When I moved to Montana in the summer of 2004, it was still possible to scrape by. I didn’t know anyone save the manger I interviewed with over the phone to secure my summer job on Flathead Lake, and beyond the end of their season, come fall, I assumed I would have a plan in place. Room and board were included in the terms of my employment, a deal that as a recent college graduate I was more than happy with. Like many Midwesterners I had fallen under the spell of the mythic West: I had retooled “Go West, young man” to “Go West, young woman.”
Seasonal jobs weren’t unfamiliar to me as I was raised in a resort area where many people I knew worked at the handful of local ski hills in northern Michigan in the winter and found a different job once the ice thawed and boats dotted Little Traverse Bay. At the time, I wasn’t concerned by the lack of certainty or steady employment and figured that I could always find work in a restaurant, a job I had held since high school. For many years I was always close to broke without a savings account, but I managed to survive in the Flathead Valley, even if that meant taking on side jobs and assuaging my parents that one day I’d earn enough money to see the dentist. What fueled me was being able to work outside and explore the grandeur of the state’s most beautiful area. That, and having just enough money to buy a ski pass.
I made friends over the years who also came to Montana with a similar dream of exploring its mountains and rivers. At the time, I felt like I was a latecomer to Montana, clinging to the heels of those who had long settled here, which now I realize is one of many of the state’s enduring anxieties since early expeditions confronted native tribes: who came here first and why. Two decades ago, while I often felt stressed that I would overdraft my checking account and my waitressing shifts wouldn’t start unless it started to snow, I could manage. My friends could manage.
That’s no longer true.
The dream—and the myth—of the ski bum (or river rat or peak bagger) has likely reached its final stages because scraping by in the Flathead Valley is no longer feasible. I teach college writing at Flathead Valley Community College and this semester most, if not all, of my students confessed that living here is no longer affordable. Many of their parents could no longer afford to live here, or, felt lucky that they purchased their home 30 years prior and were trying to manage the increase in property taxes. These anecdotes are backed by data: in 2024 the National Association of Realtors stated that Montana is the least affordable state with home price listings compared to local incomes. In the Flathead, this is even more true as we’re one of the fastest growing counties with some of the highest housing prices. We’re in a housing affordability crisis and my students are acutely aware of it.
I should clarify that not all young people want to ascribe to the “bum” lifestyle, which with its mythic-like aspirations of logging many days on the ski hill to wait tables at night also comes with a lot of insecurities, many of them economic but also emotional. But I point to this because a big part of the local economy depends on seasonal workers since tourism is the area’s major driver. Ski bums may have long had a bad rap for chasing childlike dreams of untracked lines or forgoing a professional career to row rapids, but in an area that draws millions to learn to ski or raft outside of Glacier National Park, the “bum” makes this possible.
Throughout the semester, my students confided that the rising cost of college, coupled with the astronomical cost of living in the Flathead Valley made them feel defeated. How could they compete with wealthy-second home buyers? How could they find an affordable rental unit when the competition is so fierce? One student confessed: I feel like the American Dream of homeownership isn’t possible for me.
At their age, I didn’t have these concerns, which largely speaks to my inability to assess future stability and the brunt of student loan debt, but it’s heartbreaking to know that these incredibly bright, curious, and intelligent students are already feeling such a heavy sense of loss and burden.
They couldn’t be a ski bum in the Flathead Valley even if they tried. Deregulating housing isn’t going to do it. What’s at stake for these students, who will likely become a mix of professionals like nurses, engineers, doctors and educators, alongside restaurant owners and ski instructors, is that they place they called home can no longer provide adequate, affordable, and safe housing. Is the American Dream, which largely depends on home ownership, in its last throes in the Flathead, taking the ski bums along with it?