage. (Photo: Courtesy of Teal)

This handicap-accessible cabin is part of BlueWater Basecamp, a new collection of eight Scandinavian-style abodes set near Alaska’s Chugach State Park and roughly one hour from the Anchorage International Airport. With this proximity, you can spend your final days in Alaska hiking, biking, and wildlife watching instead of bopping between Anchorage gift shops. Teal-tinged Eklutna Lake, for example, is mere minutes from the property, with guided paddle trips and a 12-mile dirt loop around the water for biking and hiking. Wildlife such as moose and black bears are known to inhabit the area, and they may even stop by BlueWater BaseCamp for a porch safari. The pet-friendly property has three styles of abodes, including the handicap-accessible deluxe mountain cabin with room for up to six guests with two bedrooms, three beds, and one bathroom, as well as a full kitchen—a necessity given that the nearest main towns, Palmer and Eagle River, are 30 minutes away.��

Stay in a Taos Earthship Within Minutes of Stunning, Uncrowded Trails in New Mexico

These off-grid Earthships are so unique in that they are fully self sustainable and works of architectural genius in their own right. (Photo: Courtesy of Dan at Taos Mesa Studio Earthship)

This eye-popping Taos Mesa Studio Earthship is more than a place to rest your head. It’s a lesson in sustainable housing, with an off-grid design built to catch rainwater and generate its own electricity—all while staying 72 degrees throughout the year, even on chilly desert nights. The Earthship lies 10 minutes from the , an eight-mile out-and-back route that overlooks the Rio Grande del Norte National Monument’s plains and peaks, with parallel views of the 800-feet-deep Taos gorge. Your one-bedroom, one-bathroom Earthship can welcome up to four guests thanks to a cozy, convertible daybed. Pets are welcome with a $50 fee, and the home comes with a full kitchen.

Snooze in a Snow Globe After Hitting the Breckenridge, Colorado Slopes

You can only reach this stunning Breckenridge Airbnb with a 4WD vehicle, making you feel like you’re the only person on Earth. (Photo: )

Enjoy endless fresh air among the Pike National Forest pines at The Deck at Quandary Peak, which allows for up to three guests. This backcountry Breckenridge home, which becomes its own glorified snow globe each winter, overlooks the Tenmile range’s highest peak, Mount Quandary. You’ll have quick access to the Breck ski lift and town center within 15 minutes. The cabin, with its hygge-inspired aesthetic, includes one bedroom with two beds, one bathroom, and a full kitchen. Relax among the conifers on the fairy-light-adorned deck, or nap by the cozy indoor fireplace after a long day on the slopes. You’ll need a 4WD vehicle to reach the home, and tire chains are required for winter visit. Pets are not allowed.

Overnight Beside a New York Adirondacks Lake—Kayaks Included

Cozy up lakeside at this bonfire pit after you’ve spent the day hiking, fishing, or snowshoeing. (Photo: Tessa & Echo, )

New York’s Adirondack Park is a four-season getaway, and few overnights immerse you in the changing landscape like this picturesque Lakefront A-frame Cabin on Stoner Lakes. Enjoy the mirror-still water from the fire ring, or hop aboard the kayaks that come with the property for a scenic paddle. The mountain town of Caroga Lake, set in the Adirondack foothills, is a 15-minute drive south. Head there for , fishing, or snowmobiling. Or, travel 10 minutes north of your cabin to tackle the steep 3.5-mile out-and-back up Good Luck Mountain. Royal Mountain Ski Area’s 13 trails are a short 20 minutes south of you, too. Up to six guests (and pets) can enjoy this two-bedroom, three-bed, and one-bath getaway. (Note: this is a three-night minimum stay.)

Catch Shut-Eye in a Treehouse Near Park City, Utah’s Best Runs

A room with a view, and a massive old-growth fir tree growing right through the middle of it (Photo: Rocky & Gianni)

Park City’s Dreamy Living Cabin puts the “tree” in treehouse, with a 200-year-old fir jutting up through its airy wood-paneled interior. The getaway, which glows with natural light from the 270-degree glass windows, sits at 8,000 feet elevation. It’s just north of the protected woodlands, where hiking trails give travelers the chance to spot moose, porcupines, and eagles. Park City downtown and its many ski hangouts, such as , lie roughly 30 minutes south of your stay. The property is also less than one hour from the Salt Lake City Airport. It’s a great getaway for two, with one bedroom, one bathroom, a full kitchen, and a large deck that overlooks the soaring Uintas. Pets are not allowed. (Note: this is a two-night minimum stay.)

Doze Beneath the Tetons in Jackson, Wyoming’s Dreamy Geodesic Domes

Ski or snowboard at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, and then warm up in the sauna and by the fire pit afterward and this geodesic dome Airbnb. (Photo: )

A sprinkling of 11 heated geodesic dwellings, known as Tammah Jackson Hole Domes, plunge guests into Wyoming’s jaw-dropping wilderness, with views of the jagged Tetons best enjoyed from your cozy king-sized bed. Overnights at this Airbnb include free breakfast, in-dome telescopes, and ensuite bathrooms. The property also has a shared sauna and firepit—the perfect way to share stories after a in Grand Teton National Park; its Granite Canyon entrance is five minutes north by car. For skiing and snowboarding, is also a five-minute drive away. Each 540-square-foot dome fits two guests maximum; pets are welcome.

Overnight in a Grain Silo in Kalispell, Montana

Located in the Rocky Mountains of Western Montana, this unique gem is just a stone’s throw from Kalispell, Glacier, and Whitefish. (Photo: Isaac Johnson, edited by Eli Clark)

Add some farm feels to your mountain-town escape by sleeping in a converted grain silo with views of Montana’s peak-laden Flathead Valley. These metal accommodations have it all: a kitchenette, loft bedroom, two beds, and one bathroom, not to mention an outdoor fire pit for watching the Rocky Mountain landscape change from blue-sky day to gold-tinged dusk. Don’t head to sleep early on the star-splashed night skies, either. Start the day with a stroll along the 80-acre farm’s walking trails, or, when the powder hits, try snowshoeing or cross-country skiing the farm routes. Glacier National Park is a 30-minute drive north, while 3,000 skiable acres are around 50 minutes northwest. Downtown Kalispell’s delicious breweries are a 10-minute drive from your silo. Pets are not allowed.

Crash Beside the Tennessee River in This Cozy Chattanooga Cabin with a Watchtower

Divided by the Tennessee River, Chattanooga is one of the coolest stopovers in the Appalachian Mountains—and this Airbnb is the place to stay. (Photo: Our Ampersand Photography)

Soak up the Tennessee River Gorge’s grandeur from a pet-friendly waterfront cabin in the heart of this dramatic river canyon. The two-bedroom, five-bed, and one-bathroom Chattanooga-adjacent house can welcome up to eight guests with plenty of water adventures onsite, from angling on the Tennessee riverbank to paddling with the property’s rentable kayaks. Climb the cabin’s scenic watchtower to scout for wildlife like ospreys, bald eagles, and deer, or catch more flora and fauna from the nearby hiking jaunts, including six-mile out-and-back Snoopers Rock Trail, roughly a 30-minute drive away. Snag a view of the 100-foot-tall Julia Falls roughly 20 minutes to the east; it’s among the most scenic stops on the over 300-mile .

Bunk-Up Near Trailheads and Slopes in Picturesque Stowe, Vermont

Get access to Cady Hill Forest’s gorgeous trails from this Airbnb in Stowe Vermont. Also, don’t miss the on-fire fall foliage viewable right from its deck. (Photo: Cameron Cook)

Sleep within steps of your hiking path at the Cady Hill Trail House, a one-bedroom, one-bathroom guesthouse in the quintessential New England town of Stowe, Vermont. The two-guest home, complete with a full kitchen, is surrounded by the charming , home to over 11 miles of trails—and a profusion of color when the leaves change each fall. Stowe’s many breweries, cafes, and restaurants are just five minutes away; the 116 ski trails at are within 10 minutes driving, too. Guest have ample outdoor space to store gear like bikes, skis, and snowshoes. In addition to ambles, the Cady Hill trail network welcomes skiers, snowshoers, and mountain bikers depending on the season. Pets are not allowed. (Note: this is a two-night minimum stay.)

Sleep in a South Dakota Firetower Near Mount Rushmore

This newly built fire lookout tower stay is suspended in the air over welded metal flared beams, and is located just minutes from Black Elk Peak—the highest point in South Dakota. (Photo: Courtesy of Thomas at New Fire Lookout Tower )

Play fire lookout for a night—or week—from this firetower-inspired getaway within minutes of South Dakota’s Custer State Park, where bison now abound. An array of park trails are within a 25-minute drive of your tower, including , which weaves by dramatic van-sized boulders for three miles, or the take the route up , South Dakota’s highest point. Cross Mount Rushmore off your bucket list while you’re here; it’s 30 minutes northeast by car. This one-bedroom, 1.5-bath tower, built for two guests, comes with a full kitchen, wrap-around deck, and a common area with a firepit and yard games. Pets are not allowed.

Catch Zzzs After Watching for Northern Lights Near Michigan’s Porcupine Mountains

This sweet spot is just steps away from Lake Superior, and offers idyllic access to adventures in Northern Michigan’s best kept secret: the Porcupine Mountains. (Photo: Courtesy of Jay at Lake Superior Beach with Porcupine Mountain Views)

One of Michigan’s best-kept secrets, the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park (better known as the Porkies), lies within 15 minutes of this Lake Superior Beach House—a two-bedroom and two-bath abode with a full kitchen and sweeping turquoise water views. The Porkies offer all sorts of Great Lakes adventures: ascending the world’s tallest artificial ski jump, ; fishing or taking a dip in the photogenic Lake of the Clouds; or schlepping up the steep half-mile route to the , which offers views as far as Isle Royale National Park on a clear day. Back at the cabin, relax by the indoor fireplace or hang outside after dusk to watch for one of the Upper Peninsula’s greatest treats: the aurora borealis. Select pets are allowed upon request. (Note: this is a four-night minimum stay.)

Want more of ��ϳԹ��’s travel stories? .

When she’s not staying in cool places around the world, adventure and astrotourism writer Stephanie Vermillion chases comets and northern lights, and hunts the best stargazing in dark sky zones. Her upcoming book will be out December 3.

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Rich Mountain Town Dwellers Are Pumping Extra Oxygen into Their Homes

Fred Dreier — Thu, 17 Oct 2024 02:58:30 +0000

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, the��WSJ 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 WSJ,��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 altitude��knows 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.

These 14 oxygenation machines blow air into five bedrooms in a Colorado home��(Photo: Altitude Solutions Inc)

After calming my frustration, my next feeling was confusion. For years, top cyclists, triathletes, and Himalayan mountaineers��have 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 system��can 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.

Three units in a garage (Photo: Altitude Solutions)

“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.

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This Is What It’s Like to Live in Asheville After Hurricane Helene

Alison Osius — Wed, 09 Oct 2024 18:41:01 +0000

The Storm Hits ��

I wake up at dawn on Friday, September 27, because the wind is howling around my house and trees are snapping at their trunks and being pulled out of the ground by their roots. From the window I watch the treetops sway and listen for the crack of wood. I hope I can echo-locate the snap so I know where the giant timber is going to fall. At every sound, I worry something will land on my house.

Two large white oaks, one of which is at least a hundred years old (I count the rings later) are pushed over by a massive gust and careen towards my neighbor’s house, where three little girls under the age of 10 live. As one barely misses the walls and crushes a trampoline outside, I slump in relief.

Rain is coming down in a steady stream. The power goes off a few minutes after I wake up. Water is the next to vanish, an hour later. Cell service disappears in the early afternoon. Asheville has wind gusts of 46 miles per hour.

This apartment building is around the corner from the author’s house. (Photo: Jeff Keener)

Nobody expected a storm like this in western North Carolina. Hurricanes usually hit the state’s coastal regions, not the mountains. We knew there would be rain and flooding, but nothing at all as catastrophic as what came. My wife and I lived through Asheville’s last hurricane flood, in 2004, when the French Broad River surged into low-lying parts of town. Meteorologists called that event a one-in-100-year flood. They’re saying this storm is a one-in-1,000 year event. I don’t know a single person who evacuated, nor did I ever hear any calls from officials to do so.

When the worst of the storm abates, around noon, I walk into the street and gather with neighbors to make sure everyone is O.K. Kids are crying. People have huddled in their basements. A neighbor who’s a doctor walks up saying a woman at the bottom of our hill has a gash in her neck that won’t stop bleeding because the roof of her house fell on her in bed. Trees are down all over and there’s no clear path to get the woman to a hospital, so I run around looking for a way that a vehicle could get through the carnage. So many power lines are down, so many cars are smashed, so many trees are leaning on homes, and stunned people are standing in their yards. My neighborhood of 19 years feels foreign.

Before the hurricane: a quiet dawn in the beautiful riverside city of Asheville, North Carolina, located in the mountains and in a bowl drained by them. (Photo: Walter Bibikow/Getty)

I find the safest way to walk the woman with the neck wound to a point where I think a car could meet us, and I reach a friend who’s headed into my neighborhood with a chainsaw, already out trying to cut through the madness, and have just enough service to tell him where to go before my phone dies. I walk the woman up a hill, with the doctor who’s telling her not to remove the bandage from her neck because you don’t mess with neck wounds, and the woman is crying. She’s afraid of the wind and the trees—after the roof of her house just fell on her.

My friend with the truck and the chainsaw is there, exactly where I told him to meet us, and the woman enters the vehicle and they head towards the hospital. I don’t hear how she is for another three days because there’s no cell service, and nobody hears from anyone unless in a face-to-face conversation.

All over the area, huge trees have cleaved houses and crushed cars. (Photo: Duane Raleigh)

I go back to my own house to assess the damage and hug my wife and children.

By the end of the day, a crew of men in a truck I’ve never seen before have chainsawed their way through half of the downed trees in the neighborhood. These aren’t city crews or electric-company employees. These are dudes in trucks doing what they can to help.

This is just day one.

The Aftermath of the Storm

Most of the once-vibrant River Arts District, work and cultural center for hundreds of artists as well as other offices and shops, was destroyed by flooding. The river rose over a foot and a half higher here than in the great Flood of 1916. (Photo: Lisa Raleigh)

Hurricane Helene hit western North Carolina, turning the city of Asheville, the South’s greatest outdoor-adventure town where I have lived for 20 years, and the surrounding mountain communities into a federal disaster zone. The French Broad River crested at more than 24 feet, wiping out the entire River Arts District, a collection of restaurants, breweries, hotels, and art studios a mile west of downtown. Biltmore Village, a hub of higher-end hotels and restaurants and shops, is similarly trashed, whole buildings gutted by the force of the river. Entire neighborhoods have been washed away, with houses and trailers floating downstream and piles of broken lumber everywhere.

Hundreds of artists have lost the studios and galleries they used to create and display their work. (Photo: Lisa Raleigh)

I’m incredibly fortunate. Our basement flooded, but no trees hit our house. Nobody in my family was hurt. We live in higher terrain and not along the river corridor, where the worst flooding occurred. So many people are in far worse shape. As I write, 71 people have been confirmed dead across the county. Search and rescue helicopters and ATVs are still looking for missing people every day.

The first few days after the storm were isolating. Navigating the roads was tough because of the downed trees. Nobody had cell or internet service, so we couldn’t check the news or message anyone. I didn’t know the extent of the destruction beyond my own neighborhood. Eventually, we learned to get in the car and listen to the city’s press conferences at 10 A.M. and 4 P.M. every day to grasp the context of the storm. I worked on cleaning up my neighbors’ yards and some trees in the road.

I was lucky in another way, too. We have an old hot tub in our backyard that became our sole source of gray water, and remains so. I used five-gallon buckets to move water from it to our bathtub so we could flush toilets. I cooked meals on our propane grill, pulling food from the fridge before it went bad.

At some point, I learned that the Chamber of Commerce a mile up the street had power and their WiFi was radiating into the parking lot, so twice a day I walked up there to send messages and check the news. I started a fire in the wood stove in our basement to try to dry the water out. Of all the damage Hurricane Helene caused, this is as minor as it gets.

In talking with neighbors, we heard there was no gas for cars because the stations had no power, and that none of the interstates or highways were letting vehicles in or out. We heard other towns—Chimney Rock, Burnsville, Spruce Pine, more—deeper in the mountains fared even worse than Asheville. We learned that the city had organized points of distribution for water and food.

Studios, galleries, breweries, barbecue places, and wineries are gone in the hurricane, now a historic marker in the way of Hurricane Katrina in Louisiana and Alabama in 2005 (Photo: Duane Raleigh)

Besides the destruction, mostly what I saw is people taking care of each other. The guy who owns the trendy cafe on the corner a few blocks from my house cranked up his giant pizza oven and served free burgers and chicken sandwiches, feeding 1,500 people. Other neighbors chipped in, setting up stands with free stew and hot dogs.

We were all walking all over the neighborhood and town, asking people we didn’t know if they needed anything.

Almost two weeks after the storm, we still have no power, internet, or running water. I’m still moving water to flush toilets, getting drinking water from distribution points, trying to keep a fire in the basement stove. Cell service came back about six days after the storm.

Every state and federal agency is on the ground. Cops, firefighters, and search-and-rescue teams have come from Indiana, New York, Ohio. There are well-organized official disaster-relief stations and smaller stations set up by civilians. There’s a hard 7:30 P.M. curfew. I’ve heard isolated events of attempted muggings, but mostly it’s peaceful.

What’s left of a music studio, nearly two weeks after Hurricane Helene hit. (Photo: Duane Raleigh)

Unable to work as a writer without internet or power, I spend my days volunteering. One day I’m cooking burgers at a community center, the next, knocking on doors around Buncombe County doing wellness checks. If you can’t reach a cousin or aunt or spouse in Asheville, you call and ask for someone to check on the person. Volunteers go out to people’s last known addresses and see if they’re OK.

Most of the people I check on are OK. I work on developing the friendliest of door knocks,�� something that says, “I’m here to help.” Only one person answered the door with a gun in a holster.

I’m having a hard time putting this into words, but in the midst of all of the destruction and despair that I’ve seen, I’ve also been overwhelmed by a sense of hope and gratitude. Is it cheesy to say this disaster has renewed my faith in humankind? Probably. But that’s fine.

The record flooding as seen on September 28, 2024, in Asheville, North Carolina, the day after this story begins. The city was hit with storm surges and high winds. (Photo: Melissa Sue Gerrits/Stringer/Getty)

Without water and power, schools are closed, so my kids spend their days volunteering or helping friends clean up their yards. They have sleepovers and walk a mile into town together, just for some semblance of normalcy.

Grocery stores opened on a limited basis a day or so after the storm. One person in, one person out, long lines. Cash only because there was no internet. Now the stores are taking cards again, and you can get much of what you need or want. Most gas stations are open again. The two coolers on my back porch are full of food, and I am still cooking all meals on the propane grill. I’ll need to find more propane soon.

Downtown is a ghost town. Asheville is a tourist draw and obviously there are no tourists right now. A lot of people have left town temporarily as well. Some businesses have boarded up, and only a few shops are open.

My hot tub is almost empty, which means I’ll have to figure out another source soon for non-potable water. I saw the destruction to the reservoir system. It’s extensive; the transmission lines, which carry the water out of the reservoir, were washed out after more than 30 inches of rain fell. The bypass line, which was built as a redundancy measure, also washed out. That particular line was buried 25 feet deep, but the land eroded so much that the pipe was carried away. Crews are working on rebuilding that pipe right now.

The Outdoor Community Steps Up

Second Gear was a lively, thriving consignment shop with a coffee bar and gelato stand, run by people in the outdoor community. (Photo: Lisa Raleigh)

The day before the storm, I went to to drop off a couple of things for resale. Second Gear is a consignment outdoor-gear shop that gives gently loved items like camp stoves and fleece and tents a second life, an effort in sustainability and in making things affordable to people who want to go outdoors and may lack good gear and equipment. It has a great location in the River Arts District, about 100 yards from the French Broad River.

The next time I saw Second Gear, it was in a video on social media, being swept away by the river. The entire building.

The Second Gear outdoor-equipment consignment shop, part of which was swept away, as seen today (Photo: Duane Raleigh)

A number of guide services, like paddle-board rental shops and shuttle operators like French Broad Outfitters and Zen Tubing, that were located on the river suffered similar fates. Wrong Way Campground saw massive damage, the river breaching several of their cabins.

The local climbing gym, Cultivate Climbing, closed their flood doors, which would typically keep water out of the building. The river level was so high the waters crested the flood doors, poured in, and turned the building into a swimming pool.

Pisgah and Nantahala National Forests are closed. There’s no telling what sort of damage those mountains have suffered, because all resources right now are still dedicated to helping people in need. I’ve heard of groups of mountain bikers from the local bike club, called SORBA (for the Southern Off-Road Bicycle Association), hiking into small, isolated communities and chainsawing a path for those residents to get out to the nearest fire station.

I’ve heard of fly-fishing guides leading search-and-rescue efforts in the steep mountain hollers where they typically head up fishing adventures.

What was a gelato stand near the French Broad River, Asheville (Photo: Duane Raleigh)

Several small towns, such as Barnardsville and Spruce Pine, in western North Carolina are isolated, the roads covered in mud and a tangle of pines and hardwoods. Nonprofits and small-town fire departments have been organizing groups of hikers to take supplies into people deep in the mountains who are cut off from the outside world. Volunteers with ATVs are incredibly sought after because they can get into remote places that normal vehicles can’t access.

The French Broad River Keeper, Hartwell Carson, who spearheads stewardship when he’s not assessing storm damage and reports of toxic sludge, mobilizes a crew of volunteers to cook burgers and hot dogs for various communities throughout the region. He’s lobbying for millions of dollars to be allocated to the area specifically to put out-of-work river guides on the job of cleaning up the French Broad.

Astral, an Asheville-based shoe brand that makes popular water shoes and hiking boots, is focusing on supporting remote mountain communities that saw severe hurricane damage. This week, Astral will take a van load of six generators to the tiny town of Buladean, which sits below Roan Mountain in North Carolina’s High Country.

The director of North Carolina Outdoor Economy, Amy Allison, is trying to coordinate coat donations from gear companies outside of the region. It’s warm today, but the temperatures are dropping next week. Many families here don’t have adequate winter gear, and will need coats, hats, and gloves as they navigate the new reality of going to distribution points for drinking water and moving flush water into their homes.

What’s Next for Western North Carolina��

Blue skies, free clothes, and people helping in Asheville, North Carolina, after Hurricane Helene (Photo: Duane Raleigh)

Almost two weeks later, I still try to turn the light on when I walk into a room. According to local press conferences, we’ll probably get power back some time this week, which is great. I’ve heard that the city is sending trucks to take out household trash. There’s no timetable as to when water will be restored. It could be weeks.

Living without running water for a couple of months is hard to fathom, largely because our kids can’t go back to school without it. Schools must have working sprinkler systems in case of fire.

Several families we know have already moved temporarily to other cities and enrolled their kids in schools. My wife is looking into home-school scenarios.

For a couple of days right after the storm there was a constant stream of sirens and chainsaws, but that stopped. Now it’s silent at night. It’s the kind of quiet you get camping in the middle of the woods, but I live on the edge of downtown Asheville. With no lights in my neighborhood, I can see the stars at night. I don’t think any of us will begin to understand the impact of what’s happened for months, when it’s safer and the destruction and loss of lives isn’t so palpable.

In the meantime, we carry on. I have a wood stove. I’ve hooked up a solar shower. I’m trying to work again. Tomorrow I’m cooking burgers for the small town of Barnardsville, 45 minutes north of Asheville. After that I’ll help a friend salvage the fence on his farm, then later in the week help another friend repair his campground. I think I’ve come up with a solution for water to flush my toilets, too. There’s a creek at the bottom of my neighborhood. I’ll put my cold plunge tub in the back of the truck and fill it from the creek with five-gallon buckets, then drive back up to my house and put the water in the hot tub.

It feels good to have a plan.

Graham Averill is ��ϳԹ�� magazine’s national-parks columnist. He’s lived in Asheville for more than 20 years. If you want to help locals, lost its warehouse in the flood, and is still distributing food to those in need.

Even after a hurricane, dogs still need to be walked. The author takes Rocket through the debris-filled streets of home. (Photo: Liz Averill)

For more by this author, see:

9 Beautiful Mountain Towns in the Southeast

9 Most Underrated National Parks for Incredible Fall Foliage

The post This Is What It’s Like to Live in Asheville After Hurricane Helene appeared first on ��ϳԹ�� Online.

10 Things I’d Do in My Own Private Ski Gondola

Fred Dreier — Tue, 24 Sep 2024 18:30:49 +0000

Each morning, the ��ϳԹ�� staff meets to go over the day’s news, and a topic that comes up again and again is the housing crunch gripping mountain towns. Every week, it seems, a different mountain community or aimed at increasing the paltry number of low-cost dwellings. But nobody really knows how to make these towns affordable to crucial workers who live there: you know, ski lift operators, or a town’s

And then, a few times a year, a news story hits that makes us all wonder if the whole effort is an exercise in futility, and that every ski town, from Bozeman to Big Bear,��is destined to become an enclave just for gazillionaires.

The latest: about a seven-story, 21,000-square-foot megamansion that’s about to hit the market in Park City, Utah.

The WSJ estimates that this gargantuan dwelling—which sits on 2.6 acres on the slopes of Deer Valley Resort—will list for $65 million, which would make it the most expensive in state history. Constructing the home required 60 full-time workers, the newspaper��reports. The publication then quotes the executive who had the thing built, a financial-tech guy named Doug Bergeron.

“I think I personally increased the GDP of Utah,” Bergeron told the newspaper while laughing. Ha, indeed. The��Journal��didn’t ask Bergeron if the home’s spare bedrooms (there are seven in total) would be available for low-income renters during off-months.

But the price isn’t why this home has garnered so much attention. You see, this home has a private gondola. Yep, it’s a bona fide��ski gondola, mounted to an electric track. The private cabin whisks the owner to the top of nearby Bald Eagle Mountain, and from there, it’s just a short ride on a quad to visit Utah’s most famous landmark: the bunny slope where Gwyneth Paltrow collided with that grumpy optometrist.

Hitting the Market in Utah: A $65 Million Ski Home With a Gondola

— Randall Kammerman (@RandallK33)

As I read the��Journal story, my emotions went on something akin to a gondola ride: I felt anger and resentment, and then yes, jealousy and finally grudging appreciation. My initial question (Why didn’t they build high-density, low-income condos there?) quickly gave way to an altogether different one��(Does the gondola have heated seats and Bluetooth speakers?)

Passionate skiers are undoubtedly familiar with this cocktail of feelings—it’s the one you experience whenever a headline pops up about the Yellowstone Club, or some other private ski operation. Sure, the concept of ski experiences for the one percent is off-putting, but damn, you’d totally , if you could. It’s the skier’s version of this classic story in The Onion: .

Eventually, even I had to admit that I would absolutely love to zip around in a private ski gondola. You get to cut the line, you avoid those awkward chairlift conversations, and you generally get to act like a big-shot. But as I daydreamed about owning this garish ski house, I came up with a longer list of reasons why having your own gondola would absolutely slap.

For us plebeians, riding a ski resort gondola means adhering to a lengthy set of rules. But private gondolas do not have such regulations. And there’s a whole code of social norms you adhere to within a gondola that I assume would vaporize inside a private, rich-guy gondola.

So, here are ten things I would totally do in my personal gondola if I somehow acquire the financing to purchase the $65 million Utah mansion:

Bring my dog:��Most resorts prohibit you to bring your canine on board a gondola—my home resort, Keystone, specifically forbids it. That’s not the case with my gondola! My nine-pound Schnauzer, Beau, is always welcome. Your dog can come, too.

Fart:��If I’m rich enough to afford a $65 million house then I really don’t care if I pass gas in public. In fact, wealthy me probably loves the smell of my own flatulence.

Discuss politics: What’s worse than farting in a gondola? You guessed it: sharing your hot takes on the upcoming election. Too bad—if you ride in my private gondola, then you’re going to have to weather my opinions on national, state, and hyper-local politics. The town dogcatcher will never recover from my blistering critique.

Keep snow conditions to myself: Unofficial chairlift etiquette requires you to discuss the weather, traffic, and snow conditions with your lift-mates. The latter topic is paramount—if you’ve already done a few runs, you must divulge where the good snow is, and where it isn’t. This rule does not apply to riders on my private gondola, however. So, you can forget about me sharing my secret stash in Deadman’s Glades.

Leave my pole-straps ON:��This ubiquitous rule that governs all chairlifts, surface lifts, and gondolas (remove your ski pole straps) no longer applies to me. So when I step into my gondola, my ski poles will be strapped to my wrists no matter how much clanging and fumbling it causes.

Horseplay:��The rules for riding the chairlift at California’s Palisades Tahoe specifically forbid being a general nuisance: throwing stuff, pushing, and generally acting like a 11-year-old boy hopped up on Mountain Dew. On my gondola, however, horseplay is not only encouraged, it is required. So, when boarding, welcome to the Thunderdome.

Sleep overnight:��Do you remember the poor gal who was trapped in a gondola at California’s Heavenly ski resort overnight? Well, I want to experience her plight—only in a heated gondola that’s connected to my mansion with plenty of heat, food, and booze.

Drink alcohol: Speaking of booze, drinking alcohol in a gondola is another across-the-board no-no at North American resorts, even if it’s rarely enforced. But my gondola will have a minibar, and happy hour goes ’round the clock.

Smoke marijuana:��Look, I’m a lame suburban dad who wears imitation Crocs 24-7—my pot-smoking days are long behind me. But if I had access to my own gondola, you’d better believe I’d hotbox that thing. I cannot guarantee I’d actually make it to the slopes—especially if I had a pint of Cherry Garcia in my freezer and The Hunt for Red October on the cable box. But hey, if I get too high to actually exit my gondola, I can simply ride it back to my living room.

Swing and bounce: Another cardinal sin for resorts—don’t swing or bounce the chairlift! I have no clue how to budge a gondola that’s mounted to a metal track, but I’d find a way. After all, in this scenario I’m rich, so the rules don’t apply to me!

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If You Live in a Mountain Town, Get Ready for Lots of Houseguests

Alison Osius — Thu, 29 Aug 2024 10:00:49 +0000

They don’t call it lifestyle property for nothing. Anyone who is fortunate enough to live in a beautiful place can expect visitors and a lot of houseguests. I know because I live in a mountain town.

When I was younger and living in a shared house in Aspen, I rashly, widely urged friends to visit, to crash in sleeping bags. But then there were more and more. Someone who supposedly knew my brother from college called and asked if she and her brother could stay a few days. (It’s always “a few.”) One of my housemates had a romance with a visiting British guy, who came back the next winter with two of his friends. By then she’d met someone new, and so she left the three Brits sleeping in our living room for days, until I was elected to tell them to decamp.

We’re here! And on vacation—while you’re not!��(Photo: mihailomilovanovic/Getty)

In those days of land lines, one time when I came back from work, a visiting friend said, “I called Russia.”

“You … what?”

“I had to call Russia. You can tell me when you get the bill.”

Of course, I’ve stayed in many a friend’s house, and I love having people for dinner and to visit. But early on in Aspen, my housemates and I realized we had to manage the situation. I started warning people ahead to say I would be working and couldn’t ski with them every day, nor go out every night. Guests who are on vacation and locals who are not are fundamentally at cross purposes.

Weekend arrivals are much appreciated. (Photo: Jamie Kingham/Getty)

Eventually I got married, moved 30 miles down valley to Carbondale, entered many years of kids and schools, and had visitors, but not the same sort of volume. Lately, though, they are surging anew.

Friends are taking early retirement. Some are self-employed or have reduced their hours, and some are working “very part time.” And there are always teachers with summers off, or just people on breaks: lighthearted, blithe.

Recently a friend said he was coming to town and asked to stay. My husband and I said sure. “I’ll get there Monday or Tuesday,” the next text said. He arrived Sunday morning: “Oh, I thought it was Monday.”

Friends pass through on long road trips, with loaded roof racks and bike racks. People I haven’t seen in years write, “How are you?” and I know what that means. People ask all the time if I can take time off or do things on weekdays. But I work full-time, and in the last month we’ve had six sets of visitors. I wanted to see every one of them (and insisted on hosting some for certain events), but PTO is finite.

The other change is this: now I work at home. The pandemic. A friend who also works at home recently told her nephew sorry, no, he and his wife couldn’t come stay on a Tuesday through Thursday. Her old guest room is now her office, which she must use to work. It’s always easier to have friends on a weekend, but visitors forget, because they’re on vacation.

Our kids and their friends come, stay, ski, and eat all they want. I love it—and just hope it snows. (Photo: Alison Osius)

So, a few suggested tenets for visiting friends in mountain towns and other beautiful places.

1. Ask your hosts well ahead of time if a date works, and offer an easy option to decline. I.e.: “We can also camp, so no worries if you have too much going on.” A dear friend came through last week, knew we had our son and his girlfriend here in addition to two people in a van in the driveway, and mercifully said, “Can you come meet us for dinner one night?”

2. It helps to keep your stay to three nights, per the old saying about fish. (An exception is family, especially our now grown kids … er, and all their friends.)

3. No one was ever anything but pleased with a thoughtful house gift. Anything’ll do. And/or bring food! A cooler is good, too, so you can bring more!

4. Offer to contribute to meals and cover at least one dinner, whether it’s cooked in your host’s house—that’s fine! that’s heaven!—or at a restaurant.

5. Please put your dishes in the dishwasher. They can’t make it there from the counter on their own.

6. On leaving, put sheets and towels in the laundry room, and clean up the bathroom a little.

7. Aim to visit on weekends. At the end of “Everybody’s Free to Wear Sunscreen,” Baz Luhrmann says, “Trust me about the sunscreen.” Trust me about the weekends. Midweek is tricky when people work.

8. Help me out. I work a lot. I prefer people not bang on my office door shouting, “Time to stop!” Or chide, “You’re not working again, are you?” or ask, “When are you going to retire?” I like my job, and I’d like to keep it.

With my brother, Ted Osius, in Da Nang, Vietnam, in 2016. Ted and his family lived in embassy housing in Hanoi and hosted visitors (like me) continually, with a philosophy of benign neglect. ��(Photo: Alison Osius Collection)

Last, I practice what my brother and his husband—who hosted me and everybody else under the sun while they were in the State Department in embassy housing overseas—always called benign neglect. Make your own plans, come and go as you like. I’m glad to see you and will join in if I can, but mostly give you a hug and a house key.

Alison Osius, a senior editor at ��ϳԹ��, lives in Carbondale, in Western Colorado. Having stayed with her brother and his family in Indonesia and Vietnam, she hopes they will take her up on visiting her to ski in Colorado next spring break. She’d hit the slopes with them on the weekend.

The author with friends Katie Kemble and Jill LaRue, in front of the A-frame in Icicle Creek Canyon, Leavenworth, Washington, where they all once lived and hosted many wanderers. (Photo: Alison Osius Collection)

For more by this author, see:

Colorado’s Storm King Mountain Memorial Trail Takes You to Sacred Grounds

Don’t Let Altitude Sickness Ruin Your Mountain Vacation. Heed This Doctor’s Tips to Avoid It.

In 2022 A Stranger Saved Us in a Storm at Green River. Trying to Find Him, I Just Got a Surprise.

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Help! I’m Starting to Resent My Airbnb Guests.

irosario — Mon, 05 Aug 2024 09:00:45 +0000

My mountain town is a vacation destination, and we have a tiny house on our land that we rent out via Airbnb, usually for longer stays. Lately, most of our guests have been remote workers who stay for a month or two at a time, then move on.

The problem is that I’m beginning to resent them. I’m a friendly person, and I always offer to show them around on the first day or two—but after that, it feels like some of the guests expect me to be their friend for the duration of their stay. For instance, one woman kept joining me when I was walking my dog in the mornings. We had some great conversations, and I liked her, but I find it frustrating and disheartening to put a lot of time into building a relationship with someone who’s going to leave. (Still, this is much better than the other side of the coin, which is guests who are disrespectful. One guy literally vomited in our hot tub.)

This town has had a big influx of remote workers since the pandemic, and not all of the locals like them. Technically, I work remotely too, but I’ve been here for over a decade and plan to stay forever, so it’s not like I’m just here for a few weeks before jetting off to the next “authentic” destination. However, the fact that I didn’t grow up here myself makes me particularly sensitive to the idea that these new visitors are giving all outsiders a bad name. How do I avoid projecting this resentment onto guests in our cabin when I know that they usually mean well, and haven’t actually done anything wrong?

It sounds like you care deeply about where you live: you found your way there, bought a house, and plan to stay for the rest of your life. This is your home. Of course it stings to see outsiders disrespect it—and not just that, but treat it as disposable, as one more trendy destination for their list. Somewhere to come, explore, take photos, and leave, all without changing the course of their lives. They even have a built-in friend—you—that they can dispose of just as quickly when they move on.

I don’t know if this is an accurate representation. But I can see how it feels that way.

You’ve done the work to learn this place, and it’s frustrating to see other people who just…don’t try. Or, worse, don’t care. As if the work you did doesn’t matter. As if outsiders can never really fit in. As if locals—your neighbors, your friends—will look at you and see them.

In fact, I think it’s the other way around.

This is your home. Of course it stings to see outsiders disrespect it—and not just that, but treat it as disposable, as one more trendy destination for their list.

Compared to these short-term visitors, you’re as local as they come. You’re committed to your town; your roots grow deeper by the year. You volunteer at the library and the local fire department. (Or if you don’t, you should—not at the library and fire department, necessarily, but you should be involved in local projects and institutions, in whichever form you choose. That’s how communities take care of themselves, and you’re part of this one. You should give back to the place that takes care of you, too.) Your Airbnb guests throw up in someone else’s hot tub, then run away. One of these things is not like the other.

Let’s talk for a moment about what it actually means to be local—and what it means to be on the fence, unsure of which side is yours. You clearly value feeling connected to your town, so you should respect the people who have lived there longer, for decades, generations, or more. Their history means something. It has, in many ways, shaped the place you’ve come to love. That doesn’t make you inferior, but it should make you grateful. That said, there will always be people who want to rub in your outsider status simply to be rude, or as a patch for their own insecurities. So your goal, when it comes to local clout, should be practical rather than universal. Do you feel at home? Have you found your people? If so, opinions beyond that don’t matter. Haters might hit a sore spot, but that doesn’t mean they’re right.

Now, what to do about guests who want to be friends?

You can be warm but not open, friendly but not inviting; there are ways to make clear that you’re around when your guests need help, but that help does not extend to companionship. That said, if you’re feeling social and have the time, there’s no harm in hanging out, as long as you keep your expectations realistic. These people will be leaving. Their agenda is different from yours. They’re looking for a nice week, not a new best friend. And if you do hit it off, remember that even a short friendship can be beautiful. You might lose touch, but you’ll leave each other changed.

Maybe someday a guest will fall in love with the place. Like you, they’ll recognize home when they find it. Like you, they’ll put down roots. If that happens, I hope you’ll welcome them as you wish you were welcomed, or as people welcomed you.

And until then, if someone throws up in your hot tub, charge them a hell of a cleaning fee.

writes our��Tough Love��column. She lives in a mountain town, too—kind of. Her town is called Mountain, but it’s completely flat.

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Ski Boys Are My Weakness

jversteegh — Fri, 19 Jan 2024 14:00:42 +0000

I got dumped last April. Technically, we were never really together—in the blurred lines of the dating world today, we were exclusive, meaning we weren’t seeing anyone else, but he refused the title “boyfriend.” After three months of acting like he was my boyfriend, he did what everyone is frustratingly entitled to do—he changed his mind.

When something like this happens, I turn to the women in my life. First I called my sister, Cricket. There’s nothing more validating than hearing her tell me I’m smart and beautiful and deserving of love. After her I spoke to my friends. I live in Bozeman, Montana, with two wildly independent, hilarious women, and our stories of dating ski instructors, hunters, and backcountry firefighters could easily fill a book. Finally, I reached out to my mom, Kris, who reminded me that there is in fact a book that explores the frustrations of dating this type of man—a book written by one of my literary heroes. As I cried, my mom said, “Just think of all the duds Pam Houston dated.”

, Houston’s 1992 debut, is a collection of fictional stories based on her personal experiences in the American West. My mom gave me her copy a few years ago, just before I went through my first real breakup. The stories are written from the perspectives of various brave, smart women, all of whom pursue relationships with wild men. There’s a reckless river junkie who puts the narrator’s life in danger on a Class V rapid, a bristly hunter who one woman follows deep into the woods of Alaska, and a sweet rancher who takes a woman dancing. The men in the book, too unrestrained to settle down, never commit to the narrators and eventually leave them feeling empty. I am familiar with the scenario.

Thirty-one years after it came out, Cowboys still feels relevant, perhaps even more so than when it first appeared. These days women fill mountain towns, attracted by the lifestyle that comes from living near ski resorts, raging rivers, and formidable crags. We feel more welcome in these outdoor communities than our predecessors did decades ago. Some of us are also attracted to the men who live in them; for better and worse, I’m personally drawn to the ones who refuse to settle down. And like Houston’s characters, I often surrendered my power in a relationship, sacrificing my wants and needs to the man in my life. One of my salvations is Houston’s writing. Her books are a reminder to define myself by my own untamed nature, not by the flaky men I date.

“Men are always excused for loving the wilderness or loving adventure or loving whatever more than the woman,” Houston said. “Women aren’t excused for that.”

My brushes with single life have come during time spent in mountain towns, specifically in Santa Fe, in Truckee, and now in Bozeman. These are places ripe for the pursuit of skiing, mountain biking, camping, and other outdoor passions. Alas, they’re also places where Houston’s cowboys are primarily what’s on the dating menu. This definition of cowboy isn’t a man who uses a lasso and rides a horse; it covers any guy who’s fantastically skilled at exactly one outdoorsy pursuit and emotionally unavailable. He can be a fly guide, a ranch hand, a mountain-bike mechanic, or a semipro athlete who works construction in the summer. These kinds of cowboys are very much still around, and I can’t get enough of them. My mother isn’t thrilled about it.

An avalanche of websites and social media posts tell women that our situation has improved in traditional heterosexual relationships. Men are more tuned in to their emotions, and women no longer feel the old pressures to marry in their twenties. We have funny new lingo to help us understand dating pitfalls, terms like breadcrumbing, exclusive, and, of course, ghosting. (Breadcrumbing means to lead somebody on with small, inconsistent validations that ultimately go nowhere. If you didn’t already know that, congratulations.) In a mountain town, the lopsided ratio of men to women places power in women’s hands—allegedly. So why have I and almost all my girlfriends experienced the same “heterosexual blues” again and again? (That term is from a review of Cowboys, by the way.)

In fact, as I reread Houston’s collection for the seventh time after my April breakup, I had a new question: Has nothing changed for women in mountain towns? In October, I called her to discuss the dynamic—and to find out if the cowboys she wrote about decades ago will ever change.

In some ways, we agreed that the expectations placed on men and women have not shifted dramatically since the nineties. By and large, men will always be forgiven for perfecting their sports or risking their lives outdoors. Usually, women don’t get the same slack. After big-mountain skier Hilaree Nelson died on 26,781-foot Manaslu in 2022, some online commenters criticized her because she left children behind.

“Men are always excused for loving the wilderness or loving adventure or loving whatever more than the woman,” Houston said. “Women aren’t excused for that, even though I know many, many women for whom all their major life decisions are based on how much they want to be outside and how much they want to be free to do their sport.” That perspective rings true: I still feel compelled to elevate my relationships over my outdoor passions, and I’m privileged to be surrounded by progressive, feminist friends and family.

But there’s one major difference between the nineties and today. Houston told me that she remembers thinking back then: I don’t want to be as good as them—I just want to be good enough so they don’t notice I’m here. “That’s not someone who wants to be president or summit a mountain,” she told me. “It’s someone who doesn’t want to threaten the egos at the top of the food chain so they get to participate.” Houston said that in those days she didn’t want men to feel like they’d compromised their outdoor experience by inviting her along. Thirty years later, she laments the mindset. “That was me saying those words, making those choices, and not saying, ‘Fuck you. I ski better than you,’ ” she said. “Here I am at 61 and I’m like, What? How many diminishments are there in that one sentence?”

Houston’s comments remind me of the opportunities I now have in the outdoors—ones that previous generations of women may have lacked. Today, when I ski at Bridger Bowl, I’m usually joined by four or five girlfriends. We don’t think twice about bombing down slopes faster than the dudes. We don’t compete with each other when we’re skiing together, because we feel secure in our own abilities. I credit this to Houston and the other women who entered male-dominated outdoor spaces decades ago.

An early-morning tour up Goose Creek outside Bozeman (Photo: Cricket Klein)

Since publishing Cowboys, Houston has written six books and hundreds of essays—many of which have nothing to do with men. After it came out, she bought a ranch in Creede, Colorado, and then became something of a cowboy herself. Her 2019 memoir, Deep Creek: Finding Hope in the High Country, is also a favorite of mine; in it she recounts her struggles and ultimate success buying and maintaining her own land.

At one point in the book, Houston talks to two young women in the thick of dating. One asks Houston how she learned to retain her independence in relationships. Houston responds: “I realized I could make my own life. I could have my own ranch. I finally realized I could be the cowboy.” The scene reminded me of the times when I gave my power away to a partner. Times when I didn’t share my opinion for fear he wouldn’t like it. I was also reminded of the times I did voice an opinion and got a negative reaction.

After each breakup, I realized it didn’t really matter what I said or whether I voiced my feelings. Reading Houston helped the fog lift and reminded me that what I love most about myself has nothing to do with how men react to my opinions. I’m the cowboy I’m in love with.

Last spring I helped edit a new essay Houston wrote for ��ϳԹ��. At the time, I was still trying to get past my April breakup. Her piece, “Ride the Good Witches,” reminded me of my own wildness and how much I cherish it, despite the persistent worry that maybe I’m not interesting or funny or smart enough. It’s about Icelandic horses, which Houston has been riding—in Iceland—in pursuit of physical and spiritual reawakening after a terrible struggle with long COVID. The horses reminded her of the freedom that still exists in us all.

My eyes watered when I read a few lines that described how she could never ask a rowdy mare to fully trust her, because that would mean giving away part of herself. “I want her to trust me just enough so we can go fast together, but never so much that her dauntless spirit is true to anything but itself.”

While I’m not as fierce and steadfast as an Icelandic horse, I too have a dauntless spirit I can’t afford to lose—and I’m sure a cowboy in a mountain town feels the same way. And sometimes women who pursue outdoor passions need reminding that we also deserve to cultivate our wildness. So fuck you, cowboy, I ski better than you.

Sometimes women who pursue outdoor passions need reminding that we also deserve to cultivate our wildness.

I first read Cowboys in 2019, just before my five-year college relationship came to an end. Back then the lessons I learned had little to do with men. Instead, the characters were living the life I wanted—but at the time I had moved to New York City to be near my then boyfriend. I related to the tales of heartbreak, but also got upset that I wasn’t running Class V rapids or schlepping through grizzly territory. The book made me crave that freedom and wonder what it would feel like to be that wild.

I quit my New York job, landed at ��ϳԹ��, and moved to Colorado before relocating to New Mexico and finally Montana. These days I spend half my summer nights under big starry skies in the backcountry, and I spend winter days skiing with my girlfriends. I drink beer while floating down rivers alongside boys I have no romantic interest in. I make rash decisions with the little money I earn, like buying an expensive mountain bike that I ride down sketchy trails. At work I edit stories for a magazine and website, a job that has brought me the kind of professional joy I haven’t felt since I was a ski coach in high school. When I’m feeling inadequate, I go car camping alone, and I write about how I think love might be the way I feel when the dusk light makes a lake look splintered against a backdrop of evergreen trees, and that my life has become more than I could ever ask for.

Sometimes it takes a jolt like a breakup (or several) to crack open our hearts and remind us of the important truths. The cowboys I date are fundamentally the same as the ones from 30 years ago—it’s we women who’ve changed. Turns out it’s no longer about the cowboys at all. Houston went through hell and back to realize this after Cowboys was published. And, once again, so have I.

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