The atmosphere was jovial, almost like a cocktail party. Gone was the usual stress-infused tedium that accompanies the boarding process on an overbooked plane. Instead, an electric energy buzzed throughout the cabin on the day-before-Sundance flight from New York to Salt Lake City.
Stepping onto the plane, I maneuvered past a clutch of three people talking animatedly in the bulkhead. Across the aisle, a man with a trim, salt-and-pepper beard jotted notes in a leather notebook as he listened intently to a woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to Edna Mode, the chic fashion designer in Pixar’s “The Incredibles.” All around me people were greeting one another, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, trading smartphone contacts.
As I struggled toward my seat, a woman sitting on the aisle glanced at the heavy boots strapped to my backpack and raised her eyebrows.
“Are you going to ski?” she asked. Before I could answer she turned to her seatmate and said, “I think we skied once, didn’t we?”
“Possibly,” said the man, looking thoughtful. “When was that? Four, five years ago?”
“No idea,” she said, “but we should do it again.” Turning to look back up at me she smiled and added, “I remember that it was beautiful, though.”
The Sundance Film Festival, Robert Redford’s annual fete of independent movies and Hollywood heavies, drew nearly 125,000 visitors to Utah in 2018, yet the majority of those never set ski or board to the state’s legendary slopes. During the 10-day celebration, furs and heels replace parkas and snow boots along Park City’s snowy sidewalks and the laid-back, western ski town takes on a glitzy sheen that has nothing to do with its mining history.
As someone whose knowledge of pop-culture is, in my teenage daughters’ opinions, embarrassingly sub par, the idea of attending Sundance has never held any appeal. Each year when the Oscar nominations are released I vow to catch up on my movie watching but never actually do. And other than the Sundance Kid himself I doubt I’d recognize most Hollywood stars if I ran into them on Park City’s Main Street.
But when a friend put a bug in my ear that I’d have the slopes to myself if I headed west during the festival, I was intrigued. I also heard tell from those in the proverbial know that Sundance always brings a snowstorm. Empty mountains and fresh powder? It sounded like the recipe for an excellent few days. I was in.
Despite signs instructing “No Sundance Parking,” cars packed the lot on my first morning at Park City Mountain Resort, causing me to fret that I’d been given a bum tip, but I needn’t have worried. At the base plaza, there wasn’t a lift line in sight and my friend Paul and I rode up the Payday Express admiring virginal lines of corduroy on the trails below, still pristine even at 10 a.m.
Park City Resort opened in 1963 as Treasure Mountain, a nod to the town’s silver mining past. We spent the morning skiing past industry relics — ore bins, mine sites, counterweights — that still dotted the mountain landscape, cruising down trails with names like Prospector, Silver Queen, Powder Keg, and Claimjumper. Ten inches of snow had fallen two days earlier and even though it was a weekend, the powder remained abundant, not surprising given how few other skiers we encountered. The only signs of bustle were near the Summit House, where three lifts meet to create a hub of sorts, and at lunchtime at the Cloud Dine lodge over at the mountain’s Canyons side.
Gina DeCaprio Vercesi
It wasn’t easy to drag myself away from that blissful brand of mountain solitude, but Main Street beckoned and I wanted to catch a glimpse of the infamous Sundance hullaballoo. After a few more post-lunch runs I headed to the Town Lift, an old-school triple that delivers skiers up to the slopes from Main Street and back down again at the end of the day.
From my vantage point high above snow-laden evergreens, I caught my first glimpse of Park City’s brightly hued, wooden houses and old-west facades. The chair dropped me at Town Lift Plaza, which, in stark contrast to the mountain’s serene slopes, was awash in the glow of Sundance limelight.
Feeling like the lift had transported me into another dimension, I clunked along Main Street where festival-goers sporting animal print Lycra, puffy metallic jackets, and inappropriate footwear shot me strange looks as I passed by in my ski boots. A writer friend of mine saw I was in town and suggested via social media that I play her Sundance drinking game. The rules sounded dangerous — drink whenever you see someone with any of the following in their outfit: sequins, fur, stilettos; slam your entire drink when you see all three in one outfit. I might have given it a try if I’d managed to get within shouting distance of a bartender.
Doing so proved a challenge, however, as Main Street was congested with people queued up outside restaurants, bars, and festival venues. Meanwhile, amateur paparazzi swarmed en-masse in phalanx-like formations whenever it seemed like a star sighting might have been made. I struck out in my attempts to procure an après-cocktail at Park City favorites like High West Distillery and Old Town Cellars — both of which were closed for private parties. Further along Main Street, No Name Saloon was welcoming the unanointed, but by that time my phone had begun lighting up with texts from Paul, who was parked and waiting for me on a side street in the getaway car. On our way out of town we skirted past the famous Eccles Theater, where a line for the 3:30 film was already snaking around the building.
I sought refuge from the cinematic chaos on the backside of the Wasatch Mountains, 18 miles east of Park City in Heber Valley, where cows far outnumber celebrities. Broad meadows, mountain lakes, and rolling farmland characterize the region and Mount Timpanogas, also called “the Sleeping Princess” for the way its cragged peaks form the shape of a reclining figure, presides over the Valley’s two sleepy towns, Midway and Heber City.
Posted from Travel and Leisure
