In exchange for this magnificent mountain existence, many of us spend an inordinate amount of time navigating the vicissitudes of Interstate 70. As a trade-off for having two world-class ski mountains in ready reach, we must share those slopes with a wide variety of folks. In both of these fora, peace and chaos intermingle in wild ways such that it can be hard to predict whether elation or destruction will result, the barrier between the two being confoundingly permeable.
As a matter of law and theory, both the highway and skiway are governed by a statutory framework that is intended to keep order. Enforcement of such formal regulations being fickle at best, it is informal codes of conduct that dictate quotidian travel across asphalt and snow, a self-policing more effective, or at least more frequent, than the penalties handed down by those in blue or red uniforms. Public shaming is the humble, rational citizen’s main form of punishment for the transgressors among us. Unfortunately, it is nigh impossible to censure the shameless.
It is mystifying that we allow the general populace to pilot half-ton hulks of metal at high speed over long distances. The aisles of City Market are dangerous enough, the locus of such insane and solipsistic behavior that it is a miracle that driving on the freeway doesn’t result in immediate death for all involved. Whether it is a left-lane Lucy driving at 45mph while texting and applying makeup and maybe also doing Pilates or an emotionally-stunted manchild blasting Limp Bizkit while dip spitting and doing 105 in a blizzard, the cast of characters on our main thoroughfare is captivating enough to win a Screen Actors Guild award. Attempting to corral the behavior of these lunatics is extremely challenging – they are so lost in their own world that their surroundings are simply an inconvenient blur.
As the ski industry continues its shift away from simple, wholesome family fun affordable to most everyone toward a luxury experience that caters to the arrivistes and dilettantes, it has also become exceedingly more difficult to encourage good behavior on the hill. For titans of industry and influencers, the reproach of a fellow skier is anathema and inexplicable because these special humans are so used to being coddled and worshiped that they believe they cannot possibly do any wrong. Of course, they should be able to scream at maximum volume about their impending private equity deal or brand activation while standing perpendicular to the lift line. How dare anyone sanction such angels when they ski into a child while sending a video of their “sick shredding” to their bros or “elegant outfit” to their followers – the gumption!
While the highway was always relatively lawless – is it worse to be texting as we do in 2026 or drinking casual beers with no seatbelt while chain smoking with kids in the back playing with firecrackers like they did in 1972? – my skiing childhood was defined by the Skier’s Responsibility Code. Those red and yellow signs were absolutely everywhere. There was a big billboard on the way into the ski area parking lot, the lodge’s napkins had the Code on them, there was a Code sign on the lift towers, the Code was above the urinals, I felt like I saw that typeface and branding when I closed my eyes to go to sleep.
The Code set the tone for behavior and even for miscreants like my little ski crew, we knew that we had to be in line or risk the wrath of ski patrol or, worse, our fathers. That same sense of community, of respect, of safety is not as pervasive as it once was and I wonder whether it is the shift to bougie branding that has us all askew and endangered.
Like most of you, I am tired of distracted interlopers or misguided daredevils or old-fashioned morons jeopardizing the sanctity of my ACL or my daughter’s cranium. As a solution, I propose that anyone caught violating the Code have its admonitions branded in reverse on their forehead – simple, effective, and only mildly draconian.