A friend posted some pics on Facebook of a sprawling, old Adirondack lodge. “All to ourselves,” she wrote. “Feels a bit like The Shining, to be honest.”

She was, of course, referring to the 1977 novel by Stephen King that was later turned into a movie by Stanley Kubrick. Jack Nicholson played Jack Torrance, a writer and recovering alcoholic hired to be the off-season caretaker of the Overlook Hotel. Jack’s young son Danny’s psychic visions reveal the hotel’s horrifying past — right before Danny, his mother, played by Shelley Duvall, and Jack are snowed in for the winter.

For those who’ve seen or read The Shining, all it takes is a glimpse down an empty hotel hallway to immediately conjure up visions of REDRUM, creepy twins and blood-gushing elevators. As Stephen King wrote, “Hotels are superstitious places. No thirteenth floor or room thirteen, no mirrors on the back of the door you come in through, stuff like that.”

My Facebook friend posted a few pics of the lodge’s interior to dramatize her point. There was the long, shadowy corridor. The coffered-ceilinged lobby filled with massive leather chairs and an unattended chess game. The dining table surrounded by empty chairs. All that was missing was Jack’s typewriter and the stack of pages from his “manuscript.”

All work and no play makes Jack — and the rest of us — anxious AF. Especially in a place like this, where no one can hear you scream.

I first read The Shining when I was a newly minted teen. Not long after that, my family and I took a winter vacation at a historic hotel in Old Forge, New York. We were the only guests, along with my parents’ friends, who owned the place at the time, and their kids.

Built in 1935, the Hollywood Hills Hotel billed itself as the “largest log cabin structure in the U.S.” A brochure from the time showcases its rustic interior, complete with a dark, cobbled tap room beneath the lobby that immediately brought to mind the ominous bar scene from The Shining. I vividly recall walking — or rather, running — down the dark hallways at night, pretending not to be panicked that I might suddenly come face to face with an ax-wielding madman or identical twins in blue dresses wondering if I wanted to play.

I had the same scary sensation when I first spotted the Chateau Aprés, a classic 1960s ski lodge on Norfolk Avenue in Park City. According to the hotel’s website, the Chateau Aprés was built in 1964, just as the Park City Ski Area was opening. Ed Hosenfeld, who was married to the daughter of the original owners, eventually took the hotel over and his oldest son, Jason, currently runs the place.

I’d passed the Chateau Aprés dozens of times when taking my dog Riley to the Library Dog Park. I’d never been inside it, but my imagination conjured up all kinds of Stephen King vibes. All dark pine and forest-green trim, I could swear, I never saw anyone go in or come out. It always put me in mind of the Overlook by way of the Hotel California: You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.

That is, until one autumn night a couple of years ago. I was walking across the library field with a man I’d just started dating. A full, double Blood Moon hung over our heads.

As we crossed the field, we paused to take in the Chateau Aprés. I was about to make a sarcastic comment about the Overlook when the man whispered that it looked like a mirage out of a Wes Anderson movie. I gazed over at the lodge and realized he was right. Hundreds of tiny, twinkling lights framed the eaves; its windows glowed with golden warmth. In that moment, I could envision not Jack Torrance with an ax, but Owen Wilson with a hot toddy, stepping through the door in a Norwegian sweater and tight, black ski pants. Instead of horror, I was filled with a sense of wonder. A different kind of shine.

Stephen King wrote, “We sometimes need to create unreal monsters and bogies to stand in for all the things we fear in our real lives.”

The man kissed me for the first time. Under the light of the Blood Moon. In the glow of the Wes Anderson hotel. It was a perfect moment. And I thought to myself, maybe when you open your heart and let go of fear, sometimes — maybe every time — you let in some magic instead.

The post Betty Diaries: Under a full Blood Moon appeared first on Park Record.

It was the spring of 2005 and I was at a destination wedding on the Caribbean island of St. John. My friends and I were out for a walk in the blazing sunshine. It was as hot as a plate of crab callaloo as we passed the ferry dock on Cruz Bay.

One friend pointed toward the dock and said, “Hey, isn’t that Michael?”

As we got closer, I saw that it was indeed Michael, an artist friend from our hometown who’d relocated to St. John some years before. He was dressed in head-to-toe black. Long-sleeved shirt, long pants, moto boots. He looked like a guitarless Johnny Cash about to check in to Folsom Prison.

“Aren’t you dying?” I asked, as my friends and I stood there in our shorts and tank tops, sweat dripping down our spray tans, our painstakingly straightened hair frizzing in the midday humidity.

“I’ll tell you what I’m dying about,” he said sarcastically. “People have no idea what it’s really like living here.”

He launched into a tirade about the traffic, the crowds, the noise, the soaring cost of living. I think I zoned out after the first minute or so. All I remember thinking is WTF is he talking about? We’re literally in paradise. And we’re on vacation, for chrissakes! The last thing we want to think about is death and taxes.

But now, living here in Park City, I think I get the difference between visiting paradise and actually living there. It’s easy to get caught up in a bitch-and-complain mentality when you work in a place where so many people come to play. Every paradise has its pitfalls.

At least that’s what I thought until I had the chance recently to see Park City through some visitors’ eyes and my view changed completely.

A couple hailing all the way from England, Mark and Sarah, are close friends of a friend I met on a cycling trip in Europe a few years ago. A friend of a friend is a friend of mine, I always say. So when Sarah messaged me on Instagram that they’d like to meet up while they were here, I was all for it.

When we met at High West after their first day of skiing, I was eager to hear their impressions of Park City.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a promising start,” Sarah said. “Our driver from the airport complained the whole way up about how tourists are ruining her town.” As they pulled up to the Montage, the driver rolled her eyes and sneered, “Welcome to your palace.”

But after that first day, it was all uphill from there — in a good way. Sarah later told me the welcome they received throughout their visit couldn’t have felt more warm or genuine.

“I was struck by how many lift chats we had that turned out to be with people from Park City or Utah in general,” she said. “All the locals we chatted to were so authentic and proud of their town. It honestly made us feel like we were part of this place, too.”

One thing that surprised Sarah and Mark were the long lift lines.

“Being British, queue etiquette is very important to us,” she said. “But I reverted to a surly teenager and huffed and puffed my way through the first few really long queues.”

They soon noticed that “nobody was getting really arsey about it.” Instead, people seemed to be making the best of it, chatting and laughing rather than bitching and moaning.

“Once we did the same, the lift queues were far less of a problem,” Sarah said.

The long lines on Main Street didn’t phase the duo, either.

“We learned to get in early, occupy a space and stay there—something the British have historically proved rather good at,” Sarah said. “We’ll always remember sitting on the patio upstairs at No Name listening to country music — Mark in his regulation-tourist KemoSabe Stetson. As we sat there, a bluebird day turned into a full-on blizzard, all in the space of one pint of excellent pilsener!”

Mark and Sarah loved the local restaurant scene.

“The tartiflette at Courchevel was among the best I’ve ever eaten in my life in many European ski resorts including the actual Courchevel,” Sarah said. “And the brussel sprouts at Grappa were one of the top five things I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

The “Utah quirks,” as they called them, made some experiences extra memorable. “Like the time I had to down a pint in a hot four seconds because the server said we couldn’t move alcohol from one table to another,” she said. “And the look on Mark’s face when they told him he couldn’t get just a drink in the Irish bar.”

“Well, in my extensive experience in Irish pubs,” Mark added, “you can usually drink until you’re kicked out. But the last thing you’d ever want to do is eat the food served there.”

For Mark and Sarah, the best thing about Park City was feeling like “we were dropping in on people’s real lives and you all opened up your arms and were happy to share your time — and your town — with us.”

On the last night I saw them before they headed home to England, we met up at the Spur. I walked upstairs and spotted them sitting at a high top in the corner. As I approached, I noticed that Sarah and I had on the exact same outfit: jeans, flannel shirt, sweater, even the same beige baseball cap. Twin sisters from another mister. The circle was complete. In Park City, a town of mine is a town of yours.

The server came to take our order and I could think of nothing more appropriate to share with my new friends than a burger and fries. It would surely be a cheeseburger in paradise.

The post Betty Diaries: Paradise lost, and found appeared first on Park Record.

The thought of taking a day off to ski usually fills me with joy. But last Thursday, I was filled with unease.

I texted my friend Matt, who was meeting me at Park City Mountain for the Queerski First Tracks event.

“Can you scoop me on the way?” I asked.

“No, sorry! We’re running late. We’ll meet you there,” he replied.

“I just feel weird going by myself,” I texted back. To be honest, I was a little nervous that I wouldn’t fit in. I considered bagging it altogether.

Instead, I grabbed my skis and booted up 14^th Street to the main parking lot. That’s where I spotted my friends Larry and Mike unloading gear from their car. My anxiety immediately disappeared. The three of us walked up to the Mountain Village, where we found Matt and Dan, Mike and Jake, Xander, Kevin, Chris, Matt’s brothers Ryan and Scott and a bunch of other people I didn’t know. Everyone smiled and introduced themselves.

My worries were for nothing. Was I one of the only straight people in a sea of gay friends? Maybe, but never had I felt more welcome or included.

Which is the whole point of Queerski, a project that unites the LGBTQ+ community and allies alike. Everyone belongs.

Its founder, Parkite Joe Urankar says, “I started Queerski because of what was missing in Park City — a space where queer people can find friends to share the winter sports we love, while being our authentic selves.” Joe says authenticity is infectious — and powerful. It can have a positive impact on our community as a whole.

With the digital world isolating so many of us, Joe says, “Events that bring us together, connect us to the natural world and get our bodies moving are more important than ever.”

Like First Tracks, just one of the events held at the resort throughout the weekend. After a ride up Crescent lift, we skied down to Silverlode. I hopped on the lift with four strangers.

The dude sitting next to me said, “Hi, I’m Wyn,” and asked where we were all from. Someone mentioned going to UCLA and Wyn said, “I just gave a talk there.”

I asked him what the talk was about and he replied, “I’m a drag queen and an environmentalist.” I said, “Oh, do you know that environmentalist and drag queen called Pattie Gonia?” I’d seen her in Outside and National Geographic, hiking in the wilderness, climbing mountains and helping LGBTQ+ kids discover the great outdoors.

Wyn laughed and said, “I am Pattie Gonia!”

I guess you never know who you’re going to meet on the chairlift, but this was my first experience riding up with an actual icon.

“Scientists agree that birds sing to each other in the morning as a way of telling each other they made it through the night,” Wyn says on his Instagram page @pattiegonia. “I think queer people do the same. That pride is our bird song.” As the lyrics from one of his music videos proclaim: We sing because we made it through the night / I can’t explain it, but I wouldn’t change it / No one can erase us / We’re here and we’re staying.

That determination carried through on Saturday, when blizzard conditions closed most lifts and discouraged many skiers from venturing out at all. Queerski’s pride parade went on from the top of Town Lift, led by Pattie Gonia and a bevy of skiing drag queens. She was decked out in a bedazzled helmet, Barbie-pink onesie and ski gloves trimmed with pink cheetah fake nails.

“Skiing hurts more than high heels,” she yelled over the 60 mph winds whipping through her flaming red ponytail.

I was telling my Uncle Charles about my chance meeting with Pattie Gonia.

“I never met a drag queen I didn’t like,” he said. “It takes big cajones to pull it off.” A retired art teacher, my uncle came out to the family in the ’70s — not exactly a forgiving time to be gay. I remember taking it in stride. We always knew he was different. And that difference made him the coolest uncle in the world.

If there was ever a doubt that my uncle was gay, his partner and eventual husband, Max, sealed the deal. Instead of hiding his homosexuality, he reveled in it. Everyone loved Max. After an illness that nearly killed him, he adopted the motto, “Every day is a beautiful day.” He had it printed on cards he handed out to everyone he met.

Max passed away 10 years ago. I remember standing with my family at his memorial, deep in the corner of some woods. There we were, surrounded by trees and flowers. As we stood there, a butterfly landed on my uncle’s shirt. I stared at it, thinking it might disappear at any moment. But it never did. It stayed there for the longest time, right next to his heart. It had the most magnificent wings, saturated with flamboyant color. How was it possible that it could ever fly under the weight of such natural beauty?

Maybe like Max — and like every single one of the rest of us — it knew that it belongs right here in the world.

The post Betty Diaries: Why birds sing to each other in the morning appeared first on Park Record.

“A sleeping bag in the back of a truck is fine for a weekend camping trip,” my friend Stacey says. “But I’m not dating anyone who actually lives there.”

Time was, living out of a van was a chick magnet.

“At first, it was like, oh, you’re well-off enough to drop everything and tool around the country in a Sprinter? That’s kinda rad,” she says.

“But then I had a Bumble match who asked me to meet him for coffee at Lucky Ones. He said he lived right in town. And I thought Perfect: he’s Park City enough to know the coolest coffee shop in town. Then I get there and I realize he only knows about Lucky Ones because he’s actually living out of his van in the library parking lot.”

Insert rolling eyes emoji.

In the pandemic, living in a van was kind of like wearing a full-body mask. Covid-surge, schmovid-schmurge. Hashtag van life was social distancing on steroids. It meant you could get away from people faster than you could unbox a SARS CoV2 rapid antigen test kit. Forget being emotionally unavailable. Physical unavailability was the new normal. Live, love, laugh, but make it solo.

Flash forward to today. As my friend says, “The whole ski-bum-living-out-of-your-van thing is like, Hey Peter Pan, you’re 50. Get a life.”

So maybe it’s not surprising that a new kind of American dream is all about cabin life. You know, that little 1970s piney A-frame in the middle of the woods where you can ski tour out your front door. Roll your mountain bike out the back door. Grab your fly-fishing rod and head out because a river literally runs through it. Hang out and do puzzles and drink hot toddies and tell stories. Life is simpler when you have to cart in your tortilla chips and Salsa Queen, dogs and Johnny’s IPA on the back of a Ski-Doo. And in this post-zombie apocalypse world, it’s more about creating closeness than distance.

“Buying a cabin is like van life for people who’ve outgrown van life,” says my cousin Melissa, who together with her husband, Adam, recently found their dream cabin on a road off a road off another road in Oakley.

She says they’ll never give up their van, a vintage camper named Large Marge, but “it’s always been a dream to have an actual place to create memories with family and friends.” In that way, cabin life is not so much about getting away as it is about gathering in.

I totally get it. My brother dated a woman in Maine whose family owned a very small island three miles off the coast of Spruce Head. To me, it was like someone broke off a chunk of the Adirondacks and stuck it in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, all pine trees and rugged rocks and butterflies and wild meadows. This was no billionnaire’s quiet luxury. In fact, it would be impossible to re-create this kind of authenticity regardless of how much money you had.

Laurie came from a long line of midcoast lobstermen, dahn tough and wicked smaht. Her grandfather built the first cabin on the island in 1930 as a bait shack and it stands to this day, as strong and weathered as the hands that built it.

I loved going to that bait-shack cabin on the island with Laurie and my brother. The trip over was wild, unpredicatable and, often, a pain in the ass. Everything had to be carried in. Water, food, clothing, booze. The weather had to be just right to motor through the channel, dodging hundreds of lobster traps along the way.

There were no docks on the island. You moored your boat in a small cove. From there, you’d row a tiny boat to shore and lug all of the provisions from the beach, across a wide, sweetgrass meadow, to the tiny cabin.

The cabin itself was called Treasure Box, because that’s exactly what it was. One room filled with beach glass and crocheted lace and driftwood and generations of memories. Heat was supplied courtesy of the ancient Franklin stove Laurie’s grandfather originally installed. If you had to pee in the middle of the night, you could tiptoe to the outhouse in the moonlight.

At least they had delivery, but it was definitely not DoorDash. If you were lucky, Laurie’s cousin, a curmudgeonly lobsterman named Skip, would drop off a few squirming shedders from the day’s haul. You just had to muck through the squishy sea grasses to grab the bucket he handed off the back of his Cape Islander.

I was thinking about Treasure Box when I visited Melissa and Adam’s cabin for the first time the other day. The road is closed in winter, so we motored in on their snowmobile.

After lunch, Melissa wanted to take me on a sled tour of “the neighborhood.” We looped through the woods, up and down snow-covered trails and hurdling over endless whoop-de-doos that made me think I was going to hurl. The engine overheated. Some kids in an ATV stopped and told us to throw snow underneath.

That’s when Melissa realized she wasn’t sure how to get back to the cabin. We had no cell service and no GPS. Technically, we were lost. But we weren’t too worried. It was a classic cabin-memory-in-the-making. Exactly what we’d been searching for all along.

The post Betty Diaries: Van life is so over appeared first on Park Record.

My friend texted me a Spotify link the other day and said, “Listen to this. It’s incredible.”

It was an episode of the Rich Roll podcast featuring the renowned Harvard researcher, bestselling author and so-called “Mother of Mindfulness,” Dr. Ellen Langer. The first woman to achieve psychology tenure at Harvard, Dr. Langer’s career spans 45 years researching the illusion of control, mindful aging and the impact of mind-body dualism on Western medicine ,among other things. In the interview, she talks about the importance of mind-body unity, the power of mindfulness and why age is nothing more than a mindset.

She also happens to be dynamic, imaginative and hilarious — not exactly words that leap to mind for your average academic.

Long story short, I listened, and my mindset was blown.

This is not your yoga teacher’s mindfulness — the kind that comes after an hour of hot vinyasa or meditation with a Zen master. Dr. Langer’s primary views on mindfulness actually came from her study of mindlessness.

She asserts that most of us are mindless about most things most of the time. Dr. Langer says being mindful is “the very simple process of actively noticing new things.” And you can access that any time you want. Instead of cruising through the world on auto-pilot, you put yourself immediately in the present moment. In doing so, you’re more sensitive to context and perspective. And that’s the heart of actual engagement.

Her research on the unity of mind and body basically challenges every convention of traditional medicine. For example, in one of her most famous studies, Dr. Langer posed the question, If we put the mind back 20 years, would the body reflect this change?

To answer it, the study put a group of 80-somethings on retreat, living together for five days as if they were actually living back in time. Participants were told not just to remember what it was like back then, but to actually live as if it were really 20 years earlier.

The results were astonishing. The octogenarians were rated as healthier, more energetic and actually appearing significantly younger than when they entered the study. Turns out aging can be a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. And mindset is what matters most.

As Langer says, “Everything is always changing. Everything looks different from different perspectives.” Being mindful energizes you, opens up creativity, boosts performance and above all, reduces stress — which Langer says is the root of all illness — even more so than diet, genetics and even treatment.

Yesterday, I took the day off to go skiing. I hit the singles line at Crescent Lift and boarded the quad with three strangers I assumed to be a father, mother and their sullen teenage daughter. I figured, what better time to put Dr. Langer’s theory to the test?

And so I sat on the chairlift next to the family of three. Dr. Langer says to be mindful, all you have to do is notice new things. Notice the water dripping off the chairlift onto my pants. Notice the beads of moisture being immediately absorbed. WTF, GoreTex?

Notice the trio of strangers sitting next to me; the man studying the map on the safety bar, dad-splaining every possible run they could take next. Notice the silent daughter, no doubt rolling her eyes behind her mirrored goggles. Notice how slowly the lift was going. Notice the dad still agonizing over which route to take.

Never had I been more present in the annoyance of a single moment. My mind and body as one with my chairlift family’s minds and bodies. Notice my hand double-tapping my AirPod to briefly escape into a moment of mindlessness before we finally reach the top.

On the cat track heading toward Pioneer, I started to notice again. A flock of birds circling above the pines. My shadow dancing with a stand of aspens. A small pocket of blue sky that disappeared into the tufts of enormous storm clouds. The sound of my skis gliding along the snow.

I took a deep inhale and held my breath for as long as I could. I felt energized. Alive. My mind and body at last in full agreement. And finally, I let myself exhale.

The post Betty Diaries: Where is my mind? appeared first on Park Record.

Welcome to Park City Mountain Careers!

Join a team of people who thrive in the face of 50 mph winds, avalanche debris, 11-below temps at o-dark-30, and a posse of knuckledragger Boomers from Orange County yelling at them because of the wind hold on Iron Mountain.

You just might have what it takes to take on the thankless job of making our mountain run.

Imagine, you’ll be able to choose from a wide variety of positions the average skier knows nothing about and takes completely for granted. We’re talking about lift maintenance & operations, grooming, snowmaking, parking, vehicle maintenance and much, much more!

Explore a sample of current job openings and see if you don’t agree, a career with us will set you up for an endless season of dealing with yahoos oblivious to the long hours, hard work, grueling commute and unstoppable dedication you put in for $20 an hour. And yet, luckily for the rest of us, there’s nothing else you’d rather do.

Our Mountain Operations team is accepting applications for ski lift operators. Responsibilities include helping guests safely load and unload in every situation — e.g., when a quad of drunk bridesmaids who’ve never ridden a chairlift before forgets to put the bar up.

Applicants will be required to demonstrate a calm, friendly demeanor, regardless of impatient gapers who rush the lift on a pow day and end up in the lap of a screaming 8 year old in an edgie-wedgie. Special consideration will be given to candidates capable of ignoring the insults of people lined up all the way to the Cabriolet because Red Pine broke down again.

The lift management crew is seeking a maintenance specialist who doesn’t mind being invisible. In fact, you prefer it to being yelled at by some clueless investment banker from The Colony because the Orange Bubble opening was delayed by blizzard-force winds at the top. All so you can go out in the middle of a blinding storm, climb up a snow-encrusted ladder with a pick-ax and knock ice off a bunch of 100-foot towers. You’re welcome.

Our grooming crew is in search of a snowcat operator with one eye who can see ahead and the other than can watch what’s happening behind. Must have a passion for butt rock, sleepless nights, zero social life and mashing the pedal on a 350-hp, turbocharged hunk of heavy machinery through bumps the size of buses. The goal: to create a pristine bark-to-bark swatch of creamy corduroy that will be ripped apart hours later by out-of-control boneheads who were puking on Main Street while you were hard at work.

Our Guest Services team is accepting applications for parking lot attendants. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, especially when it’s to push out a ’04 Chevy Tracker with bald tires that got stuck entering the lot through the exit. Please be ready, willing and able to stand outside in every kind of weather wearing a hoodie and a day-glo vest while working nights, weekends and holidays, starting at 6:30 a.m.

These are just a few of the openings we have available for the 2023-24 ski season! Visit our website for even more, plus all of the exciting perks and benefits you’ll enjoy! (Spoiler alert: Good luck finding a place to live if you don’t have one already.)

But check this out: You’ll get a free Epic pass, PTO and food and lodging discounts, to name a few. There’s one last perk we can’t take credit for, but it’s the absolute best part. And truth be told, it may be why you take on jobs like this in the first place.

The real benefit is how we all benefit from you.

You add life, energy and authenticity to our resort: the true culture and spirit of skiing that radiates from the inside out. You’re part of a rad crew of like-minded shredders and ski bums who are your friends for life. You’re the reason people feel safe and at home. You’re the first and the last on the mountain. You see things ordinary riders will never see. Like a really big cat in the headlights of your really big snowcat. The magic of a full moon overhead and the city lights twinkling below as you crack open an after-work beer. Charging through pow on the way to your shift at Thaynes lift where everyone knows you spin the best tunes on the mountain.

Not even a Park City millionaire can buy the first tracks you rip while the rest of the world is still pushing their snooze alarm. Or the times in the shack you laugh so hard Red Bull comes out your nose.

The brutally honest truth is we’re not exactly sure what keeps all of you coming back for more year after year, doing the invisible kind of jobs that most people don’t give a second thought.

But we can honestly say we’re damn thankful that you do.

The post Betty Diaries: Brutally honest job postings appeared first on Park Record.

An old friend of mine back East was recently diagnosed with cancer and had to undergo some pretty awful surgery almost immediately.

A few days later, after she was discharged from the hospital, she texted a selfie to the group chat. She was glowing.

“So happy to see the sun this morning,” she texted. “It lifted my spirits. I put on some gloss and am ready for the day!”

A little lipstick has a power all its own.

A week or so later, my friend texted again to ask if we could do a Zoom happy hour after her first chemo treatment.

It felt like the pandemic all over again, seeing all of my friends’ faces lined up in neat little rows of “Brady Bunch” squares. But the amazing thing was seeing my friend, looking calm and resolved in the face of a devastating diagnosis. And there was the lip gloss, too. That little eff-you to the big C. As if to say, You might be coming for me, but I’m ready to take you on.

Looking at her on that Zoom, the word that came to mind was grace, which coincidentally is her daughter’s name. I just googled it and the definition that came up described it as “an undeserved gift.” Not how I’d ever imagine a cancer diagnosis. Especially one that involves the removal of a bunch of internal organs and the impending loss of your gorgeous hair.

This woman is an icon in our friend group, our own personal Wonder Woman, our adventure muse. A tiny, ripped superhero whose petite frame, clear blue eyes and long, blonde locks belie sheer brute strength — inside and out. 

She’s the one who was a single mom for 13 years until she met her husband. Who competed in international adventure races where she did things like run up all 1,860 steps of the Empire State Building and then rappel down from the roof. She’s the one who finished the Leadville 100 mountain bike race after “training sessions” that involved a night-time pub-crawl on bikes where we all dressed up like Elvis. The one who pushed her babies in a stroller while she raced marathons. Who moved out of suburbia to a farmette so she could grow her own veggies and raise chickens and llamas and goats. Who bought a 1950s canned-ham camper and taught herself how to completely renovate it.

Her profile pic on my phone shows her riding a vintage Vespa scooter wearing a hot pink feather boa and sporting a hot pink lip. Powerful in every way.

My earliest memories of the power of lipstick involve my mom getting ready for a night out with my father. I’d sit on the toilet in her bathroom and watch her put on her makeup. Foundation, eye liner, shadow, blush. Though to me, she always looked incomplete until she put on her lipstick.

A few years ago, I had skin cancer surgery that left a hole in my nose that had to be fixed by a plastic surgeon. Soon afterward, I took an Instagram selfie. My face was swollen and bruised. Definitely not a Tinder profile pic. I worried that I was going to end up looking like a patchwork quilt, or Coraline the corpse bride from “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”

My mother said, “Put on some lipstick. You’ll feel better.” So right before I snapped that selfie, I opened up a tube of Mac Ruby Woo lipstick and put it on. My two black eyes and a row of ugly black stitches across my swollen nose were no match for my bright red lips. As usual, my mom was right.

Today, I asked my mom about the lipstick thing.

“I don’t know,” she mused. “I think it’s just a little sign that tells the world you care about yourself.”

Even now, in her 80s, she’s still putting it on. Bold scarlet; it doesn’t give a damn. The color of Valentine’s Day, of passion, courage and a powerful energy that inspires action.

I think about my friend. And the power of lipstick as a little gift you give to yourself. A symbol of grace in moments deserved and undeserved. To tell the world, I want you to see me as I see myself. I’m still here. I am alive.

And in this moment, that’s all that matters.

The post Betty Diaries: On cancer and grace and lipstick appeared first on Park Record.

It was the crack o’ noon on Saturday and I was heading out to Park City Mountain to ski with some friends. We got on line at First Time lift and that’s when I spotted this lil’ grom in front of us. She looked to be 2 years old, 3 tops, and she was so tiny I wasn’t even sure she wasn’t some kind of ski doll. Like if you stacked two 64-ounce Stanley cups on top of each other, she might not be tall enough to take a sip.

Standing on a mini snowboard in a lavender jacket and geometric-print baggy ski pants, she wore leather mitts that appeared to have been borrowed from Shrek and a pair of Dragon goggles that basically enveloped her entire little face.

She was with her father, also on a snowboard. He was like her personal magic carpet, inching her forward in line as she stood stoicly awaiting her turn to board the lift. The kid seemed a little oblivious to the whole thing. Clearly, she was placing total trust in her dad to show her the way.

The dad turned and pointed his iPhone toward me and asked if I would mind shooting a video of them riding the lift.

“It’s her first time!” he said, beaming.

Her first time. On First Time. How perfectly appropriate, I thought, filming as the father scooped her onto the chair, tucking his arm around her and obscuring all but a tiny sliver of her lavender jacket.

We met them at the top of the lift and I handed the dad his iPhone back, digital memory of the moment secured.

“Say thank you, Shia,” he said as she high fived us. We paused to take a pic with the micro-betty, who was surely destined for Olympic gold or, at the very least, a hot cocoa with marshmallows.

And just like that, they were gone, the dad guiding Shia as she glided down the slope unquestioningly.

There is a first time for everything. For all of us. Not just when we’re little kids like Shia. But every day, every moment, really, is an opportunity for a first time for something if you put your mind to it.

Just think about it. When was your last first time? What did you do? How did you do it? What if we measured our life in first times instead of years? How many would we find? How many would we create? And what would happen if we approached that first time with the trust and curiosity and, yeah, maybe even with a little of the cluelessness of a child?

Have you ever watched a 4 year old paint a picture? They don’t ask too many questions. They don’t worry about perfection or the terror of a blank page. They just dip a brush in paint and get to work. And I’ll be damned if they don’t end up making something downright delightful.

The point is, we’re all born Picassos. Time and experience dull that sense for many of us. Creating your own first times might be a way to reclaim it.

I was thinking about this the other day — my first time on real powder this season. I’d been skiing with three guy friends who were charging through the pow like the running of the bulls.

They took an unexpected turn off the trail, up and over a large, frozen snowdrift heading toward one of the bowls. I didn’t have enough momentum and when I got to the bowl, they were gone. I traversed the slope, not sure what direction to go.  All I could see was what looked like a gully below.

I knew I didn’t want to get stuck in a runout that went nowhere. So I just stopped. And there I was, alone in a section of soaring pines. It was as quiet as a church. The snow-covered trees enveloped me like a prayer.

I looked ahead, and right in front of me, was perfect untracked snow. A blank page with only the eyes of a stand of aspens to silently judge me.

James Baldwin said, “No one can possibly know what is about to happen: It is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time.”

And for the first time this year, that day, that exact moment, I swooped through the trees, not knowing where they would take me.

The post Betty Diaries: First time on First Time appeared first on Park Record.

What’s in and out? It’s not just a burger. Of course, I can’t speak for anywhere else, but I polled a random selection of friends here in the Park City bubble to compile an insider’s guide to what some of us think will be in and out for 2024. Agree? Great. Disagree? Let me know. As far as I’m concerned, trolls are out. But having an opinion is always in.

Out: Ubers or Lyfts without snow tires

In: High Valley Transit vans with ski racks

Out: Skinny jeans with boots

In: People who don’t give AF that skinny jeans and boots are out

Out: Rude tourists

In: Utah nice

Out: Taking iPhone pics of overly priced restaurant food

In: Taking time to cook and eat with friends

Out: Dating apps

In: Applying yourself to meet someone IRL

Out: Playing music on a portable speaker in the gondola

In: Listening to live music at the The Marquis

Out: Fearing ChatGPT

In: Being brave enough to chat up a stranger

Out: Idling in ski traffic

In: Bus lanes

Out: Tossing your Christmas tree in the garbage

In: Donating 40 bucks to the PC Lacrosse team to come pick it up for recycling

Out: Online shopping

In: Shopping local

Out: Ginormous Stanley water tumblers

In: Regular Nalgene water bottles

Out: Tipsy Elves

In: Ripped Levis

Out: Screen time

In: Ice time at the new City Park rink

Out: Sake bombs

In: Avy bombs

Out: $1,700 “Tartan Cashmere” shirts from Gorsuch

In: Second-hand flannel from the Christian Center

Out: Paywalls to read the news

In: Park City Library card

Out: The word “rizz”

In: Genuine charisma

Out: Wood burning stoves

In: Handknit sweaters

Out: California license plates

In: Chicken tendy plates at Red Tail Grill

Out: AI-generated profile pics

In: Real face time

Out: Worrying about how many followers you have

In: Being an actual leader

Out: Bed bugs

In: Couch potatoes

Out: Low-carb everything

In: Windy Ridge croissants

Out: First chair powder mania

In: Crack o’ noon — no pressure during high pressure

Out: Lunch-time Zoom meetings

In: Lunch lap chairlift meetings

Out: Tower cranes

In: Douglas firs

Out: Ninja ski masks

In: SPF 50

Out: GoPro selfie sticks

In: iSkibikes for NAC adaptive athletes

Out: Loud-talking on your speakerphone on the checkout at The Market

In: Saying hi to the guy bagging your groceries

Out: One day, I will …

In: Today is Day One

Out: Lift lines

In: Laugh lines

Out: All the people yelling that e-bikes are illegal

In:  5-hour e-bike rides without running out of battery

Out: Aperol spritzes at The Vintage Room

In: Apres tailgates

Out: Ski industry corporatization

In: Backcountry skiing

Out: Mic drops

In: Rope drops

Out: Taylor Swift

In: Liggety Split

Out: Church of Dirt

In: Finding your own secret spot

Out: Circling back after the holidays

In: Storm cycle rebounds after the holidays

Out: Bragging about how healthy you are

In: Getting stoked about your impending pow flu

Out: Bitching and complaining about Park City

In: Remembering how lucky you are to live here

The post Betty Diaries: PC guide to what’s in and out for 2024 appeared first on Park Record.

It was Friday night and my friends and I went to the Park City Ski & Snowboard ski swap. The fieldhouse at Basin Rec was popping with people, rack upon rack of clothing, and all kinds of ski and snowboard equipment.

I noticed a lady roll up to the register with one of those little folding wagons. It was overflowing with down jackets, hats, boots and skis. The lady took a pair of skis off the top of the wagon and laid them on the checkout table. And that’s when I realized that one of the puffy jackets in the wagon contained a tiny girl who was sound asleep under the pile of ski stuff. I smiled to myself and thought, That’s about as PC as it gets.

After the swap, my friends and I carpooled up to High West where the Park City Community Foundation was celebrating their epic Live PC Give PC campaign. The campaign raised $4.8 million in a single day — a good reason to celebrate if ever there was one.

We walked into the saloon as the DJ played “I Love This Bar.” They’d emptied out all of the usual tables and chairs, and the room was packed with Parkites dancing, scream-singing, drinking and mingling.

In one corner, I saw my friend Ryan dressed in a flat-brim cap and full-length fur coat. In another, there was my neighbor Shelane. I saw Caroline, the woman who works at the local yarn shop. I couldn’t recall another time where I’d seen so many locals all together, all so happy, all in one place. I thought, I love this town.

I stood in the middle of the warm swirl and let the good vibes really sink in. I’ve only lived here for three years — by most estimations, not nearly long enough to have my local card stamped. But in that moment, I felt like I really belonged. Not just in that bar, but in this place. In Park City.

Later, I wondered what others would consider to be the moment that they first felt like they were part of the local community; that they belonged here. I put the question out to some of my group chats. To be honest, more than a few of my friends had such a visceral reaction to the word local, they didn’t even hear the question.

For example, Stacey, who’s lived here for 16 years, worked for local non-profits and even trained for the Olympics in PC said, “Never. I’m not a local. I just know a lot of stuff about town. I think saying ‘you’re a local’ is an ego thing. I just feel comfortable in my own skin here.”

Meg said, “You can only be a local if you’ve lived here more than 10 years. It’s about respect.”

Another person on the same thread agreed. “Local means you went to PC High. Besides, what does being a local even get you anymore? There are no more locals menus; we still have to pay a cover at Spur …”

• And let’s just say the thread devolved from there. Still, some people were happy to share their recollection of the moment they felt like they belonged here.
• It had to be the ski season after I moved here in 2010. I got invited to this secret event that was held during Sundance. We all arrived on bikes. It felt like a subversive thing to do during Sundance — like, maybe you’re a mover and shaker with money and fancy cars and high heels. But I was at Bike Dance with the people who keep this town moving — the ski patrol, bike mechanics, lifties, bartenders, servers, musicians, retail clerks. I remember looking around and thinking, “I am in this room.”  
• I got pulled over by a cop I know and we sat on the side of the road catching up. My friend says that doesn’t make me a local; it just makes me a known offender, lol.
• A few years ago, I shared some of my favorite watering holes on Reddit and someone responded, “This guy apres.” That was the moment I knew that I’d been ranch-water baptized into the sacred spirit of Park City. It echoes in my head now anytime I start spouting off Park City facts, knowledge, history. Like knowing the High West schnitzel is no longer served with spetzle. But it’s not just facts; it’s a feeling.
• When I first closed on my house here and Vail closed an agreement to manage Canyons and I just screamed Not in my backyard!
• In 2008, my best friend and I led the Howloween dog parade down Main Street with the PC marching band behind us. That night, we went out to Main Street and somebody recognized us and we got some free drinks out of it. That was day three after we moved here.
• It was March 9, 2016, day 97 of the ski season. I had hiked up to the top of 9990 first thing in the morning. I went out the gate into one of the best runs of my life. That was the first year that I went for 100 days. I ended up with 118 that season.
• I was with a group of friends and we wanted to go to our favorite bar on Main, but there was a huge line to get in and nobody felt like waiting. I knew the doorman and he said, “Follow me.” It was like that scene in “Good Fellas” where the guy skips the line and they go in the side door, through the kitchen and end up with the best table in the house.
• Honestly, I feel like I had my first local’s experience on Saturday when I went to a showing of the new Warren Miller film. It felt so good to be part of the locals’ celebration of the start of winter. In Philly and Boston, we DREADED winter; it felt good to be part of a group that celebrated it. Felt very Park City.

Are these local moments as PC as it gets? Maybe. I’m not sure. Probably not. One thing I do know is that we’re all connected by the stories we tell. And we’re at our very best when we listen to each other tell them.

The post Betty Diaries: Local love blossoms for PC appeared first on Park Record.