Stepping off the train in Kitzb眉hel, Austria, feels like entering hallowed ground: one of the most famous ski towns in the Alps, chartered in 1271 by Duke Ludwig II of Bavaria. I inhaled the crisp afternoon air and began a short walk to my accommodations, passing fur boutiques and high-end ski shops, medieval churches, and brightly lit, glassed-in hotel lobbies. I came to a tiny concrete stairway one block off the main drag and descended into a snow-covered garden, where I passed a few ducks, quacking and nibbling on lettuce. I buzzed the doorbell and waited.

It was Tuesday, January 22, 2025. I had come to Kitzb眉hel to cover the baddest ski race on the World Cup circuit: the Hahnenkamm downhill, alpine schussing鈥檚 holy grail, where skiers become legends on a twisting elevator shaft of ice called the Streif. It is staged in this quaint Tyrolean hamlet of 8,000 residents, and each year attracts 45,000 paying fans, as well as celebrities and politicians who intermingle with depraved commoners like few places in the winter world.

I鈥檇 planned my trip late, in mid-December, when most of the area鈥檚 lodging had been gobbled up. My options were to pay $600 a night for a room in a village four miles away, accessed by train; or $50 a night for a bed in a six-bunk room at the SnowBunnys Hostel, a five-minute walk to the race finish鈥攂reakfast included. I hadn鈥檛 stayed in a European hostel since I was 21. Now I am a 45-year-old father of two who enjoys sleep.

It鈥檚 only six nights, I reassured myself as I booked the hostel.

A few minutes after arriving at the hostel, a heavyset man named Dave with long, stringy black hair and a graying beard opened the door. I followed him upstairs to a small, stuffy quarters on the third floor. He coughed and sneezed without covering his mouth. 鈥淓veryone in the village is sick,鈥� he explained.

Dave, a Kiwi in his fifties, showed me the bathrooms: a cramped toilet stall outside our room and a fourth-floor shower with a sign that read, 鈥淥nly 2 Euros to watch!鈥� A rabbit named Rocky hopped down the hallway.

I met my roommates: Josh, 41, a wildland firefighter from Sun Valley, Idaho, who was here to snowboard; and Jake, a Toronto dad in his sixties who鈥檇 come to watch his best friend鈥檚 son compete in the Hahnenkamm. More would arrive later in the week.

鈥淥h, hey,鈥� Jake mentioned in the common room, before I headed upstairs to bed, 鈥淛osh is a bit of a snorer. I do, too, sometimes.鈥� I soon learned this was like saying Hahnenkamm racers ski 鈥渁 bit fast.鈥� Jake started snoring ten seconds after he closed his eyes. But it was nothing like Josh, whose labored breathing sounded like a semi truck using its engine brake. That night I lay awake for six hours.
The following evening, we sat around a table while Dave held court. He told us he鈥檇 left school at 14, served in the British infantry, and moved to Kitzb眉hel in 1990 with 100 British pounds to his name.

鈥淲hat brought you?鈥� I asked.

鈥淚 met a girl in Prague and she was coming here.鈥�

Dave took a job at McDonald鈥檚, which improved his language skills; he spoke English, German, Bulgarian, and Japanese. Dave鈥檚 family had run the hostel for 27 years. 鈥淪ome people are so shiny,鈥� he lamented. 鈥淲e call 鈥檈m 鈥榮hinys.鈥� They complain about everything to try and get their money back. 鈥極h, my wife was allergic to chickens.鈥欌��

Seeking a bit of optimism, he shifted to the week鈥檚 marquee event鈥攖he reason his hostel would be full come Friday.

鈥淣ow we have the Hanhenkamm. It鈥檚 just bullshit on bullshit. But it鈥檚 amazing how we can put 90,000 people in one little village and nobody鈥檚 shooting or driving trucks through the crowd.鈥�

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When I saw the numbers on my screen, I winced. The wind had picked up. It was 6 o鈥檆lock in the morning on Tuesday, April 26, perhaps the last powder day of the season where I live in Breckenridge, Colorado. I was about to leave my home to meet a friend, professional photographer Liam Doran, for a morning of backcountry skiing on a 13,684-foot peak above town called Bald Mountain. No camera, just fun.

Baldy, as it鈥檚 known, is the most popular place to ski low-angle slopes during the winter; you can often find a dozen or more locals sharing the mellow bowl on its northwest flank. But come spring, Baldy鈥檚 steeper, leeward backside beckons and the crowds disappear. Both Liam and I had skied its chutes for almost two decades without incident. Every year, we wait until the deeper weak layers that plague Colorado鈥檚 snowpack have strengthened, so that we can enjoy the fluff on top without worrying about what lurks below it. But the timing is variable and imprecise. Some years it takes longer for the threat of a persistent-slab avalanche鈥攁 large, cohesive mass of snow resting on top of a layer that resists bonding鈥攖o go away. This had been one of those years. But, like a landmine, you rarely see signs before it鈥檚 too late.

A healthy storm cycle had just delivered 15 inches of fresh snow, spread out over three days. The storm arrived with high winds then turned calm, a rarity in our area. The powder bonded especially well to the base. Lower-elevation slopes had entered a more predictable melt-freeze cycle, and avalanche activity seemed to have ebbed. After waiting all winter to ski steeper backcountry terrain, it felt like the time had come.

鈥淲anna ski a couple runs on the backside of Baldy tomorrow morning?鈥� I texted Liam.

鈥淵eah I鈥檓 down for that,鈥� he replied. 鈥淭ime?鈥�

Our wives agreed to get our kids to school, which freed us to meet at the trailhead at 6:45 A.M.鈥攅arly enough to beat the sun and warming temps.

I wanted the skiing to be as perfect as it had been in the past: fresh powder flying over our heads under a bluebird sky. So when I pulled up data from a nearby weather station at 12,500 feet, I tried to rationalize numbers that I knew deep down contradicted my desire. Average wind speeds had increased overnight to 33 miles per hour with gusts nearing 40鈥攑lenty strong enough to drift new snow into a leeward slab.

The post I Reported on Avalanches for 15 Years. Then I Triggered a Huge One. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

One

Tyler George stood up in the 132-year-old building he was raised in, surrounded by what is typically one of the most dangerous snowpacks in America, and stared at a roomful of backcountry skiers who were there to learn how not to die in an avalanche.

It was Friday night, January 4, 2019, the first day of a three-day advanced-safety course taught by the Silverton Avalanche School (SAS) in Colorado鈥檚 San Juan Mountains.

The course was based at the , a backcountry refuge owned by George鈥檚 family that sits just above 11,018-foot Red Mountain Pass. George, 40, was working as the hutkeeper that weekend, but he knew the snowpack intimately and had taken his first snow-safety course as a teenager. His father, noted British mountaineer and avalanche educator Chris George, started teaching for SAS around 1980, and Tyler grew up in its midst. Sandy Kobrock, the lead instructor, often called him to get a read on local conditions, and had asked him to address the Level 2 class of ten students and one assistant instructor. After dinner, the six-foot-four, blond-haired and blue-eyed George stood at the table and explained that he had seen a number of large avalanches run recently, that the snowpack remained fragile, and that weird things were happening. 鈥淚鈥檝e backed off more lines this year than I have in a long time,鈥� he said. 鈥淵ou know, there is no shame in just walking away from something and saying, 鈥楾his isn鈥檛 worth it.鈥欌�夆��

After he spoke, George went into the kitchen to do dishes. The students split into two groups of five and began planning their routes for the next day. One group, led by Kobrock, intended to dig snow pits nearby, on the east side of Highway 550, in relatively flat terrain where avalanches weren鈥檛 a concern. The other group, led by a 26-year-old guide named Zach Lovell, was planning a longer ski tour. Lovell handed his students topographical maps of the west side of Highway 550, including upper Senator Beck Basin鈥攁n area that past generations of school staff had avoided due to its steep terrain鈥攁nd gave them instructions to identify risky slopes and chart a route that avoided them. The maps came from a program called CalTopo that uses colored shading to denote a slope鈥檚 steepness. The group spent hours plotting options under the glow of headlamps. As they homed in on a likely route, Lovell provided photos of the terrain to supplement the maps.

Ultimately, they decided to climb for two miles and 2,300 vertical feet into Senator Beck, topping out on a 13,510-foot summit known locally as South Telluride Peak. They were determined to minimize exposure to avalanche terrain, which generally means slopes steeper than 30 degrees, but only Lovell and one of the students had ever been to the basin. Satisfied that their plan achieved that objective, they went to sleep around 10:30 P.M.

The next morning, Dave Marshall, a member of Kobrock鈥檚 group, started having an eerie feeling about the day. His son, Pete, was in the other group, and Dave worried about the safety of their route. And George, who normally would go skiing or do chores while the class was in the field, was asked by Kobrock, just before she left with her students to dig snow pits, if he would hang around the lodge with a radio as a safety measure鈥攕omething he鈥檇 never been asked to do in more than two decades of hosting avalanche courses at the lodge. A few minutes later, Lovell, hurrying out the door, told George that his group intended to ascend a series of short benches known as the Landry Sneak into Senator Beck Basin. It was the first George had heard of their plan, and he knew it meant two things: their terrain choice carried potential avalanche risk, and the two groups would be miles apart. George told Lovell he didn鈥檛 think it was a good idea. Lovell looked at George 鈥渁lmost like I was speaking a different language,鈥� George recalls, and did not respond.

Lovell and his students departed at 9:15 and met Jasper Thompson, the course鈥檚 safety officer, halfway down their short ski to the highway. Thompson read aloud from the Colorado Avalanche Information Center: for the first time in ten days, the CAIC had dropped the danger from considerable (level three of five) to moderate (level two)鈥攁 sign that the snowpack had stabilized. But moderate is a notoriously fickle rating, because it means that human-triggered avalanches are still possible. (From 1996 to 2006, , , occurred in moderate conditions.) Thompson didn鈥檛 read out the report鈥檚 Summary, a more detailed account, which included a note that 鈥渇orecasters reported worrisome snowpack test results along the US 550 corridor鈥� the day before. 鈥淭his provides clear evidence that you can trigger an avalanche breaking on buried weak layers today,鈥� the report said.

The group proceeded to the pass, crossed Highway 550, and started climbing into Senator Beck under a clear sky. They went out of their way to avoid a number of small slopes that were steep enough to slide. At about 12,700 feet, they dug a pit on a southeast-facing slope to assess the snowpack. It looked OK. They kept going uphill until almost 2 P.M., at which point they realized that it was too late to complete their initial objective. From a small knob known as Point 13,106, the group had two choices: ski down their skin track, which they knew was safe, or drop into a wide bowl below them.

The CalTopo map indicated that the left edge of the bowl was never steeper than 30 degrees. They discussed their options, including the potential to remotely trigger an avalanche on slopes to their right if they skied the bowl. One group member, who asked not to be named, expressed hesitation about skiing the bowl. Lovell, however, seemed confident. Two of the students recalled him saying that they would all be fine, so long as they took it slow and spaced themselves properly. They agreed to proceed.

Basic safety protocol dictates skiing avalanche terrain one person at a time鈥攖hat way only one person is exposed to a potential slide. Lovell explained that he would ski first, to establish a boundary on the right. He then instructed each student to drop in after the prior skier had descended the upper part of the slope, hastening the group鈥檚 progress but also placing multiple people on the run at once. One of the students, Andrew Reed, nervously locked eyes with the lone woman in the group.

Before they prepared to drop in, Marshell Thompson (no relation to safety officer Jasper Thompson), a 26-year-old Silverton local who lived in a converted school bus, was having trouble getting into his telemark bindings, so he stepped out from behind Lovell and moved to the back of the line. This shifted Pete Marshall, a 40-year-old father of two from Longmont, Colorado, into the second position.

The students watched Lovell drop in and ski out of sight.

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It鈥檚 a Thursday afternoon in early March 2021, and Gabriel Bernatchez is sitting in his office in Montreal, explaining how he and two college friends are revolutionizing an industry. As a cofounder and the chief technical officer of Taiga Motors, a Canadian startup set to release the first electric snowmobile later this year, Bernatchez has reason for optimism. Three weeks earlier, Taiga that it was merging with a holding company and going public with a $422 million valuation. The 29-year-olds suddenly had $146 million in cash to work with鈥攂efore they鈥檇 completed a single production run.

Bernatchez wore a T-shirt as he downplayed Taiga鈥檚 encroachment on the nearly century-old business of manufacturing gasoline-powered snowmobiles. 鈥淲e鈥檙e not exactly competing with combustion,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 see them as an adversary. I more see them as a different option.鈥�

The estimated market for recreational power sports鈥攕nowmobiles, jet skis, and side-by-sides, or ATVs鈥攊s $40 billion. The impact of electrification on those segments is enormous from a climate standpoint. And the space is changing fast. The world鈥檚 most dominant manufacturer, BRP Inc., which sells $1.8 billion worth of Ski-Doo snowmobiles and Sea-Doo jet skis each year (the two most polluting vehicle segments in this category), in March that it will spend $300 million to develop electric vehicles across all of its product lines over the next five years. BRP followed Minnesota-based Polaris, another of the four major snowmobile brands, which partnered with electric-power-train maker Zero Motorcycles in 2020听to do the same by 2025. In 听after that announcement, Polaris CEO Scott Wine said, 鈥淚 never thought I would invest in an electric snowmobile. I thought it was the dumbest idea ever.鈥�

He wasn鈥檛 alone in that assessment. Since the first snowmobile was built in 1935 as a means of transportation, its piercing sound and exhaust fumes have been accepted side effects鈥攖he price of power, if you will. But while recreational sleds cost a few hundred dollars in the sixties, now they go for $15,000 and accelerate like rocket ships. More than 120,000 sleds are sold each year globally, including 94,000 in North America. Emissions standards that some consider too soft magnify their environmental impact.

Two-stroke snowmobiles, the more powerful of the two main designs (the other, a four-stroke, is slightly more environmentally friendly), are on average allowed to emit 105 times more carbon monoxide than a car. The average two-stroke limits for nitrogen oxides and hydrocarbons are 843 times higher than for a car. Taiga cofounder and CEO Sam Bruneau calls it 鈥渟tartling鈥� that two-strokes are still allowed to be mass produced.

Unlike automobiles, snowmobiles and jet skis aren鈥檛 required to include a catalytic converter, which removes pollutants from emissions. (Side-by-sides contain a catalytic converter yet are still more polluting than cars.) Bruneau believes the emissions disparities reflect a misperception that snowmobiles aren鈥檛 a big enough market to damage the atmosphere. Part of Taiga鈥檚 mission is to improve air quality and reduce the machines鈥� effects on snowpack in popular riding areas, including around ski resorts. 鈥淲hen you factor in the average between a two-stroke and four-stroke, electrifying one snowmobile is equivalent to taking 40 cars off the road,鈥� Bruneau says in his office, sitting in front of a giant photo of a Taiga tester riding powder in Revelstoke, British Columbia.

While boy-genius-run startups are common in the tech world, motor sports are a different game. Taiga鈥檚 founders were outsiders to the tight-knit 鈥渟ledneck鈥� community, which was both a pro and a con: they were able to see the potential of electric more clearly, but they also could be viewed as intruders. Bernatchez, a climber from Quebec City, went to robot science fairs as a kid and taught himself to code in high school. Hardware specialist Paul Achard grew up in Granby, Quebec, the son of IBM engineers. Bruneau鈥檚 dad was a ski instructor at Mont Tremblant, and Bruneau learned to appreciate the quiet of backcountry skiing. The trio met at McGill University, in Montreal, where they teamed up to build 400-pound electric race cars as engineering students. 鈥淲e just loved chasing performance,鈥� Bruneau says.

They couldn鈥檛 run their cars in the winter, so they stuffed their power train in a snowmobile for the听, an annual competition for students to create more environmentally friendly designs. They won the zero-emissions category in 2013 and 2014. More importantly, after fielding inquiries from ski resorts and tour companies interested in purchasing electric snowmobiles, they realized no one was doing it commercially. 鈥淭hat was a lightbulb moment for us,鈥� Bruneau says.

The men then won a startup contest at McGill, which delivered their first investor鈥攁 local businessman who had mentored them during the contest and gave them a modest check to get off the ground. After graduation in 2015, they turned down job offers from Tesla and Ford, installed 3D printers in their downtown apartment, and founded Taiga, named for the northern boreal forest that stretches across Canada. They built their first prototype from scratch, finishing in early 2017. 鈥淪ome problems took a year and a half to solve,鈥� says Bernatchez. 鈥淓verybody keeps solutions a secret in the industry.鈥�

Unlike an electric car, in which the battery alone can weigh 1,200 pounds, an electric snowmobile has to be lightweight鈥攕o a rider can lift it up in deep snow if it gets stuck鈥攁nd operate in frigid temperatures while maintaining a high power output. Taiga developed : a utility sled (Nomad), a backcountry sled (Ekko), and a crossover (Atlas). They average about 550 pounds, slightly heavier than a two-stroke, but they accelerate faster and deliver 180 horsepower at any altitude, a significant advantage over combustion sleds, which lose 30 percent of their power at 10,000 feet elevation (a two-stroke starts at about 165 horsepower at sea level).

Taiga鈥檚 95-mile range per 30-minute charge won鈥檛 be enough for everyone, but most riders cover less than that in a day. Taiga鈥檚 sleds also cost $3,000 to $4,000 more than combustion sleds, a premium that might not be worth it to some traditionalists. 鈥淏ut you save a lot on fuel and maintenance, so our goal is basically to have you saving money within two years,鈥� Bruneau says.

BRP, which sells more than half of the world鈥檚 snowmobiles, is based 75 miles east of Montreal. It was not lost on Taiga鈥檚 founders that one month after they announced they were going public, BRP announced a $300 million investment in the technology Taiga had been developing for six years. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e waking up,鈥� Achard says about the bigger manufacturers. 鈥淭hey鈥檝e got some competition breathing down their necks.听I think the truth is, they were waiting for a player like us to come on the scene and put pressure on them.听Because it kind of affects their story, right? If you鈥檙e selling two-stroke vehicles and now electric, there鈥檚 a disconnect there.鈥�

Jos茅 Boisjoli, BRP鈥檚 president, says he鈥檚 not threatened by Taiga. 鈥淐ompetition is good. They force you to stay alert,鈥� he says, 鈥渂ut there鈥檚 a big difference between a startup producing some units in a small shop and going worldwide, and us doing it with the infrastructure we have, with 850 engineers and technicians in different countries and a dealer network of 4,500.鈥�

Boisjoli hopes that between 10 and 20 percent of the world鈥檚 four million snowmobilers will be riding electric sleds by 2030. And they might not all be on branded machines. Aspen Skiing Company, which consulted with Taiga for years on aspects of design before ending the partnership, started funding its own snowmobile project last winter. Greg Hoffman, a longtime lift mechanic and master electrician, built a prototype with his 16-year-old son, Connor, that the company hopes to replicate and use across its resorts (but not produce commercially). 鈥淕reg has a Chevy Bolt, solar on his roof, and in a way he鈥檚 sort of the modern man, a sledneck who understands where we鈥檙e headed and how cool and fun it is,鈥� says Auden Schendler, Aspen鈥檚 vice president of sustainability.

Convincing traditionalists who are set on combustion remains every manufacturer鈥檚 biggest challenge. 鈥淲e got one Facebook comment that said something along the lines of, This鈥檒l be perfect for L.L.Bean-wearing, granola-munching hippies who don鈥檛 understand power sports,鈥� Achard says, chuckling. 鈥淭hey all revolve around the same thing鈥攑eople think they鈥檙e going to miss the noise, miss the braap. We鈥檙e trying to overcome that core petrol-head reaction of 鈥業f it鈥檚 not gas, I鈥檓 not going to like it.鈥欌��

Performance can be powerful in that pursuit. Taiga recently tested one of its sleds against a Tesla Model P85D on an asphalt drag track. The snowmobile beat the car seven straight times. Bruneau says his team鈥檚 goal is to go from zero to 60 miles per hour faster than the fastest Tesla, the Model S Plaid, which hits the mark in two seconds. (Taiga鈥檚 fastest time is around 2.5 seconds.) 鈥淲hich would be cool, because that Tesla costs 140 grand, and an electric snowmobile costs under 20,鈥� he says.

With Taiga no longer a cash-starved boutique brand relegated to scaling up slowly, what happens next should shape the future of the company as well as the market. Taiga is equally focused on jet skis and side-by-sides, Bruneau says; he and his cofounders only started with snowmobiles because they were the most technologically complex. The company was slated to deliver its first electric jet skis by the end of the year, then its first snowmobiles later this winter (already more than 2,600 people have put down a $500 deposit). Its ATVs should hit the market in 2022, Bruneau says.

The company鈥檚 staff quadrupled last year, from 15 employees to 60, and had grown to 170 by November. Over the summer, Taiga moved into a 180,000-square-foot production facility and is building a 340,000-square-foot factory to augment that. By 2025, it plans to produce 60,000 electric vehicles per year, including 15,000 snowmobiles, 17,000 jet skis, and 24,000 side-by-sides鈥攁ll supported by with 1,100 locations across North America. The snowmobile industry as a whole is growing rapidly; sales during the pandemic jumped 19 percent, the biggest increase in more than two decades.

When Taiga鈥檚 founders finalized their nine-figure merger last February, they didn鈥檛 spend much time celebrating. 鈥淲e just gave all the employees a bottle of champagne and asked them to drink responsibly on a teams call one afternoon,鈥� Achard says.听They know they won鈥檛 be able to fulfill consumer demand on their own, which is why, despite the competitive landscape, they say they鈥檙e happy that big brands are committing to electric, too.

鈥淲e really want to solve all these compromising vehicles,鈥� Bruneau says. 鈥淲e want to enable people to have fun in the outdoors without polluting.鈥�

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Perched on skis at the top of Bullion King Basin, I admired a wide barrel of spring corn glistening below me. I鈥檇 been waiting for this moment. It was my reward for suffering through a five-hour traverse between two backcountry cabins in southwest Colorado鈥檚 San Juan Mountains. We started that morning at the near Ophir Pass, just west of Silverton, which we鈥檇 skinned up to the previous afternoon. Now we prepared to descend to Highway 550 on Red Mountain Pass, the second day of a new five-day, 27-mile adventure between three luxurious huts in the range.

As I pushed off the ridge and embraced the lightness of gliding down perfectly softened corn, my worries dissolved. No longer was I feeling the burn of a newly formed ankle blister or the hunger pangs brought on by my failure to pack enough snacks. I tucked into my turns with little effort, arcing down one of America鈥檚 most spectacular backcountry skiing playgrounds, knowing that a hot meal and a shower awaited that night.

Multiday ski tours between full-颅service cabins, which allow guests to travel light and fast and sample big-mountain turns along the way, have existed in Europe, Canada, and other great ranges around the world for years鈥攎ost notably, the Haute Route between Chamonix, in France, and Zermatt, in Switzerland. But in the U.S., hut-to-hut skiing has mainly been a DIY endeavor. You had to bring your own food, prepare your own meals, and be strong enough to skin long stretches under the weight of a 40-to-50-pound pack. As outdoor enthusiasts in greater numbers 颅discover the magic of backcountry skiing, and demand grows for well-stocked refuges, that鈥檚 starting to change, especially in the San Juans.

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Early November 2018, Wolf Creek Pass, Colorado

Davey Pitcher watched the shiny yellow sports car roll through the parking lot and pull up just below his office window at , a small operation in southern Colorado that Pitcher runs. A man with a square jaw and muscular build got out. Pitcher immediately recognized legendary big-mountain skier and heli-ski guide Dean Cummings, his friend of 30 years. The car was packed, like it was being lived in. Cummings walked up the stairs to Pitcher鈥檚 office, as he did almost every fall when he came to ski early-season powder.

The ski area wasn鈥檛 open yet, but the was training near the summit. Pitcher figured that Cummings, who launched his career with the team in 1991, would be eager to ski with them.

Cummings sat down across from Pitcher鈥檚 desk, but before Pitcher could say anything, Cummings dove into a rambling saga centered in Valdez, Alaska, where he鈥檇 lived for more than two decades. People鈥檚 identities were being taken over, Cummings said. A criminal syndicate involving his wife, Karen, had sabotaged his heli-ski business, H2O Guides, and was trying to kill him. While en route to Wolf Creek, Cummings said, a semitruck had belched poison at him through its exhaust pipe, making his heart race. Taken aback, Pitcher tried to change the subject.

The U.S. team is up on the hill (Editor鈥檚 note: Quotes in italics have been reconstructed to the best of the sources鈥� memories.), he said. The team was coached by Caleb Martin, a skier from Telluride, Colorado, who held Cummings in high esteem.

Caleb鈥檚 here? said Cummings, brightening at the mention of an old acquaintance. I used to talk to Caleb when I taught avalanche awareness in schools.

Well, let鈥檚 go jump on the lift, he鈥檇 love to see you, Pitcher said. Cummings made excuses, said he hadn鈥檛 brought his skis. Pitcher told him there were thousands of skis and boots in the lodge, some brand-new.

No, I鈥檝e got to go, Cummings said. He wrote down a number and handed it across the desk. I鈥檓 meeting an FBI agent in Albuquerque, he鈥檚 going to help me. I need you to be the contact. When you see this number come up, answer it. You can pass on information.

Pitcher said he didn鈥檛 always have cell service; someone else would probably be better. Cummings looked disappointed. Pitcher had no idea how drastically his friend鈥檚 life had splintered鈥攖hat Cummings, 53, had been divorced, lost his home, lost custody of his three children, and seen his once thriving business implode. Or that Cumming鈥檚 behavior would soon lead to a man lying dead on the floor of a trailer in the听New Mexico desert.

Cummings got up to leave. He walked back down to the sports car, and Pitcher watched him drive away just 15 minutes after he鈥檇 arrived.

鈥淭hat was the first time in my life that Deano didn鈥檛 want to go skiing,鈥� Pitcher says. 鈥淚t was very sad. It was obvious that he was not within a reality that you could quite buy into. When he departed, I just felt like it was the end of an era. I felt that he was headed for trouble.鈥�

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Crystal Tyndall had been working at , a leading bike-rack and lock manufacturer based in Grand Junction, Colorado, for less than a month when owner Bobby Noyes called his staff into an all-hands meeting. It was Thursday, March 19, and the company鈥檚 14 employees gathered in a room at their temporary headquarters, a former welding college with cycling jerseys hanging on the wall. The world had begun to shut down due to the coronavirus pandemic. Noyes, who founded RockyMounts 25 years ago, wanted to tell his team how the shutdown was impacting the company.

Tyndall and her colleagues listened in silence as their normally brazen leader informed them he was taking a pay cut to become the brand鈥檚 lowest-paid employee. Noyes said he had no idea what was about to happen or whether RockyMounts would survive. 鈥淭hat was when my stomach started to turn,鈥� Tyndall recalls. 鈥淚t was hard to hear. I felt like Bobby was laying himself down to be run over by the train and save the rest of us. I got emotional.鈥�

Despite the dire message, after Noyes finished talking, staff members made it clear that they had his back. 鈥淓verybody in that meeting was like, 鈥楬ey, whatever you need me to do, just tell me and I鈥檒l do it,鈥欌�� Tyndall says. Business continued, albeit shakily, for another four days. Then dealer orders stopped entirely. 鈥淵ou could see the iceberg coming,鈥� says Lou Patterson, a 48-year outdoor industry veteran who consults for RockyMounts. With at the time nearing 1,000 and growing by 20 to 30 percent each day, employees began to fear getting infected at work. Legally, Noyes was permitted to stay open, but with little business and the potential health risk to his staff, he closed the RockyMounts office on March 24, one of the first bike brands to do so. He furloughed his employees indefinitely without pay听but with health insurance. Five of those employees had just recently听moved to Grand Junction for the job. 鈥淟iterally,鈥� Noyes says, 鈥渙ne kid had worked here for two weeks.鈥�

When I later asked how worried he was that his business would fold听on a one-to-ten scale, Noyes said eight.听His employees sensed it, too. 鈥淚 was at a nine or ten after that meeting,鈥� Tyndall says.

The post RockyMounts Survived the Pandemic. But It’s Not Over. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

The news hit like a falling serac. Dexamethasone, a corticosteroid known for decades as a silver bullet among mountaineers and high-altitude rescuers, has听been shown to do something no other drug has听since the coronavirus pandemic began: revive infected patients on the verge of death.听

A pair of medical researchers at Oxford University, Peter Horby and Martin Landray, issued a 听on Tuesday touting their clinical-study results, which claim that deaths among COVID-19 patients on ventilators could be reduced by a third听and deaths among patients receiving oxygen without intubation could be cut by 20 percent听if the patients were given dexamethasone, a.k.a. dex.

The story of the aptly named Recovery trial landed on the front page of and in media outlets around the world. For months, frontline doctors have听tried in vain to find a reliable treatment for the disease, which has infected听more than eight听million people and killed nearly 450,000. Suddenly, it seems听there is hope.

Jeremy Windsor, a 48-year-old critical-care physician at Chesterfield Royal Hospital near Manchester, England, is among the hopeful. He has treated countless COVID-19 patients since March; nearly 300 people have died at his hospital from the disease.听Windsor has听also been a high-altitude mountaineer for more than two decades and summited Mount Everest in 2007, so he is well versed in the wide-ranging medical applications of dex, an inexpensive anti-inflammatory used in hospital settings to treat everything from brain tumors to asthma to septic shock.

Among mountaineers, dex is often taken preventatively鈥攁nd controversially, since it raises ethical questions as a performance enhancer鈥攖o reduce brain swelling and improve one鈥檚 summit chances. National Park Service rescuers on Denali, in Alaska, use it to circumvent the slow process of acclimatization, and guides often wear doses of it听around their neck or keep an injectable syringe full of it听in their pocket in case a client stops moving due to cerebral edema.听

鈥淲e鈥檝e always thought that steroids have a very predictable and conventional use,鈥� Windsor said by phone on Wednesday. 鈥淚鈥檝e got to say, it surprised me to hear that dexamethasone had such a benefit in COVID-19 patients.鈥澨�

The Recovery trial drew its subjects from hospitals across the United Kingdom, and Windsor and other physicians at Chesterfield supplied 150 of them. In all, more than 6,000 patients were randomized to receive dex (which they wouldn鈥檛 have gotten听otherwise) or stick to standard treatments, like supplemental oxygen or ventilation, depending on the severity of their illness. About 2,100 of the patients were administered听dex, but instead of receiving a dose three or four times a day, as dex is often given, they got听it once a day for ten days, either by tablet or injection. 鈥淚 wasn鈥檛 particularly optimistic about dexamethasone,鈥� Windsor said. 鈥淲hen you look at previous coronaviruses, like SARS and MERS, steroids don鈥檛 seem to have played a big role in improving outcomes in those cases.鈥�

The Recovery study showed no benefit among patients who did not require respiratory assistance, suggesting dex is only effective if someone鈥檚 lungs are in severe distress鈥攁 similar effect, albeit under different circumstances, to the way it has saved mountaineers in trouble high on a peak. Spanish-speaking guides call dex听levanta muertos听for the way it 鈥渂rings life to a dead person,鈥� Argentine Everest guide Damian Benegas once told me. When breathless COVID-19 patients who are on ventilators don鈥檛 improve, often their organs start to fail. But with dex鈥攊nexplicably, since no one knows exactly how it works鈥攁 significant percentage got better.听

Still, despite the promising results and Tuesday鈥檚 media attention, there remains plenty of skepticism about whether dex really is a lifesaver, including among high-altitude doctors familiar with it. The Recovery study hasn鈥檛 gone through a peer review鈥攁 critical prerequisite to being published by one of the world鈥檚 major medical journals鈥攂ut that will likely happen within the next couple of weeks. 鈥淭he real challenge with this is the paper鈥檚 not out. All we really have is a press release from the study investigators,鈥� said听Andy Luks, a pulmonary and critical-care physician at the University of Washington鈥檚 Harborview Medical Center. 鈥淚 actually think, despite all of the attention听it鈥檚 gotten in the media, it鈥檚 too early to comment on whether this is going to have an effect on patient care.鈥�

Luks, like Windsor, has plenty of experience with dex鈥攈e鈥檚 even taken it himself to aid his acclimatization on high-altitude ski tours in the Sierra Nevada and during medical missions in the Alps. He and his colleagues considered using it to treat COVID-19 patients early in the pandemic but opted not to, due to a lack of supporting data. He doesn鈥檛 think their decision will change until the study is published, if at all. 鈥淲e鈥檙e starving for information about what really works for these patients,鈥� he said, 鈥渂ut at the same time, you don鈥檛 want erroneous information out there to drive the discussion and, more importantly, treatments听if it鈥檚 truly not a benefit.鈥澨�

Peer reviews will examine the study鈥檚 data, methodology, and analysis鈥攁ll of which have yet to be released鈥攍ine by line. Any deficiencies could call into question the conclusion. 鈥淔rom a bias point of view,鈥� Windsor said, 鈥渕y big concern is we didn鈥檛 include everybody. We picked and chose who went into the trial, and we could withdraw patients if we thought the drug was detrimental partway through.鈥澨�

Given the enormous public-health implications, doctors around the world will closely be following what happens next. Until then, the question of whether to administer dex rests with individual hospitals and very smart people with differing opinions. Be patient and remain cautious, or take a chance and possibly save a life?

鈥淲hen we see something that reduces deaths by a third, that really does create flashing lights鈥攊t鈥檚 hard to ignore such an enormous difference,鈥� Windsor said.听鈥淚f you were to ask me tomorrow, when I鈥檓 working in the intensive care unit and someone comes in and needs ventilation, Would I use dexamethasone? I probably would.听And I think our patients will come to expect it.鈥�

The post A Promising New COVID-19 Drug Isn’t New to Mountaineers appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Jeffrey Bergeron鈥檚 phone started ringing at all hours the third week of March, soon after his adopted hometown of Breckenridge, Colorado, shut down due to the COVID-19 pandemic. A native of Brockton, Massachusetts, on Boston鈥檚 gritty South Shore,听Bergeron moved to Breckenridge in 1975 when he was 20. He鈥檚 represented the town鈥檚 5,000 residents as a councilman for more than a decade. Known by his nom de plume, , the 66-year-old media personality describes himself as 鈥渒ind of a freak,鈥� which makes him a man of the ski-town people in a way that most elected officials are not.

Breckenridge was founded as a mining town in 1859. It existed for more than a century before a tiny ski resort opened there in 1961 on 12,998-foot Peak 8. Now听听is among the biggest and busiest in the country, routinely notching more than 1.6 million skier visits as one of the most popular destinations on Vail Resorts鈥� vaunted Epic Pass. Last year听the town听recorded $658 million in taxable sales by local businesses.听Multimillion-dollar homes are in vogue the way two-room cabins once were. Bergeron has accepted the growth like ski bums accept summer鈥攂egrudgingly鈥攚hile always striving to defend the easygoing听vibe he fell in love with 45 years ago,听when he and a friend puttered down Main Street in their 1962 VW Squareback.

So听this March, when nearly a dozen longtime residents called Bergeron, on the verge of sobbing, unsure what they were going to do or if they would be able to stay, the pandemic hit home in a way that no bottom line could. 鈥淚n many cases, these were dudes in their forties听who I ski with or lift weights with, and they were fighting to maintain their composure,鈥� Bergeron told me. 鈥淭hey thought they were taking the next step to their future鈥攖hey finally had a business and property. Then, within five days, everything was tenuous.鈥�听

Anyone living in a ski town like Breckenridge, the place I have called home for 18 years, knows how drastic this economic and lifestyle crash has been. Take Downstairs at Eric鈥檚, a popular family restaurant on Main Street owned by the town mayor, Eric Mamula. Eric鈥檚 had set revenue records for seven straight years entering 2020. It appeared primed to do that again, with unprecedented sales in January and February and a booming start to March, typically the richest month of the year for听Breckenridge鈥檚听local businesses. Just up Ski Hill Road, at the base of Peak 8, Breckenridge Grand Vacations (BGV), which sells luxury time-shares and manages nearly 900 lodging units, was on pace to notch the highest sales total听in its 32-year history.

Then on Saturday, March 14. Two days later, the town shut down its restaurants and bars, and all tourists were asked to leave by the end of the week. Their departure left much of the community out of work. BGV, the largest year-round employer in Summit County, furloughed more than 500 staff, or 85 percent of its workforce. Vail Resorts laid off or furloughed almost all of its local employees for up to six months. It was as if an ice age had arrived while everyone was sleeping, and we woke up to a place听frozen in time. Retail shops that had been short-staffed all winter replaced their 鈥淗elp Wanted鈥� signs with COVID-19 closure notices. I walked down the double yellow line on Main Street for blocks without seeing a car鈥攐r a person.

Breckenridge has endured its share of local and global calamities, from听rampant mine closures to 9/11听to the Great Recession. But the last real threat to the town鈥檚 identity was the 1980鈥�81 winter, when the resort only opened for brief stretches and closed for the season in March, after recording just 86 inches of snow听(an average season sees around 350 inches). The population exodus was so dramatic that someone posted a sign on Main Street that read听鈥淟ast One to Leave, Turn Out the Lights.鈥� Twentieth Century Fox, which owned the resort at the time, made sure that never happened again, investing in snowmaking and installing the world鈥檚 first high-speed quad chairlift the following year. 鈥淭hat event was not even in the same galaxy as this pandemic, as far as fostering insecurity about the future of our town,鈥� Bergeron says.听

Over the past two months, mountain towns around the world have adjusted to an uncomfortable, indefinite standstill. March and April are typically economic windfalls, and some resorts stay open through May, including Breckenridge. After the pandemic hit, businesses small and large, as well as nonprofits and municipal governments, slashed their budgets, anticipating annual revenue losses of 40 to 50 percent. Locals hunkered down like marmots in a blizzard. The (where I worked before starting a freelance career) published 12-page newspapers when they鈥檇 normally be four times听as thick,听and it solicited donations from readers. The only companies hiring in the classifieds were Waste Management, the hospital, and Wendy鈥檚.

According to 听released on March 24, we can expect to see a $400 billion decrease in U.S. travel spending this year,听including $350 billion in domestic travel, which is听Breckenridge鈥檚 bread and butter. 鈥淭his is seven times the impact of 9/11,鈥澨齮he report stated. Local property manager Toby Babich, who serves as president of the international Vacation Rental Management Association, told me that bookings from May through August were down 80 percent from the previous year in听traditionally powerhouse destinations like Florida and the Gulf Coast, and down 40 to 60 percent in mountain towns. Bergeron says he wouldn鈥檛 be surprised if Breckenridge loses 15 percent of its population. (In addition to the 5,000 year-round residents, there are also hundreds of seasonal winter workers.) Aside from those who move back in with their parents to escape the area鈥檚 high cost of living, it鈥檚 unclear where they would go.

To help locals get by, in late March, the town dipped into its $20 million rainy-day fund and established rent-assistance pools for small businesses and those who work in town. Nearly 210 business owners applied for April aid, receiving an average of $3,000 from a $1 million听fund, while 900 residents鈥� rent handouts were drawn from a pool听of $500,000. The point was to spread out the body blows. 鈥淏efore the town chips in, we鈥檝e been going to landlords and saying, 鈥楬ey, you鈥檙e owed this much, what will you take?鈥欌�� Bergeron says. If the landlord doesn鈥檛 cooperate, neither does the government.听Other ski towns, like , have done similar things, while in Jackson, Wyoming, are filling the benefactor role. Still, not every ski bum is protected. In Stowe, Vermont, the only rent assistance available is what people can procure from the feds, says town planning director Tom Jackman.听

Everyone has feared a mental-health crisis as part of the pandemic, and for a while,听it appeared Breckenridge might avoid that fate. Testing for the virus听ramped up in mid-April听(as of this writing, 243听people had tested positive in Summit County, with 47听hospitalizations and one death), and talk of reopening began. Then two local teenagers committed suicide eight days apart in late April, sending the community into shock. 鈥淚 think we can say confidently that the isolation was a factor in the emotional rawness of these kids,鈥� says Jen McAtamney, executive director of , a local mental-health nonprofit.听鈥淏ecause they鈥檙e听supposed to be socializing, and their brains are developing right now, so it鈥檚 hard for them to see the other side of this鈥攖he future.鈥� Building Hope funds up to 12 therapy sessions for anyone in need, often starting as soon as a person听applies. 鈥淲e鈥檝e been getting as many calls in a day as we usually get in a week,鈥� McAtamney says.

What does the future look like for Breckenridge and other ski towns? Much depends, of course, on how long the pandemic lasts. 鈥淚 describe it, frankly, as unrolling a snowball,鈥� says Robin Theobald, a fifth-generation Breckenridge resident and prominent local businessman. 鈥淎 snowball will roll down the hill on its own, but how do you put that back on the hill? You can鈥檛 unroll it.鈥� Town manager Rick Holman says he expects to see a $190 million decrease in sales this year, compared with 2019. Already听at least one Main Street shop has gone under, with more likely to follow. Many businesses received federal assistance to cover payroll and overhead, but that doesn鈥檛 solve the biggest problem: a lack of visitors spending money.听

All lodging properties were shut down through May but were allowed to reopen June 1. The Breckenridge Tourism Office was targeting July 4 as its official summer kickoff, then changed course and decided not to stage any major events, to prevent large crowds. Main Street, typically clogged by traffic, is being turned into a pedestrian throughway, giving people more room to avoid each other. BGV plans to have its guests sign a pledge to abide by public-health orders upon their arrival鈥攁 provision many locals support, given their wariness of letting outsiders back in without treatment or a vaccine for the virus. The 鈥淏GV Promise鈥� requires guests to cover their faces anytime they鈥檙e outside their rooms at the resort, unless they鈥檙e eating, drinking, or playing in the pool. 鈥淲e鈥檙e trying to avoid conflict among our guests,鈥� says company CEO Mike Dudick. If visitors refuse to wear masks inside a retail shop or a restaurant downtown, as mandated by government officials, the town鈥檚 delicate dependence on tourism could come to a head.

鈥淚 think there鈥檚 going to be a philosophical discussion for locals to have,鈥� Dudick says. 鈥淏ecause those who were in the camp of听We have way too many tourists, now they鈥檝e gotten to look squarely down the barrel of what it looks like with zero. So what kind of economy do we really need to live in this community? Where鈥檚 the balance point?鈥�

Mayor Mamula, who was听reelected in early April, and whose father was the mayor 20 years ago, envisions one potential silver lining that could extend to ski towns everywhere. With many service workers earning between $25,000 and $30,000 a year, homeownership听is often out of reach, a major reason why locals leave to raise their families elsewhere. 鈥淢aybe some housing goes on the market when we come out of this, and people who have lived here for a long time are actually able to afford it,鈥� Mamula says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what I鈥檓 hoping for: we get a shake-up in the economy, where some of the people who have used this as strictly a place to make money and not a place to live will get replaced by people who want to live here.鈥� It鈥檚 an attractive prospect on paper, but April Norton, director of Wyoming鈥檚 Teton County Affordable Housing program, says early signs in Jackson Hole leave her worried.听鈥淚 see it going the other way for us, which is really scary,鈥� she told me.

Ironically, two bases that have been assailed by locals who feel Breckenridge is too busy鈥攄ay-trippers听from the Front Range and time-share occupants鈥攁re likely to play a crucial role in kick-starting the economy. But how many destination travelers join them, and when, is the wild card. Breckenridge Tourism Office CEO Lucy Kay told me the organization has spent 鈥渧ery little鈥� of its $1.2 million summer advertising budget, which is used to attract visitors from out of state. 鈥淲e don鈥檛 want to bring in too many people too fast,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e want to see how much fills organically.鈥� The long-term prognosis remains unpredictable, like the virus. 鈥淵ou could take this out to a worst-case scenario, where we lose part of next winter, and that could be devastating,鈥� says Mamula, whose restaurant employs 48 people, four of whom tested positive for COVID-19 in May. 鈥淭hen I don鈥檛听know what happens. I don鈥檛听even want to think about that right now.鈥�
听
Theobald believes there is too much money invested in Breckenridge by wealthy vacationers for its economy not to recover. Urban residents still pine for mountain escapes, perhaps now more than before. But if you ask Bergeron, the biggest threat is qualitative, not quantitative.听
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鈥淭he people who have called me in a state of panic really reflect what this place is about, and yet they might have to leave,鈥� Bergeron says. 鈥淭hey鈥檇 be replaced eventually by people with the same occupation听but who don鈥檛 have the historical understanding of what our town is. And that could really change what I think is the best part about Breckenridge鈥攖he character. It鈥檚 forgiving, freewheeling, and a remarkable place to live.鈥�

The post The Pandemic Is Forcing Ski Towns to Rethink Tourism appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

I鈥檓 about to read the names of ten dead soldiers when I catch my son鈥檚 eye. He is standing in a crowd of 60 people, many of them veterans and relatives of vets, on Colorado鈥檚 Tennessee Pass. My mom is holding him. We鈥檙e here on the last Friday of February to honor my grandfather, Robert 鈥淪nuffy鈥� O鈥橬eil, who served in the Army鈥檚 vaunted Tenth听Mountain Division during World War II. The division was comprised of expert skiers and mountaineers and modeled after the Finnish troops听who repelled the Soviet army in 1939. Lachlan, my four-year-old, hadn鈥檛 wanted to stand with me while I read the names, a privilege bestowed upon Tenth听descendants. But now, from the longing in his eyes, I can tell that he does.听

We had come to the division鈥檚 45th annual 鈥渟ki-in鈥� at Cooper Hill鈥攖he tiny nonprofit ski area north of Leadville, Colorado,听where the Tenth听trained for winter warfare鈥攊n part to stay connected to other descendants but mainly to show Lachlan that this is part of who he is. Much like religious parents want to instill faith in their children, I want mine to know about their mountain heritage, to feel it. So this morning, we drove an hour from our home in Breckenridge听for a day of remembering and paying tribute and, of course, skiing where our ancestors had skied.听

I always knew my grandpa , which famously helped drive Hitler鈥檚 army out of Italy in 1945 (after surrendering, German commanders said the division was the toughest they鈥檇 faced on any front during the war). But I听didn鈥檛听really understand who he was until I听happened to meet four of his old war buddies skiing at Vail in 2006. Snuffy was a highly skilled mountaineer and cartoonist who trained other soldiers and lightened the mood for 14,000 troops stationed at Camp Hale, near Leadville,听where the division was based. They invited me to join听their weeklong reunion tour through the central Rockies, and I couldn鈥檛 resist. I听soaked听up their colorful history and memories of Snuffy鈥攍ike when he survived an 80-foot fall while rock-climbing at Hale. We skied each day at different resorts, then congregated for group dinners. One evening听I sat on the fringe as a half dozen vets in their eighties and nineties wearing navy-blue Tenth听Mountain Division V-necks sipped bourbon听while arguing over who could ski-jump farther when they were kids. Every now and then, they鈥檇 drag one of their cohorts over and introduce me. 鈥淒id he ask you about Snuffy O鈥橬eil? That鈥檚 his uncle!鈥澨鼳nd I鈥檇 smile to myself, figuring they must still feel young enough to view a 26-year-old as being only one generation below them.

Snuffy died of a heart attack when my mom was pregnant with me and my twin brother, Sean. He was 56. It breaks my heart听to think he came so close to meeting us but didn鈥檛. Learning about him through his former comrades was both cathartic and agonizing. He and his friends basically invented the life I lead now, traversing mountain ranges on skis during their training missions, then starting ski areas (including Vail) and ski patrols after the war. I have framed photos of Snuffy, who went on to work as a ski instructor in Aspen, on my walls at home. Sometimes I talk to him when I鈥檓 alone on a peak. As much as his buddies brought him to life, I still wish I could ask him for advice听or just follow him through the woods on skis.听

Now I dream of instilling the same sense of pride and connection I feel to the Tenth听in my two sons. I especially want them to meet Snuffy鈥檚 contemporaries, and I feel an urgency to make that happen due to the division鈥檚 dwindling ranks.听

Fourteen years ago, an estimated 1,800 World War II听vets from the Tenth听were still alive. Now听that number is down to between 200 and 400, according to division historian David Little. All are in their mid-nineties听or older (Snuffy would be 96). The division loses about 30 to 60 of its former members each year. The ski-in at Cooper was the first one in 45 years that none of the original ski troopers attended, though a handful still live听in Colorado.听

Even without them, the event鈥檚 significance resonated, not least because we were celebrating the 75th anniversary of the Germans鈥� surrender. Active and retired Special Forces came to honor their predecessors. The military attach茅 from the Norwegian embassy, Colonel听Magne Rodahl, flew out from Washington, D.C., to pay homage to the 99th Infantry Battalion, which was comprised of Norwegian and American troops who听trained with the Tenth听at Camp Hale, seven miles north of Cooper.听鈥淚t鈥檚 an honor to be invited,鈥澨齊odahl听said. 鈥淭hese guys were our brothers.鈥�

Shortly after one o鈥檆lock, Lachlan, my mom, and I ride the slow Tenth听Mountain chairlift up to 11,700 feet and find our place in line for the parade down to the base. Event organizers call it 鈥渟kiing the serpentine鈥�; everyone follows the person in front of them in a giant snake formation until we reach the bottom. My mom stares out at the Sawatch Range from the Continental Divide. 鈥淭his makes me so happy,鈥� she whispers. 鈥淚鈥檓 so glad we鈥檙e here.鈥澨�

I tuck an American flag into my helmet, and Lachlan starts waving his in anticipation of the descent. A group of Lake County elementary students sing听鈥淭his Land Is Your Land鈥� as we get in position. My mom points toward the man in front of us, dressed in a white cotton suit that has been passed down from one of the original ski troopers. 鈥淭hat gentleman is wearing the uniform that my daddy used to wear,鈥� she tells Lachlan. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what Snuffy wore?鈥� he gasps.听

At the bottom, everyone sings 鈥淕od Bless America,鈥澨齮hen we gather our things and proceed to the Tenth听Mountain Division memorial on Tennessee Pass, just below the Cooper parking lot. A veteran reads 鈥淪oldiers Don鈥檛 Cry,鈥� a seminal essay that was published in the Tenth听Mountain Division鈥檚 newspaper, the Blizzard,听in April 1945. The essay describes the scene at a cemetery near Florence, Italy, where the division buried its first casualties. 鈥淲e shall never forget the comrades we leave here in this sacred soil,鈥� Major听General听George P. Hays, who commanded the Tenth, said that day. 鈥淲e pledge ourselves to always render them lasting devotion. For us they will always be a source of inspiration. May we always be as loyal.鈥�

Finally, it is time to read the dead soldiers鈥� names. The division lost 992 men during its battles in Europe, and each year, five descendants read ten names apiece to memorialize them. I am slated to be the second reader. Lachlan catches my eye just before the rite begins, and I wave him over. He pauses, not wanting to interrupt the ceremony. Then he sprints from the crowd up to where I am standing and clings to my leg. He stares out at his fellow descendants as I speak each fallen hero鈥檚 name, including that of John D. Magrath, the division鈥檚 only Medal of Honor recipient.听

Lachlan may not comprehend the moment鈥檚 gravity, but as he stands at my side, I can tell that he is proud to be here, proud to belong here. Just like his daddy.

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