Tom Key Understanding Homewood Mountain Resort Privatization
The first snow falls softly over Ellis Peak, a whisper of white draping the mountain’s narrow veins like forgotten memories. Homewood stands silent this winter—no skiers, no chairlifts spinning, no carving of fresh powder. It is a mountain suspended, caught between what it has been and what it might become.
In late October 2024, Andy Buckley, Homewood Mountain Resort’s vice president of Mountain Experience, confirmed what local skiers had feared: the resort would remain closed for the entire 2024-25 season. But in the same breath, he offered a promise that cut to the heart of the mountain’s identity—”Homewood will always be public and have public access.”
The Pause of Progress
The closure stems from a delicate bureaucratic dance. Homewood submitted changes to its Resort Master Plan to the Tahoe Regional Planning Agency (TRPA) in May, proposing modest but significant modifications: a new gondola to replace the Madden Chair, repositioning the terminal closer to the North Base area, and scaling back development plans to 73 hotel rooms and 122 residential units.
When Mohari, the resort’s lead capital partner, put operational funding “on hold” pending TRPA’s additional review, the mountain’s heartbeat momentarily stopped.
The Broader Context
Founded in 1961 by Sherman Dutton, Homewood emerged during an era when Tahoe was transforming from a summer playground to a winter destination. While larger resorts built empires of terrain and infrastructure, Homewood carved a different path—narrow, tree-lined runs that terminated at the lake’s edge, where the water was so blue it could fracture your gaze.
The Price of Exclusivity
2024 has become a watershed moment for mountain recreation. Across the West, ski resorts are no longer just selling terrain; they’re selling experiences, memberships, and increasingly, exclusivity.
Take Jackson Hole, which introduced a $10,000 Solitude season pass. Or Mt. Waterman, just outside Los Angeles, which was recently acquired by Angeles Mountain Partners with plans for the “Waterman100″—a limited membership offering private powder days, helipad access, and a country-club approach to skiing.
Joshua Shelton, co-founder of Angeles Mountain Partners, was refreshingly candid about their strategy: “We can’t control the weather, but we can manage how many people gain access to the absolute best conditions our resort will have to offer, and that’s an honor we reserve for the Waterman100.”
Translation: Mountains are becoming playgrounds for the wealthy, with access controlled not by snowfall or skill, but by the thickness of one’s wallet.
Homewood’s Resistance
When Homewood’s management initially proposed transitioning to a private, members-only model, they likely saw it as a financial lifeline. The resort had been struggling, and the trend of privatization seemed to offer a solution. But the west shore community saw something else: a betrayal of decades of public accessibility.
The “Keep Homewood Public” movement was not just a protest; it was a declaration. Local skiers, families who had learned to ski on these slopes, retirees who knew every bump and glade, rallied with a simple message: This mountain belongs to everyone.
Earlier this month, the pressure was insurmountable. Homewood’s privatization plan was shelved, a rare victory for community over corporate calculation.
The Larger Landscape
What’s happening at Homewood is more than a local story. It’s a microcosm of a broader transformation in outdoor recreation. Skiing—once a working-class activity that required nothing more than some wool layers and a bit of courage—has become a luxury commodity.
The math is stark: A day pass at a major resort now often exceeds $200. Season passes with the Epic and Ikon brands can run $800 to $1,500. Add in equipment, lodging, and travel, and skiing has become an activity reserved for those with significant disposable income.
Homewood represents a different ethos. By remaining committed to public access, by prioritizing community over profit, they’re making a statement: Mountains are not just real estate. They are shared landscapes, cultural touchstones, places of memory and possibility.
The Quiet Season
This winter, Homewood sits dormant. No ski patrols will sweep its runs. No children will learn to link their first turns. No local retirees will enjoy lazy powder days.
But the mountain endures. The snow will fall. The trees will stand sentinel. And somewhere in this quiet lies a promise: That access to wild places is not a privilege, but a right.
In the language of the west shore, Homewood is more than a ski resort. It is a testament—to community, to resistance, to the radical notion that some experiences should not have a price tag.
