OCTOBER 05: Hostel Takeover
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Touring the West’s sketchiest mountain accommodations
It all started a decade ago back in Michigan, Roger says. Middle-aged, with bristly, furrowed skin, he sits on the bunk opposite mine, slumped over, chin supported by cupped palms, elbows planted on knees. We met briefly last night, and this morning, after breakfast, got to talking. “Can I confide in you?” he asks. I look at him for a couple of seconds. “Sure,” I say.
There was this guy, El Bonitas, who was in with the Mafia. He had a girlfriend, who Roger somehow looked at wrong. Roger didn’t mean anything by the look—he really didn’t—but it couldn’t be undone, and El Bonitas issued a contract for Roger’s life. Ever since, he’s been pursued by assassins. Crips, cops, Columbians, bikers, crooked D.A.s, even people Roger thought were friends. He’s permanently on the run, and no place seems safe. Not even a ski town, apparently, which is where we are right now. Bozeman, Montana, of all places. High-plains country, surrounded by mountains. Sleepy streets lined by brick emporiums and historic hotels, cruised by ranchers in pickups, trophy-home owners in SUVs, and skiers in ancient Subarus. Not a mobster in sight.
Then again, Roger and I aren’t staying in a five-star lodge. Those places don’t cater to cheapskate skiers. There isn’t a bellboy or hot chocolate station on the premises. This is the Bozeman Backpacker’s Hostel, home of the powder rich and cash poor. It’s also the first of five such boarding houses our crew is hopping between over the next two weeks. If we manage to escape Roger—he’s eyeing me suspiciously now—we plan to make Taos, New Mexico, staying only in hostels. The reason: to nab as many turns as possible on the cheap and mingle with an endangered subculture of the ski world. “Endangered” because hostel-goers—an odd, colorful, sometimes scary lot, who are vital to the character of any ski town—are being edged out as ski resorts bring in pricey real estate projects to turn a profit. In other words, we’re on a quest to seek out the Rogers of the Intermountain West.
Boarding houses have been around since the beginning of civilization, but it was a German schoolteacher named Richard Schirmann who in the 1910s brought them to the outdoors. Worried that kids were becoming estranged from nature, Schirmann led students on field trips in the country. He convinced the owners of underused properties to let his groups stay on the cheap, and hostelling was born. Today, Hostelling International lists over 4,000 hostels in 80 countries. More than two dozen are located at or near Rocky Mountain ski resorts.
As we found, their quality—and cleanliness—vary enormously. Some are spotless, with only the bunk-bed sleeping quarters distinguishing them from high-end bed and breakfasts. And some are brimming with character. The Bozeman Backpacker’s Hostel belongs in the latter category.
A faded-yellow, two-story Victorian on a quiet side street near downtown, the Bozeman Backpacker’s Hostel looks like your standard college student rental. Rainbow trout windsock dangling listlessly from the eaves. Relic couch parked on the sagging front porch. Front door plastered with bumper stickers with slogans like HOLD ONTO YOUR BUTT: OUR MOUNTAINS ARE NOT YOUR ASHTRAY. Inside, the living room is appointed with a futon, two shabby sofas, plants, posters, and a quiver of acoustic guitars in the corner. The only thing missing is a beer bong.
When I finish with Roger (“Stay safe,” I lamely advise), I head out to meet Wayne Mortimer, the hostel manager. He’s waiting in the driveway by a gate built from old skis. We load up and drive to Bridger Bowl, the revered locals’ mountain.
The snow is crisp, but the day is brilliant and clear. With no powder incentive to hike Bridger’s famous Ridge, Mortimer and I run high-speed laps off the Pierre’s Knob and Bridger lifts. He shares the hostel backstory on one of our rides up. The operation was established in 1991, and Mortimer, a world-traveling Australian, arrived the following year. An overnight stay turned into a week, then several years—the hostel was so cheap, Mortimer could pour nearly all his limited funds into skiing. In 2002, he became the hostel manager and bought it the following year.
Running the hostel isn’t just a job to Mortimer. It is a mission. Hostels provide an invaluable service to budget-constrained travelers and, he notes, a community atmosphere you’ll never find at a Day’s Inn. Lately, though, finances have been tight. For managing the place, Mortimer pays himself $100 a week—when there’s enough spare cash. After that, the operation just breaks even. He has nervously noted the recent closings of several other hostels. “I could raise the price [currently $16 a night] but the place was set up solely as a service, not to make money.”
We reach the top of the lift and unload. Skimming the eastern horizon, beyond a forested valley, are the snowy tops of the Crazy Mountains; to the south, in a wash of sun and haze, rise the jumbled Absarokas. Mortimer pauses to enjoy the view, then pushes off, saying, “I think I know where there might be some good snow left.”
If you want to know why hostels are endangered, simply glance around Jackson Hole Mountain Resort to see the result of a base village Extreme Makeover. The past five years have seen the construction of the Teton Club, Moose Creek, Granite Ridge, and Crystal Springs condo complexes, plus the Snake River Spa and Teton Mountain Lodge. The latest addition, the Four Seasons Resort, has three restaurants, massive rock fireplaces, an armada of leather sofas, and an expensive collection of modern art. High-season rates top $500 a night.
What’s happening at Jackson is happening to resorts everywhere. Skiing has become just another attraction, like restaurants, art galleries, and golf. Real estate is what really matters. The motive: sales of $550,000 condos tally profits faster than sales of $60 lift tickets. Second homes are a multibillion dollar business. The new business model resorts are following has been studied most thoroughly in Vail’s Eagle County, Colorado. A recent analysis of the county found annual spending of $677 million on second homes, versus only $387 million on winter tourism.
Such staggering figures make the base village presence of Jackson’s HostelX—a four-story wooden bunkhouse, built in 1966—all the more improbable. The place couldn’t be more opposite of the Four Seasons, and few ski shelters have more character.
Or characters. After checking into a cramped room, I head downstairs. In the living room, three 50-something men sprawl against pillows watching TV; at a table nearby, four Australians muddle through a game of Trivial Pursuit. An adjoining room has skis lining the walls, a setup for tuning, and a ping-pong table. In another room, some good-old-boys are holding court, pontificating about AC motors, earthquakes, and love with boozy authority.
Part rec room, part ski museum, HostelX is plastered with photos and memorabilia. A framed POWDER article recounts the history of the Jackson Hole Air Force, the renegade ski club whose members famously poached the surrounding backcountry. The group was founded by hostel co-owner Benny Wilson. Another clipping profiles John “Bulldog” Rust, an 89-year-old skier who has stayed at the hostel for a week each year for three decades. As it turns out, I’m in luck: Rust is here tonight.
He sits alone at a table wearing a leather Bavarian farmer’s hat and a snowflake sweater. He smiles when I introduce myself and gestures to a chair. Rust tells me he’s a lawyer, still practicing. “I’m for the individual versus the corporations, the insurance companies, and the government,” he says. Rust is clever and entertaining, but his mind wanders. He’s a conversational channel surfer: the hostel, the courtroom, World War II, proper skiing technique. “I never learned to link my turns so I do the jump turn,” he says at least five times.
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