American ski instruction, despite being located in “the land of the free and the home of the brave”, has a reputation for being slow, cautious, safety-oriented, and rule-obsessed, a reputation it deserves in contrast with places like Scandinavia or the Alps, the latter of which American ski towns love to copy with a faux chateaux aesthetic (Vail, I’m looking at you). Jackson Hole is the only one of these luxury winter-sports areas that ever seemed to figure out that you can embrace the Old West aesthetic (i.e. something that’s actually American) and still be cosmopolitan and elite.
Which is particularly bizarre, since you’d think a curated, luxurious, cosmopolitan version of the Old West cowboy vibe would be the surest winner in the history of tourism; certainly Europeans can get more than enough alpine chateaus close to home (and much better ones than they have at Vail, I might add), but they pretty much have to cross an ocean to see anything like the Wild West and its out-the-door access to wide-open spectacular true-wilderness landscapes. That basically just doesn’t exist in Europe.
Well…not exactly. Northern Scandinavia seems eerily similar to the American West in terms of its population density, the wildness and visual impact of the landscapes, even the climate and the basic layout; but even then it’s not quite the same. Ditto for further-eastern Europe, I imagine.
Toward an alternate History of American Skiing
Jackson Hole’s development as Cowboy Deluxe has been more or less unique, and it has deep roots: John D. Rockefeller, Jr. was already leading efforts to conserve the area in the 1930s, and was but the most prominent of the billionaire class to take an interest in the area, which has continued among the elite to this day. Jackson Hole Mountain Resort was only opened in 1965, however, a bit later than Vail (1962) and much later than Aspen (1946). Grand Targhee, which is another ski area in the greater Jackson Hole area, opened only in 1969.
Yes, there was Snow King, which served as the local hill for the town of Jackson from 1936 onwards, but in the absence of any high-profile elite ski area with truly American roots, modern-day resorts tended to draw their aesthetic inspiration from Europe. Perhaps if Jackson Hole were built out as a ski area much earlier it could have been quite different.
Indeed, one has to wonder why Sun Valley didn’t make more of an imprint: dating from as early as 1936, the aesthetic is more rustic and not as ostentatiously European as what would appear later, and during its heyday it attracted a plethora of winter athletes and creative elites alike, including many from Hollywood who publicized it using the power of cinema and celebrity. It just didn’t quite seem to come together, and today Sun Valley has long been eclipsed in prestige by the likes of Aspen, Vail, and, yes, Jackson Hole (the latter of which even has a high concentration of Hollywood types, like the Sun Valley of yore).
Given that Jackson Hole was made into what it is by events right out of the Great Man theory of history — certainly without John D. Rockefeller’s influence alone the region might have turned out very differently, more similar to the rest of the rustic or kitschy downmarket West rather than the unqiue gem of Cowboy Luxe it became in real life — we might imagine that if a similar figure had established a successful ski resort and town drawing on an authentically American aesthetic rooted in the Old West very early on, perhaps in the 1930s, it might have set the mold. Something as simple as Jackson Hole Mountain Resort three decades earlier could have done it.
And in a timeline like the one I write my science-fiction stories in, that might have been likelier to happen, since the economy continued to boom long after the 1920s, and the World Wars never happen, meaning globalization takes off far in advance of real life. Memories of the Old West being close and lots of capital available and capitalists willing to invest in new projects means a luxury cosmopolitan Old West ski experience might take off like wildfire, and early on at that. Western movies were popular enough in this time period, and if a synergy were developed between Hollywood celebrity and these new ski towns, the wildfire could become a firestorm.
The booming economy as well as the Hollywood elite celebrity factor would help make skiing much more of a mainstream sport much earlier, perhaps even becoming central to the American pursuit of rugged individualism on the frontier. Given that over time vastly greater populations migrate into the Pacific Coast and Mountain West regions than in real life, and at a faster rate, the region may well become central to American identity, with the Frontier and the Wild seeming much closer at hand than it does to the eastern suburbanites who dominate our image of what everyday American life looks like in the real timeline (with a generous sprinkling of Californian suburbanites who might go to the beach or hike in the hills if they’re lucky, which is all that makes it even bearable to watch…).
Rugged Individualism: into the Backcountry
And given this earlier ethos prizing being on the Frontier and the Wild being close at hand, the American skiing culture just might evolve along lines that live up to the country’s rugged individualist reputation. Certainly when the New Age counterculture comes around in the 1960s, and in the timeline I write in basically takes over the whole society within a couple decades, skiing will appeal as a symbol of freedom: pushing the envelope of the hardcore in the wilderness will be at the center of modern American skiing culture in this universe.
Of course, this wilderness is one reason why, in real life, American ski culture is less freewheeling than its European counterpart: North America has vast skiable terrain with perhaps the best powder in the world and the greatest vertical drops, but very little of it is easily accessible, due to being locked away for the exclusive use of animals and backpackers by the likes of the National Park Service. Cutting down swaths of trees, removing obstacles, grooming snowpacks, and the usual resort activities are quite invasive on the surrounding environment, practically despoiling mountains’ natural beauty. Certainly we wouldn’t want Grand Teton to look like any number of developed resort mountains in the Alps, to name but one of many examples.
But there is a way of skiing that doesn’t have nearly as much environmental impact: backcountry skiing. No grooming, no avalanche control, no removal of obstacles, no clear-cutting of trees: just you and the raw untouched nature. In real life this usually involves hiking up the mountain and then skiing down, but there are exceptions: at Jackson Hole, for example, you can ride up the ski lift to the top of the mountain and there are quite a few gates that let you slip out of the resort bounds and into the backcountry, where you ski at your own risk (see also the concept of “off-piste”, which is encouraged in Europe but often forbidden in America).
What if instead of a few gates for specialists this form of accessing the backcountry became much more common at American ski resorts? What if the concept were expanded into ski lifts that serve only the backcountry: no manicured runs or snow grooming at all, the only environmental impact being the lift itself?
This would tie into both a more rugged-individualist hardcore skiing ethos as well as environmental consciousness, both becoming more marked as the 20th century progresses in America, both in my alternate timeline as well as real life. What’s even better about this approach is it costs relatively little to just operate a lift: if there were a mass market for service into the backcountry, infrastructure costs would be minimal, since there are no marked runs to maintain, much less snow to groom (or worse, yet, make). Therefore, for a given investment, much more skiable terrain could be opened up, a godsend in a country like the United States, where the vast majority of the best slopes to ski on aren’t developed at all owing to the sheer remoteness (the Alps have much greater population density to support more developed resorts, and have had centuries longer to build up infrastructure).
Resorts of a different Color
The thrust of lift infrastructure in this “ski wild, live wild” universe would be elevation and distance, sheer reach to summits and ridgelines, rather than the density of runs that are covered. In this way truly vast ski zones could be constructed, and over areas that today are considered protected wilderness and very difficult to access. With only the lifts being built, and with environmental impact minimized, direct ski access to somewhere like Grand Teton National Park becomes viable. Jackson Hole Mountain Resort and Grand Targhee could even connect through lifts and (backcountry) ski runs, much like is the cast with Alpine resorts today, but in a way that’s much more untamed.
The idea of a resort that operates along these lines would be to serve as a gateway into the Wild. Backcountry skiing becomes less intimidating and more accessible, with beginner-friendly guided tours being a common offer, perhaps even expected as a natural progression once you’ve acquired basic skills, which might emphasize backcountry-specific knowledge from the get-go. Imagine a world where avalanche safety, recognizing terrain traps, and understanding snowpack stability is as much a fundamental as learning how to turn and stop, where even on your first lesson you’re practicing using avalanche beacons, probes, and shovels. Much like European instruction today, the emphasis is on getting you to explore on your own, only in this case taken to the next level, conceptually. Freedom and self-reliance become as much a part of actually-existing American ski culture as it does the romanticized image of the America of the past.
These resorts would focus on simple huts at strategic points within these wild areas (often near lift termini) that provide all the essentials, such as gear rentals, snow condition updates, and on-demand guides.
Over time I see these huts evolving into outposts, with hearths, small kitchens, and sleeping bunks to attract longer-term stays, eventually expanding into full-service bars or restaurants for some fun après-ski. Log cabins could spring up around them, and before you know it you have an entire ski-in/ski-out village in the backcountry. Over time these villages could expand into entire towns, lighting up ridgecrests all over the West’s backcountry, complete with some who opt to relocate there as permanent residents.
Some may not permanently stay anywhere at all. After all, if you’re untethered to a job, even if you’ve skied into a nice backcountry village, why not just keep going, following lift after lift, run after run, even indulging in the odd manicured resort or two? How far could you ski without leaving the lift system? Perhaps pretty far. The Sierra Nevada could be easily linked up this way, spanning 400 miles or so. The entire spine of the Canadian Rockies, from the Tetons deep into British Columbia, is a studly 1300 miles and likely is continuously skiable if connected by lifts. The Sierra Nevada themselves connect into the Cascade Range, which in turn connect to the Coast Ranges of British Columbia, which in turn connect with the spine of mountains that surround the Gulf of Alaska. From end to end? Perhaps 3500 miles. Incredible. And through the chilly mountainous terrain across northern British Columbia, it even connects to the Tetons via the Rockies! That would form the most vast ski area in the world, by far, dwarfing anything the Alps could even imagine.
What’s even better is in the summer one could glacier-ski in Alaska and then head toward the southern reaches in the winter, and then back again. Year-round skiing! The number of potential known runs is so vast in this region that to explore them all would take decades. Just going from one end to the other on skis could take years.
Modern-Day Pioneers with nuclear Zeppelins
A greatly increasing number of Americans would live in these places, and in this way, the human geography shifts from being dominated by populations in valleys to being dominated by populations on mountain crests: the median American lives at a much higher altitude and experiences much snowier and more severe weather (and milder summers) than is the case in real life. Americans are also much more likely to live off the road system: being in “the Bush” will be mainstream across the West once again, rather than being largely confined to Alaska as is the case today.
Still, ski lifts will service these communities, and they will be well-connected. True, there won’t be roads; too environmentally sensitive, and logistically difficult. Ditto for railroads. Terrain isn’t smooth enough up top for an airstrip in most cases either. But vertical-takeoff-and-landing aircraft won’t have a hard time. Helicopters could make it, but this timeline offers the perfect solution: airships. Zeppelins remain a mainstream developed technology in this universe, and their vertical-takeoff-and-landing properties, luxurious amenities (thanks to the square-cube law working for them rather than against them as is the case with heavier-than-air craft), and lack of noise make them perfect to service a backcountry town up on the summit.
Remember: these places are located in the middle of wildernesses and largely lack motor vehicles, so loud artificial noises aren’t really a thing in the first place, and in any event would ruin the whole appeal. Helicopter and jet noise would also disrupt wildlife. Zeppelins, especially with modern or near-future materials, can be made to be nearly silent, especially if they’re using power sources like fuel cells or even nuclear reactors, which run very quietly.
Nuclear reactors would be ideal for powering these backcountry ski towns as well, since modular reactors that are passively safe can just be buried underground to attenuate radiation, providing cheap, abundant electricity with little need for maintenance or significant environmental impact. Indeed, some of the marquee technologies of the alternate timeline I write in, like airships and nuclear power, might be helped along by the needs of these emerging communities as a mass market.
Into a new World…
So the backcountry becomes not just a relic of the Old West, but a site of innovation, as the region transforms into an entirely new frontier. And that might be a big part of the whole appeal: ever since the 1890s American national identity has been challenged by the closing of the frontier, and frankly it’s never recovered, despite efforts as late as the 1960s to revive the pioneer spirit. It’s not a coincidence the Apollo missions were launched under the banner of JFK’s “New Frontier”. And indeed space exploration and colonization is the ultimate answer to the challenge: expand elsewhere. But merely opening up the backcountry as a site where Americans of all walks of life can carve out the dream of unlimited freedom and boundless opportunity for individual achievement in the untouched wilderness would do a lot of good, particularly since this is one excellent way to open up the state that bills itself as America’s Last Frontier: Alaska.
For my alternate timeline specifically, it fits with the countercultural return-to-nature ethos, as well as the renaissance of rugged individualism as an ideal, reflected in children’s education: formal mass schooling falls by the wayside as self-directed forms of education take off, emphasizing free play, particularly in natural, outdoors settings, a model somewhat evocative of our forest kindergartens, only carried considerably further toward being a kind of anti-school. And it’s only a short step from a forest kindergarten to a ski kindergarten: from their first beginner runs on manicured slopes to basic backcountry skills, American children of this universe would be skiing far in advance of what’s common even in the most hardcore parts of Europe today, with freedom and independence being emphasized as the way to form character and virtue.
Indeed, so great is this effect that combined with the continued dominance of the old-style industrialists from the Gilded Age, coupled with the rise of tech elites who emerge from the computer industry half a century earlier than they did in real life (remember, technology advances faster in this universe), the ideal American might be much more introverted than in real life. As it was American culture only became truly extravert-oriented from the early 20th century onwards, when the magnetic personality became the ideal, supplanting the older concept that centered on virtue and good character. In this universe US culture might tend toward more introversion than was even the case during the Gilded Age, eventually converging toward the norms seen in Russia today (another frontier society, only one that didn’t evolve into a gaggle of chatterboxes who say everything and mean nothing). Perhaps even Finland or Japan, though reaching their extreme seems unlikely.
There are really any number of directions you could take this in; a whole series of stories could be set in this sort of environment, and you’d never get tired of peeling back the layers of this universe. I for one find it utterly fascinating.
But the bottom line?
America has some of the most rugged terrain in the world, and (at least formerly) some of the most rugged people as well; if those raw ingredients had combined with a timeline that enabled them to reach their full potential, we could be well on the way toward building a skier’s utopia right here in North America: a slice of heaven on earth covered in snow, a White Paradise.