Lift Line Savvy

By Mike Horn

“Hey! You’re cutting the singles line!”

The audibly pissed-off voice belonged to a fellow snowboarder in the singles line just to my left that stretched from the Silver Queen to the Magic Carpet. I had just joined three skiers to form a four-pack in the main lift corral, something I’ve done countless times.

I mostly ride alone when I’m not with my family, and on days when there’s a line I’ll typically join a group of friends, or people I’ve never met, rather than navigate the singles line and try to merge into the scrum where all the lines converge. Sure, you might get lucky and the lift op will pull a four-pack out of the singles line to keep things moving. But you could also end up as the fifth person lined up for a four-pack with nowhere to go. It’s like merging onto a traffic-stacked LA freeway—everyone avoids eye contact and no one is going to let you in.

Now, this was a powder day, and the first one in a while. We’d been high and dry since a three-foot Thanksgiving storm. Anxiety and doubt were already creeping in. The rumor mill was churning.

“Might not be our year. It’s bound to happen.”

“I heard the t-bars might not open.”

“If we’re only going to get groomers this season, at least I have these sweet GS skis.”

Needless to say there was a little extra “tension” in the lift line that morning. The pent-up energy was palpable but generally positive. People were stoked. Except for the woman yelling from the singles line.

I turned around and confirmed that she was indeed yelling at me. I laughed, both baffled and amused, before responding, “What are you talking about? I didn’t cut the singles line. I just joined a three-pack.”

At which point a tall, lanky skier with undersized goggles, two inches of frozen forehead and a fully-stuffed Jansport knapsack echoed her charge: “Yeah man, you’re cutting the singles line.”

At the risk of sounding cliché and like an entitled “local,” I’ve gotta say, in 25 years riding Crested Butte Mountain, never, have I ever heard of, or thought of, people joining groups in the main corral as “cutting the singles line.” It’s entirely possible things have changed during the last 10 years when I was spending more time on the Magic Carpet and Red Lady with my groms than savaging the steeps, but I doubt it. Skiers are always looking for reasons to give snowboarders the business, jokingly or not. I would have gotten berated by some OG harda$$ local by now, right?

For the record, I’m all for calling out intentionally bad and/or ignorant lift-line behavior. Without order, there is chaos. And most of Crested Butte’s lift lines require navigating a number of unsupervised merges where everyone needs to wait their turn. It mostly works, but it can be a pushy affair. Assertiveness is good. Aggro is not.

I turned back to the Patron Saint of the Singles Line, saw her eyes through her clear goggle lenses, and realized that not only did I know her, but we were generally on friendly terms.

I said, “Kerry*, it’s me, Mike,” thinking she’d chill out once she realized who I was. Or maybe I’d realize she was just joking, gregariously busting my chops like I’ve come to expect from most of my friends. But no. She was stone-cold serious.

“Yeah, I know,” she responded firmly. “You’re cutting the singles line.”

I pled my case briefly to no avail. She eventually responded with a disdainful “It’s fine” before shuffling on her way.

“I hope the turns are worth it,” I thought to myself, all the while wondering what drove this person to be so salty on a mid-tier pow day. I’d like to say the experience just rolled off my back, but it didn’t. For some reason it really stuck in my craw. I was there to leave the world behind in a cloud of fresh snow, not get in an unwarranted confrontation over traffic flow. If I wanted to deal with road rage, I would’ve stayed back in Massachusetts.

Then there was the self-doubt. “Did I cut the singles line?! Have I been wrong all these years? Am I ‘that guy’ who cuts the line to chase down a couple of Jokerville laps? No, I’m not.”

Alas, the mountain offers many lessons and opportunities to expand self awareness, and this was no exception. I had an idealized vision of how my morning was gonna go—a rare solo-dad powder day—and that got disrupted by someone having a worse day than me. Which brings this all full circle: if I’ve learned anything as I approach 50 years on this planet, it’s that everyone is going through something at any given time. There is no cruise control in this life, very little smooth sailing, and more opportunities to lean into anger, frustration and judgement than warmth, empathy and understanding.

Like the rest of you, I come to the mountain to have fun, to give myself up to gravity, clear my mind and find some peace in nature. I’m there to laugh, have random lift ride conversations, cheer on friends and overall be grateful I can make a life around sliding on snow.

In retrospect, the singles line caper was but a minor blip in an overall awesome season. The snow came, the steeps opened, and skiers eventually put their GS rigs away. Looking ahead to this winter, I’ve been thinking about ways to have more gratitude than attitude, which is easier said than done for a crusty New Englander. Sometimes I just need to take a big step back and remind myself how lucky I am to be here. Look beyond the lines, avoid the out-of-control nut jobs straightlining Warming House Hill, and ignore the constant complainers.

And if that’s not enough, maybe patrol can extend its always creative signage efforts to remind us to have fun, respect the mountain, and be good to each other. I’d mention something here about not cutting the singles line, but, well, we all know there’s no such thing.

*Name changed for kindness’ sake