How to spot a snow-lover.
As passionate lovers of that fine white powder that energizes us throughout the long dark winter and keeps us up nights with restless anticipation, we’re proud of our particular obsessions and wear their badges of addiction boldly. Here are some ways to spot us this winter.
If the detailing of my crunchy, logo-plastered Arctic Cat jacket matches my sled, then you can bet I’m a ‘biler, and that I spend my winter days high-marking Miller Ridge and drinking Olys at the Miner’s Saloon in Cooke City.
If I’m far too comfortable in brightly colored, package-accentuating lycra and a thin synthetic headband, and I look like I’d prefer a Michelob Ultra over a Plum Street Porter, then I’m probably an over-energized skate-skier; and yes, I’m better at life than you are.
If I’m barely five feet tall but wear only XL Oakley sweatshirts, Anon goggles, and oversized Dakine beanies, then I probably also have multiple GoPros strapped to myself for all the sick POV-only edits I’m shooting this season. I’m a park rat and you can check me out on Insta. I follow back.
If our jackets are zipped all the way up, our long scarves are dangling from our necks, and our sweatpants are tucked into our ski boots, then we are a gaper couple. Is the tram really as scary as they say? We’re just not sure it’s safe. Hey, there’s the resort photographer—ski through my legs.
Dirtbag Tele Skier
If my jacket’s seams are fully sealed with duct tape, my beard has the lion’s share of a burrito in it, and I brought my tequila into the Haufbrau with me, then I am the last of a dying breed—the dirtbag tele skier. Buy me a PBR?
Yellowstone Club Homeowner
If I wouldn’t dare be seen with the likes of you, and therefore you’ve never seen me, I am the oft-victimized YC homeowner. Come by my little cabin sometime—we’ll have some Veuve Clicquot and talk about the riff-raff over at Spanish Peaks.