In Praise of Resort Skinning

At first, there are only a few. In the dim glow of predawn, shy beams of light steadily move up the shadowy white slopes of Aspen Mountain. These are the diehards, the ones who start skinning by 5am either because they have a job to get to or, more likely, they’re trying to squeeze in as many laps as possible before the gondola starts spinning at 9am. 

As light grows on the mountain, so do their numbers. Scattered clumps and one-off skinners, some on skinny skis, others on splitboards, many on the midfat family of 90mm+, a few outliers in traction spikes. The true speed demons are easy to spot—slender bean poles on 65s that silently glide past the rec crews, too intent on uphill momentum to mutter “Good morning.” 

By 7:30, the mountain is light and covered in dark figures marching up a snow ribbon, arms, poles, and legs rhythmically pumping like pistons on a train. They look possessed. Probably some are. Why else would they be here?

This could be any morning on Aspen Mountain (or Ajax, as the locals say), an 11,212-foot peak that sits smack dab in the core of a town that once aspired to become the uphilling epicenter of the United States. Uphilling at Ajax (or any of the Aspen Snowmass resorts) is nothing new, though it has reached new heights with the advent of lighter touring gear and the ski area’s marketing. Each of the four Aspen Mountains has its own uphill policy, and for the cost of $69 for a single day or for the whole season, you can skin up any one of them. Aspen Snowmass doesn’t keep an exact count, but in recent years ski patrollers on Buttermilk––the beginner mountain where uphilling is allowed all day—have reported upwards of 600 uphillers on a single day.

Ajax has limited beginner terrain and a strict cutoff for uphill traffic to reach the Sundeck Restaurant at the top by 9am. The one route up is 3300 feet of STFU. The surface is smooth thanks to its nightly snowcat manicure, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. A handful of steep pitches routinely send novice skinners sliding backward, skis and poles stuck out at all desperate angles. Though the seasoned fitness junkies may glide up with apparent ease, for many making the morning sojourn, it’s a miracle they get even close to the top.

I once stopped to help a girl outfitted with ancient Dynafit All Terrain skis and worn TLT7 boots. She straddled the slope, her legs in a backward V, her skins unattached and lifeless. When I picked up a skin to help her put it back on, I found the glue side covered in dirt and cat hair. “I dunno if these are going to do it,” I said while rubbing the skin on my pant leg in an attempt to resuscitate it. The girl shrugged. “They made it up last time.” Godspeed.

Another time, my husband and I were heading up when we caught a friend who was skinning with ski mountaineering legends Jim Morrison and the late Hilary O’Neill. Jim and Hilary were in town for a showing of their film Lhotse, and they were skinning on Zero G setups like those they’d taken to the world’s highest peak. At some point, as we skirted other groups, Hilary turned to me with a look of amusement on her face. “So, people just skin up a groomer? Like, that’s it?” I nodded, suddenly sheepish. I felt like we were splashing around in a baby pool and she’d just swam across the Pacific Ocean. (It may be worth noting that her and Jim’s home mountain in Telluride didn’t allow uphilling of any sort at the time).

On a recent morning, I started early to get a lap before joining a friend who was on track to hit 1 million feet of vertical climbing on ski and bike for the year (typical among the locals). I reached the Sundeck as gold splashed across the pointed peaks of the Elk Mountains and smears of pink dawn lingered in the sky. I pulled my skins and settled into the flow of cutting turns in fresh corduroy. About a third of the way down, I started scanning upcoming groups for my friend, but quickly realized there was no way I could spot her. What seemed like a hundred figures crawled up the steep slope below. I skied attentively against their current. Some chatted, some gritted their teeth, some stopped and doubled over their poles in exasperation. At the bottom of the pitch, I gave up, stuck my skins back on, and began to climb again. I found my friend hours later at the on-mountain pancake joint.

To “hardcore” backcountry skiers, resort skinning may seem like a bastardized version of what should otherwise be a soulful communion with the alpine. But I argue that even for the most core among us, this simplified practice of shuffling uphill on skis has its utility. For many Roaring Fork Valley locals––myself included––the pilgrimage up Ajax is mostly reserved for gaining early-season fitness. With its north-facing aspect, high elevation, and state-of-the-art snowmaking, Ajax is the first of the four Aspen Snowmass ski hills to have enough coverage to open. Skinning 3300-foot laps is like getting reps at a gym—the only gym I’d personally want to frequent––until the Snow Gods oblige and we can frequent farther-flung places that make our souls hum.

But it’s more than just a place for easy reps. Newbies try out uphill gear. Friends meet friends for furious training sessions or casual strolls on skis. On some mornings, I can’t get to the top without encountering upwards of 20 familiar faces, not including the group I started with. You might call it the Aspen version of catching up over coffee. 

And in the bizarrely warm winter of 2025-26, when many ski areas in Colorado are reporting a less than 20” base in early January, and backcountry runouts are mazes of roots and rocks, skinning Ajax has taken on a new meaning. It’s the only slope in the area where you aren’t guaranteed to destroy your skis. And it’s a reliable connection to winter at a time when winter feels elusive. Even on January days that reach 50 degrees, when the closest ski hill to my house in Glenwood Springs (Sunlight Mountain) can’t even open its upper slopes, and a recent, much-anticipated storm came in as rain, I know I can at least skin Ajax. And crowds or no crowds, that is worth a lot.

Manasseh Franklin lives in the Roaring Fork Valley in Colorado. When she’s not skiing or biking, she’s writing, editing, or baking sourdough.