Normally, we would accept that statement with all the hospitality intended. But on this day, we pushed the envelope. We were even planning to buy two PowerBars. And one of us absolutely, really, suddenly had to GO before embarking on a bicycle climb up Idaho State Road 75 to the 8,100-foot Galena Summit. Surely, the sleepy guy behind the counter would grant us dispensation.
He did not. My cycling partner implored, "I know what the rule is, but this is kind of an emergency, and don't you think . . . "
He said, "I'll get in trouble with my boss."
Chumps that we are, we actually bought the PowerBars. And found a nice wooded spot beside a jewel of a golf course down the road to take care of business.
Ah, Ketchum, Idaho - quite possibly the West's most arrogant resort town. Stack it against Aspen, Vail or Jackson Hole and that's some recognition. There were exceptions: The server in the pizza joint who cracked cute jokes. The smiling server at the Galena Lodge (26 miles beyond Ketchum) who filled our water glasses three times before we ever emptied them. We actually found solace at Starbuck's after a locally owned and highly touted breakfast place ran out of house coffee at 10 a.m. on a Sunday. Its staff was in no particular rush to brew more. "We still have decaf and butter pecan," one server told me, nodding toward the big, get-your-own urn.
The occasion of our visit was last week's Utah State Bar Association annual meeting, where I was one of several invited speakers. We stayed at Earl Holding's Sun Valley Lodge, which somehow hovers above the swath of insolence stretching through most of neighboring Ketchum. Say what you like about Holding's sweet federal land swaps and downtown Salt Lake real estate banking; the man knows how to run a hotel. Maids delivered chocolates at night and inquired as to the conditions of the rooms; bell captains hopped to open the doors.
There are economic underpinnings for such indifference toward the average tourist, of course. First, the town learned long ago there is no such animal as a repeat customer - not really. Why knock yourself out for someone rolling through town one weekend a year with a pittance of vacation cash to blow?
Certainly not when the real critical mass of the local economy lies with the Sun Valley landed gentry. My tourist dollars would fit on the head of a pin next to one strategic art gallery buy of, say, Henry Ford's great granddaughter, Charlotte Ford. She owns a Sun Valley home.
Finally, the town relies on a labor force largely driven to X Games distraction. Waiting on a Wichita grandma is such a drag when you could be on your board hucking air. This truth hit me as I thumbed through a sidewalk sale rack at one of Ketchum's countless bike and board shops. Eight minutes before closing, a regular little Betty pulled the rolling rack right out from under me and pushed it inside. I had my eye on a pair of flip-flops, but darn if I wasn't infringing on her countdown to Happy Hour.
I have heard this is simply the rhythm of a resort town, a lifestyle the lowly tourist must grudgingly accept. I see it as a cautionary tale for similar spots in our own back yard. This bubble of indifference sometimes floats to the surface in our own Park City and Deer Valley, but has yet to overtake them. Maybe it's the tempering influence of down-home Heber and Kamas nearby. Still, we ought to take note. Insolence is no foundation for a mountain town.
By the way, I did not buy the flip-flops. Take that, Ketchum.
hmullen@sltrib.com
