A beanie perched atop shaggy, grown-out hair. A near-permanent goggle tan. Money tied up in eight pairs of skis, with a faint scent of reefer hanging in the air.
The ski bum has come to represent a modern form of freedom long associated with the American West. For years, the term served as a counterculture label, describing a lifestyle that prioritized personal freedom and connection to the outdoors over material goods.
In its early days – when Purgatory Resort was still finding its footing and Silverton’s backcountry remained a little-known secret – Durango attracted this subculture.
Today it still exists. Durango’s 20-somethings continue to chase powder, but the practical reality of making it work has shifted amid rising costs of living and rapid growth in the ski industry. That shift mirrors broader challenges facing younger generations: steep housing costs and an uncertain job market.
“In the winter, it’s pretty much all skiing,” said Carson Roithmayr, a Fort Lewis College student.
Exactly how much time he devotes to the sport is difficult to quantify. Roithmayr spends hours each week at his job in a ski shop, as well as untold hours tuning his own equipment.
Last year, he clocked 50 days of skiing – nearly two months on the snow. For perspective: Purgatory was open roughly 5½ months for skiing in 2024-25, or about 44 weekend days with lifts running.
“I always tell people, if I didn’t work at Ski Barn, I wouldn’t be able to ski,” he said.
Working in the ski industry has long been the best way to maximize time on the slopes and afford the famously expensive sport. But in Durango – and across Colorado – rising costs have outpaced hourly pay.
“(It) was a lot easier back in the day,” said Brian Buerger, former freeride ski director at Durango Winter Sports Club.
“The generation before me would say it was even easier than before,” he added.
Buerger would know – he’s dedicated his life to the sport. After graduating from high school in Indiana, he beelined to Colorado in pursuit of the skiing he’d only heard about.
“It just seemed natural to make that move, you know, there’s something about skiing that kind of grabs you, and I didn’t see a future without skiing,” he said. “So I did everything I could to make sure that was my life. There’s a lot of sacrifice that went into – I guess you can call it ski bumming – family relationships, housing stability, food.”
It wasn’t easy – Buerger lived in a 200-square-foot shack without running water for a decade – but affordable housing was easier to find back in the day.
“In the ’90s and in the early 2000s – up until recently – I would consider myself definitely a ski bum,” he said. “And its like, you could do a part-time job and still pay rent and afford to eat and pay bills fairly easily.”
In comparison, Avery Wickes, a recent FLC graduate, is doing the infamous “Durango tango” – juggling three jobs to afford her 400-square-foot apartment and keep up with the bills.
Though she grew up with a ski resort practically in her backyard (Hesperus), she didn’t start skiing until about six years ago, when she gained more financial independence. Her family couldn’t afford it when she was a kid.
She experienced the rush of hurtling downhill on skies while working as a lift op at Hesperus. That first job in the industry, she said, served as a pipeline into more expansive terrain – and broader knowledge.
Now, she works at Ski Barn, a local shop where employee perks help keep the sport – and lifestyle – affordable. Workers receive season passes to Purgatory and Telluride, as well as discounted gear.
Her two other jobs – an online marketing job and stable house sitting gigs – allow her to pay rent and build a savings.
“I would love to be a homeowner. That’s like, top of my list right now, and so I’m just at the place now where I have enough jobs, where I have income, that I can save for future me,” she said.
To some, the ski community has changed along with the economic realities.
Buerger described Summit Valley’s ski scene decades ago as a tight-knit community, brought together almost entirely by the love of skiing.
“All we wanted was to be surrounded by people that like skiing,” he said.
Personalities, backgrounds and experience didn’t matter – so long as they shared the desire, above almost anything else, to be skiing.
“It was easier in that way too, because there was more of us, I felt like, making it happen,” Buerger said. “And there was kind of like this community of ski bums and passionate ski enthusiasts and snowboarders and even like ski bikers that, you know, we were just all hanging out together and ripping together.”
That culture still exists, he said – but it doesn’t feel quite as strong anymore.
Wickes agrees.
To her, it seems the culture has shifted from what it was before the rise of modern technology and social media.
It seemed friendlier and more focused on the joy of being outside, on sticks. Wickes hypothesized social media has pushed the focus toward gear – new jackets, setups, boots – instead of skiing itself.
“We have nonstop conversations about this in the shop, just like, what are we going to do to keep this community alive? What does it look like for our futures?” she said.
For her and her peers, one of the ways to make the lifestyle sustainable and carry on the culture is through a career in the ski industry. But it’s not a safe bet.
There was a three-year period when Wickes was dead set on living a lifestyle like the one Buerger pulled off. But now, she said, that seems less and less realistic.
Most entry-level jobs in the industry don’t provide health insurance, and climbing the ranks can feel exhausting and uncertain.
“If you want this to be a career, you will spend years climbing that ladder,” she said.
According to her, the industry is oversaturated – a sentiment echoed by Buerger.
The upper-level jobs that pay well and have stability are few and far between. In many ski towns, the staff is a revolving door of college students and short-time residents.
Nearing 50, Buerger recently left his job in Durango to coach in Aspen, where he will receive benefits like health care.
Wickes and Roithmayr have seen the sacrifices made by the generation before them – and anticipate an even steeper climb ahead.
“I’m not sure that I’m willing to keep doing it – like it’s exhausting, it’s exhausting,” Wickes said. “So do I consider myself a retiring ski bum? Yeah, maybe. There was a time that I was dead set on living out of my truck and doing the backcountry stuff – but I cannot maintain that kind of lifestyle.”
jbowman@durangoherald.com
