On a busy Saturday in 2005, I placed 13 young men on a backboard throughout my ski patrol shift. Some of these men knew their name and where they were, but couldn’t recall much else, including why they were lying on the hard plastic surface with a suspected head, neck, or spine injury.
That day, like many others, I worked 12 hours with no break. It was my seventh season as a patroller, and I was paid $15 an hour, with no overtime. I relied on the snacks I’d stuffed in my pocket and stolen sips of water. I was docked 30 minutes of pay for the lunch break I never took but was legally obligated to receive. Still, the weekend busyness was a blessing—on slow days, I could be sent home early, and the margin to buy groceries and pay my bills was slim.
In some ways, backboarding 13 people was anomalous. But in other ways, it was representative of the pressures of an industry that asks workers to provide difficult, life-saving care under increasingly precarious financial, environmental, physical, and psychological conditions.
American ski resorts clocked an estimated 60.5 million visits last season, an increase of 7% over the last decade. The physical safety of each one of these guests is dependent on patrollers, yet at some resorts staffing levels haven’t kept pace. At the same time, increasingly extreme and alternating storm and drought cycles and the corporatization of mountain resorts pile additional responsibilities onto patrollers. Still, we remain passionate about our work, despite low wages, skyrocketing costs of living, and reliance on GoFundMe campaigns in lieu of actual health benefits.
The consolidation of mountain resorts has complicated the relationship between patrollers and their employers. Gone are the days when patrollers could swing by the general manager’s office to air grievances, and perhaps even find a solution. Now, for larger resorts, that decision-making power lies in corporate headquarters that might be thousands of miles away. In response, patrollers are turning to alternative strategies to make their voices heard—including organizing through unions like the United Professional Ski Patrols of America. While unionized patrollers are still a small minority of the professional patrol force, unions or the threat of unionization are a powerful force at some mountains.
These union efforts made headlines last holiday season, when some 200 patrollers went on strike in Park City, Utah, picketing for better compensation and working conditions. The 12-day strike disrupted operations during the busiest week of the year, and Park City could only open a fraction of its terrain. Eventually, the union won a $2 per hour increase for first-year patrollers (from $21 to $23), incremental pay increases for experienced patrollers, and an increase in the equipment stipend (funds for patrollers to purchase the gear they need to do their jobs).
While these changes are significant, they’re still modest wins. With or without unionization, ensuring a safe experience on our mountains requires treating patrollers as the professionals they are. It means establishing pay incentives for patrollers who take on leadership roles in areas like risk mitigation, new patroller training, and continuing education**.** It also means compensating front-line patrollers for life-threatening work like avalanche mitigation. When implemented well, these strategies discourage turnover—and preserve the hard-won institutional knowledge a seasoned ski patroller brings after years of learning, training, and doing. Such depth of experience can lift up entire teams, ensuring better outcomes when guests are injured.
As a professional rescuer, I’ve spent years honing my ability to see the mountain for all its intricacies and personality. To see a mountain clearly is to recognize how snow changes throughout the day; how jumps, landing zones, and open slopes deteriorate as more skiers and snowboarders slide on their surface; where signage is best placed; where avalanche danger lurks; and how to protect myself so that I can show up tomorrow and do it all over again.
Our message is unequivocal: We want to be treated as professionals and co-equal stakeholders in the ski business.
Not everyone is cut out to patrol, and it’s not an easy profession to get into. Patrollers must be able to ski and ride advanced-to-expert terrain and be willing to go anywhere on the mountain, regardless of conditions. At our own expense, we secure the required certifications to deliver effective first aid and life-saving measures in a winter environment. We spend thousands of dollars on equipment—skis, poles, and boots we can wear all day—and warm base layers, socks, goggles, and helmets. We own avalanche beacons, shovels, and probes, and we know how to use them. We are practiced in our ability to act and react, and we maintain a base strength to lift heavy things, like rescue toboggans and people. All of this is expected before we even sit for an interview.
When you know what to look for on the slopes, patterns and trends emerge, each creating new responsibilities. On days when snow piles deep, tree wells and snow immersion become furtive risks, and I stand at the top of lifts warning guests to ride with a partner. On days when snow conditions are hard, I educate guests on how and where to ski—groomers are fast, off-piste is icy. I profile guests based on the clothing they wear, the equipment they use, and the way they move over snow. If I can identify and convince a beginner to choose an easier slope before they descend an advanced run, I’m saving them from a potential injury, and myself and my team from having to rescue them later.
These customer service, education, and outreach responsibilities have grown in tandem with the corporatization of the ski industry. Large conglomerates have bought up once-independent mountains and rolled out mega passes that grant entry to a multitude of resorts on a single season pass. This, in turn, has provided easier access for those who aren’t as familiar with the hidden dangers of bigger mountains. It’s also created more crowding on slopes, increasing the risk of collision. The elevated potential for injury among inexperienced guests similarly increases the risk of injury for patrollers—and for patrollers, who work seasonally and without safety nets, injury isn’t an option.
Unpredictable snow seasons are likely to make patrol work even harder and more dangerous. Still, there is reason to hope. Pay increases and yearly equipment stipends are on the rise. Perhaps the threat of unionization is inspiring resorts to listen to grievances more proactively, and our message is unequivocal: We want to be treated as professionals and co-equal stakeholders in the ski business.
On that busy Saturday in 2005, all 13 patients I backboarded required a paramedic to determine the depth of their injuries. Five had concussions, nothing more. The rest were taken by ambulance to a hospital or by helicopter to a trauma facility. While I’ve worked shifts with more than 50 guest injuries, that day still feels raw. The memory holds both haunting guilt and deep responsibility: The guilt that I couldn’t do more to prevent their injuries; the responsibility of knowing that what I was able to do made a tangible difference.
After 24 years, that ability to make a difference is what still ties me to the work. On a recent Friday evening at a local taphouse, I met a woman I’d helped two years ago. While I didn’t recall her name, I remembered the incident—when she left my care, I wasn’t sure she’d walk again. As we recalled that cold December day, we were no longer strangers with a shared experience—we were now friends celebrating a story of incredible resilience. When we finished chatting, I watched, with joy, as she stood up and walked away.
Cathleen Calkins is a freelance writer and professional ski patroller. Her work has been featured in Longreads, the Los Angeles Times, Runner’s World, and the New York Times. She lives in Central Oregon with her husband and their sweet dog Betty.
Primary editor: Mia Armstrong-López | Secondary editor: Sarah Rothbard
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