Tom Key A little after 8 a.m. on a crystalline Wyoming morning, a man in full-on Arc’teryx stands alone atop Rendezvous Peak. The sun hasn’t yet touched the valley floor 4,139 feet below, where the town of Jackson still slumbers. The man shifts his weight from one heated boot to the other in the untouched snow. Two minutes from now, he will make his first descent of the day, carving through powder that cost him roughly $27.40 per turn, calculated against his $10,000 season pass. But for now, he waits, watching his breath crystallize in air that belongs, for these precious moments, to him alone.
Forty years ago, this same spot hosted a different sort of skier. In 1964, when Jackson Hole Mountain Resort first opened its tram, early-morning tracks belonged to whoever showed up first—usually locals who had spent the night in their trucks, subsisting on coffee and determination. The price of a season pass then: $150. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about $1,400 today, or roughly the cost of two nights at the Four Seasons that now graces the mountain’s base.
The transformation from hardscrabble ski hill to luxury destination mirrors a broader shift in American recreation, where exclusivity has become as marketable as the experience itself. Enter the Solitude Station Access Pass: Jackson Hole’s latest offering that transforms the democratic sport of sliding downhill on snow into a carefully curated exercise in sophisticated segregation.
For $10,000—the price of a used Subaru Outback, a year of in-state college tuition, or 2,000 cups of coffee at the Bunnery Bakery—pass holders receive a package of privileges that would make Marie Antoinette blush. The early access lift lines open at 7:45 a.m., a full hour and fifteen minutes before the general public. The Solitude Station lounge offers leather chairs and panoramic views of the Tetons, along with storage services that ensure one need never touch one’s own equipment. A continental breakfast is served daily, featuring pastries that cost more per bite than many lift tickets.
The pricing structure tells its own story: $10,000 for Single, $15,000 for couples, $20,000 for families of four, with additional children welcome at $2,500 each— proving that even trust fund babies need to learn the value of a dollar, preferably while never having to wait in a lift line.
To their credit, Jackson Hole has made a valiant effort to reassure everyone that this $10,000 ski pass won’t disrupt the skiing experience for the regular folk. “The mountain is big enough for everyone,” a spokesperson said, probably while sipping a cappuccino in the Solitude Station lounge.
Translation: Your $200 lift ticket still gets you access to the same mountain—just with slightly less swagger.
The truth of who belongs on a mountain—and who decides the terms of belonging—has evolved since the first Native Americans traversed these slopes hunting elk, since the first European trappers struggled through Teton Pass, since the first ski bums lived out of their cars to catch powder days. Now, that belonging comes with a price tag, and the price keeps climbing.
Yet the mountain itself remains indifferent to the socioeconomics of its admirers. The same snow falls on $10,000 tracks as on $200+ daily lift ticket tracks. The same wind scrubs the same faces. The same gravity pulls everyone downhill at exactly the same speed.
Back on Rendezvous Peak, our early-morning skier adjusts his goggles. The sun has just crested the eastern ridge, setting the snow ablaze with diamond light. Soon, the huddled masses will emerge from the tram, their standard season passes mere tokens compared to his golden ticket. But for now, he owns this moment, this view, this pristine canvas of snow.
He pushes off, initiating his descent. His skis—freshly tuned by someone else’s hands—cut through virgin powder. The mountain receives his weight, his wealth, his privilege, with the same silent acquiescence it has shown for millennia. Somewhere below, in the parking lot, other skiers and riders are pulling on boots from the tailgates of their SUVs, drinking coffee from thermoses. By the time they reach this spot, his tracks will have already told his story: I was here first, because I could afford to be.
The joke, of course, is that while our Arc’teryx-clad pioneer sips espresso in his leather chair, debating whether to peek over the edge of Corbet’s before or after his mid-morning snack, skiing’s true spirit thrives elsewhere. It lives in the parking lot tailgates, in strangers sharing chairlift stories, in the collective whoops echoing across the mountain. Because skiing, at its core, has never needed heated boot rooms or pre-warmed gloves—it has only ever needed gravity, snow, and the human desire to dance with both.
But for $10,000, you can pretend otherwise.
