Here's our 1999 unofficial local's guide to skiing stardom: attaining the most vertical feet per day at 25 North American resorts whose mountains dare you to compare.

A while back, a guy named Rusty Squire skied 300,000 vertical feet in a day at Big Sky, Montana, which, as you might imagine, is a world record. Now think about that for a second. At Snowbird, the Utah resort I call home, one tram ride equals approximately 3,000 vertical feet. With a little help from a helicopter, he skied the equivalent of 100 trams.

As a counterpoint, the record number of trams skied in a day at The Bird is rumored to be 17, or roughly 51,000 vertical feet. This number seems pathetic compared to the heli-guy. But the Snowbird record holder still bragged and bragged about the deed until someone, tired of the swaggering, punched him in the face.

We might reasonably assume the Snowbird blowhard got decked because he annoyingly quantified his life through silly tram feats, or perhaps because he tried to use the deed to impress women. But you know what I think? I think the guy who did the punching was humiliated by his own pitiful five tram days. I think he felt compelled to lash out like a child made to look silly on a school yard. Either that or he's afraid of not being able to impress women.

Racking up vertical feet is a subtle, yet crucial part of the ski ego, much more than most observers realize. Why else would doctors and lawyers spend thousands of dollars to return each season to Mike Wiegele's heli-ski paradise? They become chained to a brass-ring obsession to earn the coveted silver belt-buckle given to patrons who schuss a million vertical feet. Whether they actually ski well or not, the precious buckle becomes a gleaming symbol of their man or womanhood. The silver buckle-complete with engraving and a gold-plated whirling helicopter-says to all the little people back home, "Look at me, I ski hard." It also says, "I'm rich," but that's another subject entirely.

My guess is all these people suffer from an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Think about it. Every ski area has one or a few guys who are plagued with vertical fixation. Like the three who ski KT22 at Squaw Valley day after day, for 20 years now. They never miss the 9 a.m. start, conditions be damned. It may be a freezer-burn, ice-chunk medley or delicious deep powder. Round and round they go until onlookers think they're seeing double.

Or the Vermont father who neatly writes the date, number of runs, vertical tally and whom he skied with in a daily log book. Or the middle-aged bellman at Alberta's Banff Springs Hotel. When everyone else says the weather is too terrible to ski, he's still out pounding seven hours a day. These poor, afflicted boys should visit Paris, save a starving family in Ethiopia or at least catch a movie sometime. But, oh no. Don't want to miss those morning laps.

I have friends who skied 16 Snowbird trams in a day, only missing the record because, after 14 rounds through deep powder and treacherous obstacles, they finally stopped for a quick cookie break. But the image of that one tram leaving the dock without them, as chocolate and crumbs fell from their parched, slack-jawed lips, will haunt their dreams for years.

My God, think of all the women they might have impressed.

For those obsessive-compulsives who ache to maximize vertical, there's really no need to go on Prozac or seek hypnotherapy. Just accept your perverse nature. The pull of gravity is simply too strong to resist. Just think vertical baby. It's what every self-righteous, self-respecting ski fanatic drools about in their sleep. Not race course medals, record cliff jumps or a spot on the U.S. Mogul Team. Just fat, lusty vertical.

Now, if you're new to our vertical religion, you may experience a bit of confusion. Things aren't as simple as they seem. What goals do you choose? Where do you find friends who want to come out and play? Most important, what, really is considered a bust-ass day?

To assist you through this painful transition, you have a friend in the business who's here to help, namely me. At no extra charge, I'm providing this handy numbers and resort guide to just the right place to booger your quads. Once you're sufficiently informed, I also encourage you to ski waaayyyy too fast, go limp if you crash, wear 45-factor sunscreen, stretch your hamstrings often, and choose Motrin-bran as your breakfast cereal. Welcome to the cold, hard facts of the big-ego vertical numbers game. Bring your calculators, flowcharts, lunch boxes and autograph pens. Now go make us proud.