In the beginning there was Park City
A busted silver mining town that had been boarded up and largely forgotten by the 1960s. Miners had been skiing these slopes on hickory barrel staves long before there was a resort. By the early 1970s, the lifts were running, the ski bums had arrived, and the faithful had found their promise land.
Somewhere in the mid-1970s, on the first day of April, someone put on a costume and skied. Then someone else did. Then hundreds did. Then thousands descended on Park City from all over the country specifically to participate. The only official rule was simple and beautiful: wear a costume, ski for free.
The Lord saw that it was good.
The Golden Age of Clown Day
For nearly a decade, Clown Day flourished. Grass skirts, striped neckties, red sponge noses. The faithful came in waves. Local high schoolers, seized by what became known as Clown Flu, abandoned their classrooms and reported to the mountain. Fundraisers were organized. Letters of complaint arrived at the resort when they once tried changing the date — visitors had already made travel plans around the holy day and would not have it moved.
It was immature, irresponsible, and great fun. It was the quirky DNA of a small ski town made visible.
The Great Persecution
As with all sacred traditions, the authorities eventually intervened. By the early 1980s, the resort was making a strong push to cool things down. In 1985, a new rule appeared on the back of every season pass. It became known simply as the Clown Clause:
"This pass is not valid if the user is dressed or made up as a clown."
No one was quite sure who was authorized to make that determination. The ski clothes of the era were, by most accounts, pretty darn clownish to begin with.
The crackdown continued. By the end of the decade, Clown Day had been banned entirely. The tradition went underground. The mountain went quiet on April 1st. The faithful mourned.
For ten years, anyone caught in costume had their pass revoked. A darkness fell upon the land.
The Resurrection
But the faithful do not give up so easily. By 2008, Clown Day was seeing a public resurgence. Less intoxicated than its predecessor. Less officially sanctioned. But alive. The costumes returned — full-body animal suits, coordinated retro onesies, Spider-Men, tandem Buzz Lightyears, and the occasional mankini. The jump in the tree clearing filled with people throwing flips and spinning into slushy corn snow.
The mountain, it turned out, could not keep the clowns away forever.
What Clown Day Means
April 1st at Park City Mountain is not about pranks. It is about something more holy than that.
It is about the preservation of ski town soul. About the people who built this culture — the ski bums townies and ne'er-do-well dreamers who arrived in a boarded-up silver town and made something sacred out of it. About the insistence that the mountain is a place of joy, irreverence, and uninhibited self-expression, regardless of what the C-suite says about it.
Thou Shalt Show Up in Costume
The corn harvest is on. The sun is out. The mountain is soft. And on April 1st the congregation gathers at Park City Mountain in whatever garments they deem holy — grass skirts, onesies, vintage ski gear, elaborate character costumes, or the mankini of the truly faithful.
This is the day the Lord has made. The doubters are home. The fair-weather riders went home after Spring Break. The mountain belongs to the faithful.
Put on the costume. Report to the mountain for attendance on this day is not optional.
