Say you’ve just met someone at a party, and they ask what you do. If you answer “I’m a software engineer” (or mechanic, or lawyer), most people will smile and nod.

But answer “I’m a ski patroller,” even if that’s not your day job? It’s a sure-fire conversation starter, because the whole concept is exotic to most people. To say you’re a member of the National—THE NATIONAL—Ski Patrol (NSP), with its history and cachet... there’s something almost inestimably cool about that.

The work involved—first up a mountain, last down, learning it intimately, seeing its very best and very worst and understanding it in a way most people can’t even imagine, all while helping people who share your love of snow—these things make patrolling intoxicating, even addictive.

It’s no wonder that roughly 28,000 Americans are currently in its thrall.

But how do you manage that many people, when angst and a fragmented ballot box are your controlling authorities? How do you deal with a handful of meddling members who take preposterous amounts of management time, when you can’t fire them, and it’s possible that they might even be right?

These questions matter, because NSP’s affiliates range from small day areas to most—but certainly not all—of America’s large ski destinations.

There are roughly 4,000 full- and part-time paid patrollers—mostly registered through NSP’s Professional Division. But volunteers, split into 10 Regional Divisions, outnumber pros by six to one, giving them control of NSP’s Board. The administrative staff and executive director serve at the Board’s pleasure.

Two years ago, NSP sued itself. It was the second time in less than a decade that it did so. Clearly, there are issues.

Member-driven organizations typically include a small number of visionaries trying to push things ahead, a rump faction battling to preserve the status quo, and a large middle that’s primarily concerned with keeping life from becoming more complicated.

Change is complicated.

So, even if the fundamental concept of the National Ski Patrol remains valid, have its all-too-frequent political spasms —and other external forces—reached the point at which NSP is more trouble than it’s worth?


A BRIEF HISTORY

To understand what the NSP is, you need to understand what it was.

The seeds were planted with the creation of the Mount Mansfield Ski Patrol in 1934. Within a few years, the idea of a national organization focused on rescuing injured skiers was championed by Charles Minot (Minnie) Dole, who was also the driving force behind the fabled 10th Mountain Division.

The post-war years saw an explosion of interest in skiing—and, by extension, ski area development and patrolling.

Initially, patrols focused entirely on rescuing injured skiers and operated more or less independently of the mountains they served. Resorts might keep a small paid staff to manage coverage during midweek. But the bulk of patrollers—and leaders—were NSP volunteers who came when the skiers did: weekends, vacations, nights.

This model is still used by a remarkable number of smaller ski areas. But as the industry evolved, this model couldn’t—and wouldn’t—survive unilaterally. Vail eliminated volunteers and severed ties with NSP in 1974.

“The volunteers were good people,” says former Vail VP/mountain operations Brian McCartney, “but on a mountain that big, it was hard for them to keep up, even if they came in every weekend.”

Three years later, the Sunday v. Stratton case upended the idea that skiers bear sole responsibility for getting safely down the mountain. Patrolling became more intricate overnight.

In part because of the new legal climate, resorts nationwide started looking at their own patrols and what NSP offered. Killington, which cut the cord around 1978, is an example.

“I don’t recall the exact number,” says retired Killington VP of skiing Leo Denis, “but when I took over the department we had well in excess of 100 volunteers.”

Denis discovered that roughly ten percent of his volunteers handled more than 90 percent of the work.

“It was inescapable,” he says. “We had a lot of volunteers who really had no interest in the core of what patrolling was about.”

If those volunteers added value in other ways, they also cost Killington money. “Free skiing for them, and their families,” Denis says. “Food discounts. It added up to a lot.”

Denis concluded that with a full-time professional patrol, Killington could save money and do a better job where it counted. For one, NSP’s training standards lagged far behind national advances in Emergency Medical Services (EMS) training, so he set Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) certification as Killington’s baseline for hire. He assigned Killington’s patrol, renamed “Skiing Services,” with every aspect of daytime trail maintenance—including, for a time, snow grooming.

These, and other moves, such as the formal elimination of an end-of-day trail sweep (thoroughly sweeping Killington would require hundreds of people), alarmed NSP’s old guard.

Killington didn’t care what they thought. The change produced a highly competent, cost-effective team.

By 1980, with the growth of EMS and The Sunday Case, it was increasingly obvious that NSP wasn’t keeping up with an advancing industry. Growing resorts needed patrollers with skills beyond skiing and first aid. They needed people who answered to management and were skilled in disciplines like risk management, high-angle rescue and accident investigation.

More resorts walked. NSP lost nearly a third of its members. Yet at a time of stunning industry transformation, in the face of its own decline, NSP’s membership voted to keep things the way they were.


AN NSP OVERHAUL

In fact, people within NSP’s inner circles recognized the problems and were determined to fix them.

Dr. Warren Bowman, NSP’s medical advisor, began developing a new first response curriculum dubbed “Winter Emergency Care” (WEC)—since renamed “Outdoor Emergency Care,” or OEC.

WEC was intended to boost training well beyond that of NSP’s previous standard, The American Red Cross’s Advanced First Aid program. Involving more than three times as many hours of classroom work, WEC was closer, though not equivalent, to basic EMT training.

In 1982, after almost two years with NSP’s top position unfilled, the Board hired an energetic new executive director— Stephen Over—to return NSP to fiscal health and bridge the gap with resorts that had left. By the time he was hired, most of Colorado’s big resorts had walked, and California was on its way.

“The idea was to make the organization more broad-based, and appeal to the full spectrum of patrolling,” Over says. ”Whether that aligned with the membership is another question.” And one that many old-time volunteers asked.

As for NSP itself, “there was no marketing, no partnerships, no database. My job was to rebuild the image of the organization,” he says.

WEC enjoyed a reasonably smooth roll-out, despite pockets of loud resistance from veteran trainers with ties to the Red Cross and from others who thought Advanced First Aid was perfectly adequate, and saw no need to re-train everyone (including themselves).

That outcry was minor compared to what happened when NSP started transitioning from an operational organization to an educational one, which was like kicking a hornet’s nest.

“The organization still suffers from this,” Over says. “Many members didn’t like the idea that we were essentially becoming a training and credentialing organization. But as society became more litigious, NSP couldn’t risk being seen as an operating entity with deep pockets.”

Over believes “there was a lot of ego fulfillment” in the idea that NSP called its own shots. The elimination of the National Ski Patrol cross on the back of patrollers’ jackets—an icon of great pride among members—was a key part of the repositioning. It caused massive turmoil.

“The Board had to move in that direction; membership didn’t want to go there,” Over says. “It really is a political organization. Officers are elected by members. Members operated the way they did because it was a nice way to operate, without interference from resort management. The people protecting the status quo had the numbers.”

Even the reunification with pros created resentment. It made little sense for resorts that made no use of NSP programs to pay dues or require their patrollers to do so. On the other hand, many of those resorts possessed technical and efficiency-based operational knowledge of value to the organization.

So, in 1987, NSP launched the Professional Division, which offered pros a way to return at low cost. The idea was embraced by resort operators. Many resorts—and their patrollers—returned to NSP rosters, including the biggest prize of all: Vail.

It was a huge win for NSP, but not for its dissidents, who complained that pros were getting preferential treatment on dues and thought the Pro Division held too much sway over NSP’s Board and administrative staff.

Ultimately, things calmed down. The early 2000s was a period of comparative ease. Membership grew and, thanks to increasing sponsorship support, the balance sheet was healthy.

The National Ski Areas Association (NSAA) had relocated to Colorado and rented space in NSP’s building. NSP’s administrative team also assumed responsibility for the Professional Ski Instructors of America (PSIA), which was recovering from its own internal problems.

Both NSP and PSIA enjoyed significant economies of scale by splitting office and warehouse space and the costs of management, marketing and member services.

For a brief, shining moment, all three of the U.S. ski industry’s major associations—NSP, PSIA and NSAA—lived together, ascendant, in apparent harmony, and under the same roof in Lakewood, Colorado.

It wouldn’t last. In 2005, the National Ski Patrol nearly ripped itself apart.


THE ROAD TO SELF-DESTRUCTION

In addition to setting tone and policy, not-for-profit boards focus on continuity. Say that you’re elected to a seat. If you retain it and desire officer status, you move through a progression: secretary, treasurer, vice-chair, chair.

But because NSP Board members were elected by regional members, with one Board member per region, a local campaign to unseat a Board member could—and did—upset lines of succession.

Further, NSP’s governance structure is complex. The bylaws require a second set of elected officers: Division Directors, who have no power beyond their region. They can advise the Board, but can’t vote, regardless of how a decision might affect their members.

And finally, the overwhelming majority of NSP members is uninterested in politics. A 30 percent voter turnout in any region is massive, and most regions post far smaller numbers.

So, much like Congressional primaries, NSP’s leadership is often decided by low numbers of highly motivated people. NSP can find itself effectively hamstrung by less than 10 percent of the membership in a handful of the Divisions.

In 2005, concerned about insurgency and hoping to generate a greater measure of continuity, the Board attempted to change NSP’s bylaws so that every Board member was elected at large from a slate of national candidates.

Logical? Yes, from the Board’s point of view, but the Divisions quickly realized the proposed change meant they might be unrepresented on an important vote, or that power might concentrate in another region. A firestorm erupted, much of it online, and a lawsuit quickly followed.

Appearances matter in politics, and the NSP Board doesn’t always help itself. It meets regularly in Denver, expenses paid. Members are given logo-emblazoned cars to use while serving, thanks to a sponsorship deal. Nor must they be active patrollers; over the years, varying numbers were long since absent from the hill.

To activist members, NSP’s Board consisted of lotus-eaters—out of touch with the mission, living large on dues money and attempting to rig the game to protect their cushy gigs.

The battle lasted for close to a year. An agreement was finally hammered out. It was a pyrrhic victory for the Board.

The bylaws changed, but the Chair stepped down, and at every level of the organization—from the front lines to the administrative offices—members felt burned and distrusting of everyone else. Legal fees sucked NSP’s cash reserves dry.

A year later, NSP and PSIA, which was now in better financial shape, voted to operate independently. Legally, the two had remained separate entities; the relationship was based on splitting administrative costs.

Both Boards agreed to the separation. Even so, according to one insider, “it was like watching an ugly divorce, right down to who got what furniture. Employees were asked to choose whether they wanted to work for NSP or PSIA. Many chose PSIA.”

Just as damaging, carefully-cultivated sponsors decided that PSIA offered better brand alignment than NSP and jumped ship. Inside and out, many felt NSP was to blame for the split.

One of the casualties of the breakup was Stephen Over, who had been controversial among the membership for some time. Setting a different tone, NSP’s board hired easy-going industry veteran Tim White to replace him six months later. Like Over before him, White had to rebuild almost from scratch. “The first year was hard,” he says. “We’d lost a lot of key staff. Members and the industry had lost confidence.”

Bit by bit, White successfully rebuilt an administrative team and improved the financial picture. Then in mid-2012, the potentially toxic combination of NSP’s governance structure and activist members reared up again.

There has long been a subset of members’ rights advocates inside the NSP. Some raise hell about how dues are spent; others attack the national office for not focusing on the right things.

Most critics throw stones from the perimeter. But a Board seat can be won with fewer than 2,000 votes, allowing challengers to work their way inside. That’s how, when the next lawsuit was filed in 2012, it came from within the Board itself. A minority faction on the Board, dissatisfied with items of governance, demanded NSP’s e-mail lists.

Given that Board members already had access to the entire database and the ability to contact each member individually, NSP’s legal counsel needed time to ensure that the list was sought for legitimate purposes. The possibility that the list would be freed from the firewall and could fall into the hands of spammers was the chief legal concern. The functional concern was the precedent that a dissident Board faction might use the list to foment support for a minority view.

Well-functioning boards fight their battles privately, then present decisions with a unified voice. But NSP’s Board was at loggerheads.

Believing its request was being stonewalled, the faction filed suit. Ultimately, NSP shared the list, which wasn’t used, and the suit was withdrawn. That didn’t calm things down; from out in the membership, several Board members were attacked online for allegedly falsifying their resumes. The chairman stepped down in early 2013, and another member had previously quit.

While all this happened, White was desperately trying to hold things together with sponsors and the industry in the face of yet another public spat. It seemed a losing battle. Heartbroken by what was happening and powerless to stop it, White resigned in June, 2013.

In the November issue of SAM, this story will continue, and take a look at what the future may hold for the National Ski Patrol.


Skip King was a professional patroller for 13 years. He worked—with an NSP card—at Stratton and Magic Mountain, Vt.; non-affiliated at Killington, and was patrol director of an NSP-affiliated mixed pro/volunteer patrol at Sunday River, Maine. He also served as Eastern Delegate to NSP’s Professional Division, 1988-1990. In addition to contributing to SAM, he serves the ski industry as a crisis communications specialist.