Park City’s slopes were bustling this Christmas, but not in the way anyone hoped. With the Ski Patrol on strike and a ragtag group of scabs flailing in their place, the mountain devolved into chaos. The strike turned skiing into a survival sport. Families ditched the slopes by mid-morning, muttering about the “authentic Park City experience” as they skied straight into the safety of Main Street.
The shops welcomed the panicked masses with open registers. Overpriced beanies, artisanal olive oil, and t-shirts reading “I Survived Park City’s Slopes” flew off the shelves. Tourists swapped skis for shopping bags, debating whether a carved moose figurine or “avalanche-inspired” candles made a better keepsake. Restaurants, sensing opportunity, served truffle-laden everything to frazzled skiers too exhausted to question the holiday markup.
By the afternoon, Main Street felt more like a winter carnival than a ski town. Teenagers slid down the sidewalks on cafeteria trays, influencers posed with $15 lattes, and families argued over who snagged the last alpaca wool scarf. The mountain, still teeming with brave souls dodging the occasional wayward snowboarder, became an afterthought in the face of retail therapy.
Vail’s scabs, having narrowly avoided a handful of catastrophes, quietly faded into the background. Meanwhile, the striking Ski Patrol watched from afar, laughing as Park City transformed from a skier’s paradise into a gaudy playground for credit card warriors. Who needed well-patrolled slopes when chaos sold out the gift shops?
