Excess signage: how the towering town of Telluride gets it right. 

Several weeks ago I featured the borough of Wilson, Pennsylvania—a small municipality in the Lehigh Valley region, where Allentown, Bethlehem, and Easton are the most prominent cities.  Wilson is adjacent to Easton and in most respects is culturally indistinct: at a certain point it incorporated as a separate municipality, but it shares Easton’s street grid, housing stock, and even the street numbering scheme. Its biggest distinction is that it’s a separate municipality with its own mayor, council, and code of ordinances.  And, as I noted in my article from May, Wilson has significantly more lenient sign regulations than Easton, which is evident almost as soon as any motorist takes the first exit ramp off of US 22.  Little blue directional signs clutter the very first intersection.  They’re everywhere, and most of them point to private businesses—not public buildings, points of interest, or important cultural institutions.  The excess signage is for businesses, big and small, which could come and go with each passing season.  In short, the Borough of Wilson represents a perfect example of why most municipalities decide to craft careful and much more stringent sign regulations.

I don’t mean to knock on Wilson; it’s a respectable bedroom community of 8,000, but that’s really all it is.  It’s obscure even within Pennsylvania; most people will have never heard of it two counties away.  Meanwhile, travel 2,000 miles to the west, and Telluride, Colorado offers an intriguing contrast.  Telluride’s population is barely a quarter of that of Wilson, yet its profile is many orders of magnitude larger.  People across the world know Telluride.  They vacation there.

Originally founded in 1878 after discovery of silver ore, Telluride exploded in population in the pattern of many towns in the Rocky Mountain West.  After US Treasury traded the silver standard for gold, the mining town plunged again, lacking any diverse economic base and deterring all but the heartiest prospectors, due in no small part to a harsh climate (it sits at nearly 9,000 feet) and comparative remoteness.  Population graphs for Telluride look a bit like a sine curve, luring people as a new mineral was found: first copper, then zinc in the 1930s.  But mines couldn’t sustain a thriving economy for long.  At its population nadir in 1970, Telluride claimed only 550 people, with only a small portion subsisting on mining, while the others were often too poor to leave.  But the development of Telluride Ski Resort in 1972 helped awaken a larger public to the area’s natural beauty, the high percentage of surviving commercial buildings on Colorado Avenue (its main street), and, by the early 2000s, a year-round tourist culture in the form of golf, hiking, and mountain biking, complementing the winter crowd.  An internationally recognized film festival attracts other pleasure seekers.

Other distinctive festivals give the town a reputation for both a celebratory environment and the capacity to handle routine surges in visitor population.  By the late 1990s a formerly dying town had turned into a prestigious ski destination; twenty years later, it’s popular all year long.

Vacation homes worth seven or eight figures perch along craggy sandstone hillsides with views of the San Miguel Valley.  Skier-friendly gondolas remain operative in the summer, serving as alternative transportation between Telluride the town and its various resort-like housing/commercial nodes.  A regional airport (TEX) services small-engine Cessnas and private jets of the elite.  Mining would be a historical footnote in Telluride, if not for the fact that its historic district owes its existence to a time when most people living in Telluride had much dirtier fingernails than they do today.  Tourism has fully gentrified this town, like many others in the Colorado Rockies.

With tourists spread across four seasons—even amidst the long winters of a near-alpine climate—Telluride is accustomed to a large number of visitors, and then need to assist their way-finding.  By most metrics, the streetscape features excess signage reminiscent of Wilson, PA.

Basically every intersection along Colorado Avenue has a pole with numerous protruding flags that indicate key points of interest.  It makes perfect sense for publicly financed signs to guide visitors to the public restrooms or a public parking garage.  Museums make some sense too; they’re usually non-profit and serve as a cultural attraction that can remain open amidst economic vicissitudes.  But why, with all the other horizontal flags atop of this metal post, is it necessary to guide people to restaurants, lodging, or groceries?  Truly excess signage by almost any metric.  After all, compared even to Wilson, Telluride is tiny: the entire historic grid consists of about forty blocks.  It’s nearly impossible to get lost.  The excess signage creates visual clutter and, as businesses come and go, requires constant maintenance to stay accurate and up-to-date.  Additionally, it functions as taxpayer-financed advertising for those enterprises lucky enough to receive the signs.  

And, honestly, in an era where nearly 80% of adults have a smartphone, do municipalities really need to spend much to assist visitors in wayfinding?  During a visit to Telluride, the excess signage makes itself clear pretty early on.

Virtually every intersection on the main drag features something.  That said, while these metallic banners offer nothing that one can’t already get from a smartphone, one must remember that Telluride’s remote location could make it harder to keep a signal.  I had no difficulties during the 60 hours I was there, but the entire year-round population of San Miguel County (of which Telluride is the seat) is barely 8,000—less than the population of Wilson.  And the county is huge: more than 200 square miles bigger than the state of Rhode Island.  Mountains encircle Telluride on three sides, and, at these high elevations, weather conditions can change starkly and frequently, even over the course of a pleasant summer day. 

The reliable cellular signal falters quickly once a visitor has left the Telluride municipal limits.  Some of the resort communities that flank the town still offer connectivity, but how easy is it to get a good signal in the winter on those slopes?  Ski resorts need signage to keep people on marked trails.

People expect good signage while skiing (or mountain biking in the summer) because getting stranded on a neglected side of a mountain could jeopardize human life.  The town of Telluride doesn’t pose quite that risk, but people come to a town like this expecting minimal challenges in navigating, in the interest of safety amidst the abundant time spent in outdoor recreation.

It’s not just the cultural context that helps justify the excess signage in Telluride compared to Wilson.  The municipality does it better overall.

In Telluride, the signs are bolder and more vivid.  They offer infographics and colors that correspond to different uses: restaurants versus lodging versus groceries versus services.  The approach appears carefully conceived and codified, compared to Wilson’s slipshod effort.  And, from the best I can tell, virtually all signs are planted exclusively on the main corridor, Colorado Avenue, directing visitors to the minority of businesses located elsewhere beyond that commercial spine.  So the Town of Telluride has likely established a clear benchmark for which businesses get the extra promotion, along with a rationale: people may not leave the main street unless signage encourages them to do so.

Bearing these factors in mind, Telluride makes a stronger case for excess signage than Wilson.  I’m still not sure it’s essential—after all, those cartoonish foldout picture maps achieve much the same purpose but without any sidewalk clutter.  And, as cellular signals (and tourist-themed apps) improve, the directional signs are probably becoming less important by the day.  But while Wilson’s excess signage shows the chaotic consequences that come from an absence of regulations, Telluride demonstrates a conscious effort to provide an aesthetic and informational tool that avoids the Wilson scenario.  Besides, these carefully curated directional signs appear high-budget compared to Telluride’s street signs, which I can only lovingly describe as “Western rustic”.