Letter: Broke in paradise
There’s a sacred chant you’ll hear echoing through the Vail Valley, usually muttered while filling up a modern vehicle at $4.89 a gallon or staring blankly at a $19 breakfast burrito: “Man … I’m so broke I won’t be able to go to the concert this weekend!”
It’s almost a reflex, like sneezing when you look at the sun or waving when you pass someone you think you know for some reason. The phrase “I’m broke” has become the unofficial motto of us Vail-born and transplant locals. But let’s be real for a second: Calling ourselves poor while living here is like a fish complaining that the water’s too wet.
Yes, housing is nuts. Yes, eating out can feel like taking out a loan. And yes, ski gear is priced like they come with stock options. But calling ourselves “poor” while we walk out of a world-class hospital, drop our kids off at excellent public schools, or mountain bike through Eagle Ranch in a $300 pair of shoes while we contemplate what restaurant you should eat at that day! That’s rich — literally and figuratively.
Let’s put things in perspective. We may not all have a private jet or a luxury mansion in Cordillera, but we’ve got something a lot more valuable: local magic. We can pronounce “Gypsum” correctly, we slip up and call Vail Gondola One Vista Bahn still. We know that feeling of pure bliss when you’re on the mountain with absolutely no worries about your everyday life bills/jobs/soul crushing debt, and we instinctively understand that snow tires are not optional — they’re religion.
We live in a place where your neighbor might be a retired Olympian, your mechanic snowboards better than Shaun White, and your dentist casually shreds Highland Bowl on weekends. And somehow, despite it all, we’ll still sit around a bonfire in someone’s backyard saying, “Ugh, I’m broke,” while sipping local craft beer and debating which hot springs are most ‘authentic.’
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Truth is, we just have our own special brand of broke. For most of us it is not the kind where you’re eating Top Ramen in the dark because you couldn’t pay the electric bill. No — it’s the kind where you’re on a payment plan for your mountain bike with a suspension designed by magic and your dog wears a $70 Ruffwear jacket, but you can’t remember the last time you filled up your savings account.
But here’s the thing: We are wealthy in all the ways that count. We’ve got clean air, rivers that heal the soul, mountains that raise our kids with grit and grace, and a community that rallies around its own when life hits hard. We may joke about being poor, but deep down we know it’s almost blasphemy to say it — because compared to the rest of the world, we’re wildly fortunate.
So go ahead, say “I’m broke” the next time you’re splitting a $30 sandwich with someone who owns three pairs of skis. Just know that deep down, you’re rich in mountain town gold — and that’s the kind that can’t be measured in dollars.
Juan Carlos Sandoval
Gypsum
