A Ski Bum’s Helpful Guide to Navigating that Weird Thing Called “Summer” in Ski Towns

The sun is here! We aren't sure if that's a good or a bad thing! Tess Wood photo/illustration.

Even more clique-y than the social circles of ski towns in the winter  be the distinct posses of those same mountain towns come summer. Walking into a crowded bar in Jackson reminds me of that informative scene in Mean Girls where the geography of a cafeteria resembles a strictly delineated zoo. Suspend your I'm-a-good-person behavior and judge a little; you can see definitive groupings, all sticking to their own, with the occasional smattering of variety therein.(With the exception of that raft guide party I stumbled upon at The Bird one summer; terrifyingly homogenous. I felt like a real fish out of water, pun intended.)

Generally speaking, it goes something like this: The mountain bikers, calves freshly mud-caked, congregate in one corner; some true ski bums, unsure what to do with sunshine and clothes not made of Gor-Tex stand in an awkward huddle; fly-fishing guides, a strange mix of sunburned, exhausted, and drunk, command the most attention with their grandiose gesticulations and elevated volume; the 90-day-wonders with well-trained college livers and penchants for heavy-handed flirting trying their damndest not to ever call it a night before 2 a.m.

Now, the forced mingling of different characters is what myself, and many others, like so much about little ski towns. Concerts and events line up as to never overlap, avoiding the horrific situation of ever having to prioritize. Realistically, the bar-hopping landscape features five bars, and even fewer if we’re talking late night spots. We’re circulating the same places, and even if we’re maintaining strict clique lines we peacefully coexist.

Depending on one’s mood, getting thrown spontaneously into a rambunctious gathering of river guides might be kind of fun. The fun one imagines lying on the 50-yard line of the Puppy Bowl would be like. 

But, maybe it’s a been a shitty day, and your sights are set on one cocktail with friends, and then heading home early to finish off all those farm share greens before they spoil. Those jolly, swaying guides look less like potential new friends and more like hairy, worn-out leather that probably shouldn’t be touched when you have immediate plans that don't involve drinking like the world is ending.

It's all fun and games until one salty skier girl gets hit on by a biology enthusiast spending his summer in Kelly who really wants to climb the Grand while he's here. He just can't take the hint and she has no patience for his efforts. Then we've sunk to dirty looks, disdainful rejections, and throwing shoulders at the bar. We're better than that! Can't we all just get along without having to keep our distance?

Every year we try our best to keep it together for four months, but by August we'll all be sunburnt and burnt out. Those poor tourists will have never seen it coming. Just don't say we didn't warn ya.

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stash member Tess Wood

Tess got herself stuck in Jackson seven years ago, and can usually be found skiing (alone, or with a gang of small children), eating snacks, or hustling her doughnuts on the black market. She is very good at pulling off granny panties, mumus and pantsuits with shoulder pads. She is not good at sharing.