Last Sunday while riding up Chair 7 at Whitefish Mountain Resort a woman looked at my husband, noticing his Lorax-style mustache spangled in glitter and gazing at me at the other end of the chair, my own glittered cheeks catching the sun while garbed in a unicorn onesie and asked, “Are you locals?”
I answered for my family and affirmed that yes, we were indeed locals. Then I braced myself we for what I assumed was going to be a slew of questions related to what it’s like to live there, how much houses cost, or when will Glacier National Park open or if the “Yellowstone” television series was an accurate depiction of life in Montana. Even with my kiddo on the lift, the only person in our family not in costume, I felt my unfortunate reflex toward tourist questions hardened. Then, the woman smiled and followed up with the best question I’ve encountered on a chairlift: “Does everyone ski in costume here?”
Both Cole and I laughed. I thought surely my husband would admit that it was me, his very thoughtful wife, who smeared gold glitter on his sizeable ‘stache without obtaining permission first, but he replied, “Well it’s the last day of the ski season, so it’s a bit of a tradition.”
“Oh,” she responded, as if working it out in her head. “I didn’t realize. At first, I thought this was the absolute coolest place in the U.S. to ski since everyone always skis in a costume! Like a normal, everyday thing.”
My tension eased and I explained that we didn’t always encounter such sunny and spring-like weather for the final day of the ski season so this year’s costumes were particularly prolific and punchy.
I told her that I did think this was one of the best places to ski, costumes or not, but her response to our local traditions—she also shared that she caught the Pond Skimming competition the day before—reminded me that our experiences in this hallowed area of two local ski hills operating in the shadows of one of the nation’s iconic national parks makes what we do to celebrate winter and close out the season, even if the snowpack didn’t deliver, is quite unique and special. Yes, we’re not the only ski area where skiers and riders welcome the return of sunshine with costumes and parties, even lowly northern Michigan where I learned to ski had quite the costume game in the ‘90s, but what I was responding to on the lift was the organic, time-honored, not-highly-organized but still highly participatory ways we mark the end of one season and begin another. We are mountain culture people who need the natural elements for our spirit of adventure, sense of self, and expression of our culture. It’s also our economic livelihood, and for many of us who are raising kids on the ski hill, even if they’re too cool for costumes as my own ten-year-old, these chairlifts and slushy mogul fields give our families definable rites of passages. Many of us mark our wintry days by our child’s accomplishments on the hill: the first time they loaded the lift independently or rocked a blue square run with no issues or tears. So, coming into closing weekend, it’s nearly mandatory to send off the season with great fanfare.
I’ll also make the claim but didn’t because we didn’t have enough time and our conversation turned to the warm temps and declining snow conditions, that our fun and silly ski traditions, from glitter to unicorns, are also what I see as a radical reclamation of joy and fun. To take ourselves less seriously, to engage in joyful, kid-like play, all of which appear in short supply lately. In a culture that places value on online spaces and the continuous loop of production to feed a homogenized consumer culture, spending a Sunday sweating in a unicorn fleece onesie while skiing with friends and family, chatting on lifts with tourists from D.C. and the most northern reaches of Alberta who trekked long distances to take part in our annual rite to send off another ski season was just the antidote to an impulse that tends to frown on joy and shared silly, communal joy. Who knows, maybe next year they’ll return with a costume or their own jar of glitter. And perhaps next year I’ll be a kinder and more respectful wife who’ll ask permission before slathering on glitter on the impressively large mustache.