Had you been a tourist visiting Park City, Utah, in 1869, you would have written, in your postcard (an ancient communications device requiring you to use a pen and lick a stamp) to back home, “Be glad you are not here.” ParkCity was all about silver mining then. Its citizens were rough-hewn, not a step removed from Butch Cassidy’s Hole In The Wall Gang which thrived 400 miles to the south.
You wouldn’t have skied outside ParkCity, in 1869. You wouldn’t have explored the many national parks (thank Teddy Roosevelt for that)—there were none. You didn’t hike or ride horses unless you were an outlaw or a mountain man. You bathed; you didn’t swim. Utah’s tourism came well after the mines had been exhausted.