Tom Key 
Ski Tracking Apps for Safety and Performance
It begins with a glance at a screen. Your day on the slopes, summarized in cold, precise data: vertical feet, maximum speed, calories burned. Each metric a quiet goad, an unspoken challenge. For some, these numbers are a mirror of accomplishment. For others, they’re a lit match to ambition, an ignition for the primal urge to push further, faster.
At Jackson Hole, the flames burned a little too brightly. Recently, the resort took a stand: it removed the vertical feet leaderboard from its JH Insider app, citing a troubling conclusion—this digital race was tempting skiers into dangerous behavior. What follows will likely be an avalanche of debate: when does data-driven skiing enhance the sport, and when does it turn the slopes into a powder-covered proving ground?
The Rise of the Digital Trailhead
Not long ago, a day on the mountain was measured in runs, laughs, and the slow, satisfying burn in your legs. Then came the trackers: apps like Slopes and Ski Tracks that transformed the experience into a cascade of graphs and charts. Skiing became quantifiable—every turn reduced to a data point. If you’re a Snoww user, though, there’s a twist. It’s no longer available on app stores. My version still works, and I can see my stats, but new uploads? Not happening. Bummer.
These apps all boast sleek interfaces, and many offer a social edge—you can pit your stats against friends’. Slopes provides detailed GPS mapping and even playback of your runs. Ski Tracks is a minimalist’s dream, logging your day without draining your battery. Together, they turn your time on the mountain into a flurry of numbers: vertical feet, distance traveled, speed, calories burned, and a GPS map of every twist, turn, and trail.
At first glance, these apps seem like harmless companions, helpful tools for skiers looking to track progress or relive the day. But their deeper allure lies in competition. Leaderboards turn skiing into a race—against friends, strangers, and yourself. This gamification appeals to our instinctive love of ranking and reward. For many, it’s an enhancement. For others, it’s a trap.
The Siren Call of Metrics
I know the allure firsthand. Vertical feet? Not my game—I can’t compete with the vertical junkies who treat a lift line as nothing more than a speed bump in an endless descent. My poison is controlled speed. Every run, in my head, is a miniature super-G race against myself. My personal best stares back at me from my app, a silent challenge, daring me to edge it higher.
I’m not alone in this chase. Apps have introduced a new kind of skier to the mountain: the performance chaser. On any given day, you’ll find them in the trees and on the groomers, tracking their metrics like an Olympian in training. But this obsession with numbers carries an unspoken question: what do we sacrifice in the pursuit?
Speed and vertical feet are enticing benchmarks, but they subtly shift the skier’s focus. Skiing ceases to be about the moment—the arc of the turn, the whisper of snow underfoot—and becomes about what comes next. What’s the fastest line? How can I shave seconds? It’s a mindset that edges perilously close to recklessness.
The Cost of Competition
Jackson Hole’s decision to eliminate its vertical leaderboard was not made lightly. It stemmed from a growing concern that leaderboards encouraged skiers to ski faster, harder, and less cautiously. The goal? To climb the digital ranks, even at the expense of personal safety.
This concern was underscored by a tragic incident last season, when a skier at Jackson Hole lost their life in a collision. Following this event, friends of the deceased urged the resort to remove the vertical feet leaderboard, believing it contributed to unsafe skiing behaviors. The resort’s move to remove the leaderboard was a response not just to observed behavior but to the stark reality of what can happen when ambition outweighs caution.
Statistically, speed and vertical feet are closely tied to injury rates. Studies show that higher speeds increase the likelihood of severe injuries, while overly aggressive skiing amplifies risks to others on the slopes. The leaderboard became a symbol of this danger—a digital carrot dangling over an icy precipice.
Skiing is already an inherently risky sport. Add competitive gamification, and the balance tips. The result is a shift in mountain culture, from shared joy to solitary ambition.
Navigating a Safer Future
The removal of a leaderboard might seem like a small step, but it signals a larger conversation about the role of technology in skiing. How can we embrace innovation without compromising safety?
For app developers, the answer might lie in re-imagining incentives. What if apps rewarded control instead of speed? Imagine a badge for precise carving or a leaderboard for longest string of linked turns. Some apps, like Carv, already prioritize skill improvement over pure stats, offering real-time feedback to help skiers refine their technique.
For resorts, the challenge is cultural. Jackson Hole’s move is a blueprint, but more can be done. Ski schools and mountain safety teams could collaborate with app developers to create features that promote education, such as tips on terrain management or reminders to hydrate and rest.
The responsibility also rests with skiers. Reflecting on my own habits, I’m starting to rethink my obsession with speed. Does my personal best really matter, or am I better served by focusing on the joy of skiing itself? Apps can track your stats, but they can’t measure your happiness—or your control.
The Final Descent
As skiers, we’re drawn to the mountains by something elemental. The crunch of boots on snow. The hiss of skis slicing a perfect turn. The sheer, wild freedom of gravity pulling us down the hill. These are the things we chase—not metrics.
The next time you check your app at the bottom of a run, take a moment to reflect. What are you really measuring? Vertical feet? Speed? Or the moments in between—the laughter, the thrill, the quiet satisfaction of a day well spent?
Maybe the best days on the mountain aren’t the ones with the highest numbers. Maybe they’re the ones where the only thing you’re tracking is how often you stop to look around.
