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After moving to Steamboat Springs a year and a half ago from my native city of Denver, I fell into learning what “community” really means. It’s not, (thankfully), about joining the PTA or going to town hall meetings.

It’s about having Kelli, the Safeway pharmacist, in my text thread in case her four kids need to be shuttled somewhere after her hip surgery. It’s about dropping beers off to Mikey, the car mechanic, in exchange for a tire repair. It’s about the woman at the post office who offers to pay for your lost package from her own pocket. These everyday interactions become meaningful entry points into this town, like capillaries that lead to larger veins and then arteries. Everyone is someone, and we’re all connected somehow. 

And because this small town is also Ski Town USA, the blood that flows through it all is our favorite winter sport, and there’s nowhere you feel the connection pulsing stronger than the annual Ski Swap.

Technically, the Ski Swap is a used gear sale and fundraiser for the Winter Sports Club, which breeds Olympians (more than 100 to date). It’s held every fall at the base lodge of Howelson Hill, the oldest continuously operating ski hill in North America, home of two year-round Nordic jumps, and the training ground for said Olympians-to-be. Not-so technically, it’s a town rager, albeit without the hangover. 

“Elise, go for the Elans!” a middle-aged dude in a beanie shouts over G-Love and Special Sauce blasting from the outdoor speakers. The racks of skis are all outside, mostly organized by brand, and the place is absolutely mobbed. I’m stalking the Blizzard rack, as I have a pair I’m hoping to sell but I’m afraid they’re priced too high. “Careful—someone tuned the hell out of these,” says another middle-aged man to his daughter near one of the race-ski racks, where wasp-waisted slalom and GS skis with World Cup tunes threaten both fingers and down jackets.

And then I’m hit with the sounds of juxtaposing calls, “These are 10 years old and there’s barely any edge left,” a familiar voice behind me says. “But they’re only $50…” It’s my ex-brother-in-law’s brother-in-law, naturally. I turn around and give him a quick hug. “You want these bindings? I’ll give ’em to you for $25,” he says. We talk about Christmas plans, and then he breaks into a smile at someone behind me. I turn around to see my physical therapist looking for skis for her son, Colin, who’s outgrown everything he owns. Colin ran cross-country with my daughter, who’s a year older than he and, thankfully, she’s mostly done growing.

I walk back inside, past the Nordic jumping skis that look like 10-foot-tall tongue depressors, through the ski boot room with so many kids crouching on the floor it could be a piñata party, and up the stairs to the softgoods. “I told this kid I’d buy him dog food for a year if he let me name his puppy Captain America,” says another recognizable voice at the top. My friend and former coworker’s dad, a shaggy-haired guy in mud boots and a fuzzy flannel, then introduces me to his neighbor.

Past the back protectors, speed suits, full-face helmets, regular helmets, and outerwear, I set my sights on the vintage ski sweater table, where treasure surely awaits. My path to it, however, turns into the kind of beeline that an actual bee would make if she showed up drunk to mating season. I talk to the guy with a handlebar mustache who offered me kind words of encouragement after knee-replacement surgery, to my friend Lynn whose daughter is besties with my daughter, to a couple I met who were also trying to cut through the baseball field to avoid the parking lot mayhem, plus a guy I’ve met a few times but never knew was on the U.S. Ski Team who tells me the new Indian food place is a little hit or miss. 

The serotonin flooding my brain from all this warm fuzziness makes me wonder what it is about this town that makes people nicer. Anonymity doesn’t exist here, which keeps people on their best behavior. There’s also no soul-sucking traffic, which can’t be underestimated as a cause for dickishness. But it’s more than that. 

These veins we share, with skiing coursing through, somehow put us all on the same side, regardless of politics or paychecks. I’m not saying that small rural towns don’t have their issues. They do. Because when everyone is someone, that means you are, too. 

I never make it to the vintage sweater table. I push my way down the stairs and squish back through the soggy field to my car. I am empty-handed, yes. But I know this winter, when I tromp into the T-Bar after a huge powder day, I’ll have even more people to clink beers with, and that’s even better than new (to me) gear.