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every thing within its power to keep
COVID-19 from spreading on its slopes.
The resort instituted a mandatory mask
policy during the summer— Wyoming
didn’t issue a statewide mask man-
date until Dec. 7—and transformed
its human- resources department into
a contact- tracing team. Staff are now
trained to perform a number of different
functions so they can sub in as needed,
and work shifts in pods, meaning that if
a person in one group has been exposed
to COVID-19, another totally isolated
pod can come in to take its place. Group
ski lessons have been replaced by private
lessons (at no extra cost), and the gondo-
las and lifts are ascending the mountain
with minimal group mixing. Still, JHMR
can control only what happens on the
mountain. “My main concern is not ski-
ing itself,” says Greenbaum. “But rather
I’m concerned about peripheral activi-
ties to skiing that lead people indoors,
whether it’s a bar, a restaurant, a hotel
lobby, a rental shop, a bus.”
This is the predicament that America
has put itself in: a country with a lim-
ited safety net during the pandemic
forces its workers to choose between
the risk of getting sick and losing their
livelihoods. The mountain and the town
are left trying to find a balance between
keeping the economy open for tourists
and keeping COVID-19 out. As the sec-
ond largest employer in Teton County,
JHMR takes center stage in this un-
folding drama. The resort is respon-
sible for the livelihood of around 2,000
seasonal and local workers, and if the
mountain were to shut down, many of
the ancillary services in the town, like
hotels, restaurants, rental shops, cloth-
ing stores and other retailers, would
likely shutter their doors as well. It’s
an experience that has been shared by
people all over the world trying to sur-
vive in tourist- dependent places dur-
ing the past months. And many faced
with these same impossible decisions
have come to the same conclusion, de-
spite the serious consequences experts
warned would likely result.On a bluebird day just
after Christmas, the resort
was booked solid. It had
snowed almost 15 in. the day
before, and cars inched into
the packed parking lot. Ski-
ers and snowboarders waited
in line for the lot shuttle bus,
which, despite operating at
25% capacity, still felt un-
comfortably full. The restau-
rants and bars looking out
onto the sunny mountain
were similarly capped at 25%
capacity, and while masks
and social distancing were
required, patrons waiting for tables es-
caped the cold by standing shoulder to
shoulder in the foyer. Meanwhile, the
socially distanced lines for the gondola
were dangerously compressing. A re-
sort worker cheerfully reminded guests
from every corner of the U.S. to keep
their distance and their masks above
their noses. At the top of the mountain,
with views of the valley floor against the
backdrop of the jagged Tetons, every-
one breathed a bit easier.
Rob Kingwill and Emilé Zynobia,
professional snowboarders based out
of Jackson, stepped off the gondola into
the cold Wyoming air, about 4,000 ft.
above the valley floor. “I feel like this
is almost an essential service, to givepeople the opportunity to be outside,”
said Kingwill. “We need this for our
mental health.” When JHMR shut down
in March 2020, Kingwill strapped his
snowboard to his backpack and hiked
up Teton Pass’s 1,300-ft. Mount Glory
bootpack—every day for 77 days until
the snow had melted. But, he points
out, most recreational skiers don’t have
the knowledge and skills to navigate
such technically demanding terrain—
and without the money those tourists
bring in, Jackson’s working class would
suffer. “It seems like the benefits out-
weigh the costs of keeping the resort
open,” agreed Zynobia, as she and King-
will strapped onto their boards. “Even
though this is an activity skewed toward
wealthier people, it is helping a remote
economy, and it is getting people out-
side at a time when we feel caged in.”
Other mountain towns in the West,
like Telluride and Crested Butte, have
experienced similar spikes as
Jackson during the pandemic
winter, likely driven by the
influx of visitors. The infec-
tion rate in Pitkin County,
Colorado, home to the Aspen
and Snowmass ski resorts,
skyrocketed in the middle of
January, with about 1 in 35
residents infected with the
disease. In response, the
county’s board of health shut
down all indoor dining oper-
ations, but left the ski resorts
open. The results were prom-
ising: by February, Pitkin
County’s COVID-19 rates had
dropped by over 75%.
In Teton County, restaurants and
bars remain open for indoor operations
as long as they follow social- distancing
guidelines. The reliance on the ultra-
rich creates an undeniable risk to the
livelihood of Jackson residents and
workers, but without government sup-
port, there is little else communities
like Jackson can do but to stay open, fol-
low existing public-health guidelines
and hope for the best. “When the pan-
demic first started, coming to work felt
like entering the lion’s den,” says the
restaurant worker from Jackson who
wished to remain anonymous. “But by
now we’re all used to the risk, and really,
what choice do we have?” •‘While
tourism
presents a
risk, we’re
willing to
take it to
keep our
paychecks
coming in.’
A JACKSON, WYO.,
RESTAURANT WORKER
WHO WISHED TO
REMAIN ANONYMOUS