Dream vs. Reality: Being a Liftie
Comparing two visions of a classic winter job.
Beanies low, music bumpin’, and cool as corduroy while the line builds up at the lift. They don’t have a care in the world—aside from making sure everyone loads and unloads without a hitch. You know who we’re talking about. These are the folks who get us to the top of the mountain so we can get our kicks carving up sheets of freshly groomed corduroy and fields of unmarred powder. They’re the unsung heroes of every ski area and resort: the lifties. They’re up on the mountain all day, surrounded by picturesque views, good tunes, and as though they were the offspring of Shane McConkey and Lindsey Vonn, they emulate that carefree ski-bum aura that most couldn’t cultivate in a lifetime. And so you think, Man, that’s the dream! But as usual, reality has a way of throwing a wrench into things. Let’s thresh it out and see if this quintessential mountain gig is all that it’s cracked up to be.
Dream
The sunrise casts a pink hue across the mountains as you roll into the parking lot for your shift after a restful night’s sleep in the remote A-frame chalet you rent from a family friend, just 10 minutes up the road. Per usual, you’re early so as to take full advantage of the free-breakfast plan offered to all lift-op employees. The cool mountain air along with the reggae steadily thumping through the surround-sound speakers has melted your cares away, and you spend the morning carefully raking the ramps to perfection while sipping hot coffee from the monogrammed Yeti thermoses gifted to you by the ski area. As you and your fellow lifties—who are now some of your best buds—prepare the loading zone, you recount the epic game of Dungeons & Dragons you gathered for last night and begin planning the next campaign.
By 8am, folks are already lined up in anticipation for the fresh powder that awaits above. Like a human smelling salt, you fist-bump left and right, firing up the crowd even more. And the best part is, you’re high as a kite! (On stoke, that is). Every few hours, you head out for a quick “ride break,” to shred a hidden stash your supervisor told you about. Your reliable coworkers are more than happy to man the lift in your absence, knowing you’ll repay the favor—and that’s after getting first tracks before the mountain opens. Sure, the instructors and the patrollers get to ski all day, but you never have to deal with broken limbs, screaming kids, and insecure spouses. Yup, you’ve found the best gig on the mountain. A season spent outside, getting paid, and hangin’ out with your winter homies? It doesn’t get better than this!
Reality
It’s eight-below zero and you’re up well before the sun to assemble a full-fledged rope maze in the dark. Your left eye is still swollen shut from the previous night’s altercation with a slippery stairwell, and even though it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, you’re pouring sweat from manning snowblowers, digging out the top station, and chipping ice out of the loading zone like some hapless crew member from Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated expedition to the South Pole. But this is the easy part. Once the clock hits 9am, you’ll begin the daily haranguing of imbeciles—tipsy tourists collapsing into piles of skis, disgruntled parents complaining about the music, and geriatrics too feeble to ride chairlifts in the first place.
By mid-afternoon, the sun’s intense reflection has fried your one exposed retina—what a horrible day to forget sunglasses—and your meathead partner, Thor, vehemently refuses to turn down his Swedish death-metal playlist, worsening your already splitting headache. I knew shouldn’t have stayed for that last round at the Crystal. It’s too busy for the “ride break” you’d been promised, but who cares—you’re too nauseous anyway. Inside the lift shack—a.k.a. Chair Traffic Control Tower (which reeks of microwaved fish, body odor, and airing-out Sorel boot liners)—you watch patrollers carve up the mountain like action heroes, while instructors feign laughter to milk more tips for their already-swollen pocketbooks. Maybe you should’ve tried for a red or green jacket instead of resigning yourself to a measly two days of skiing a week. But then again, something magical happens when the last chair comes to a stop—the mountain quiets, the alpenglow fades, and the snow, like a Russell Chatham lithograph, shimmers under the last light of the day. Maybe this is what it’s all about. You’re jostled from your idyllic musing by the sound of the lift screeching to a halt. Outside, Thor’s fumbling with a woman in a pink jumpsuit dangling upside-down from a chair like a Barnum & Bailey trapeze act gone wrong. “A little help here!” he meekly calls over her screaming. You, while wishing you had a tranquilizer gun to calm her down with, help with the rescue, but the day ain’t over yet—you’ve still got to take down the maze. Nope, you do not get paid enough for this crap.
