You moved here for the mountains and now you spend your weekends sitting in four hours of ski traffic to go slide down a hill you paid two hundred bucks to access. The sun is out 300 days a year, sure, and roughly 290 of those days it also snowed, hailed, hit 70 degrees, and dropped to 20 before dinner. Your lungs quit at the trailhead. Your nose bleeds in January. Everyone you meet owns the same puffy vest, the same dog, and the same opinion about where to get green chili.
This is for anyone who loves it here and is also deeply, personally over it. A breakup letter you can wear to brunch, where the wait is ninety minutes.
Soft, broken-in feel from the first wear, with a relaxed fit that layers over whatever you already have on. Durable stitching and print that survives the washing machine, the campfire smoke, and whatever your altitude-adjusted lifestyle throws at it.
