There is something deeply humbling about being in Tahoe this past week, watching snow fall in quantities that defy comprehension. Feet of it, day after day. The kind of snowfall that silences everything and reminds you just how small you really are.
The 2026 Winter Olympics are playing in the background, and like everyone else watching, I’ve found myself enthralled by these athletes — humans who have dedicated their lives to learning to read snow and ice, to negotiate with it, to find grace inside its unforgiving nature. They tease and taunt the very elements that don’t care how decorated you are, how many hours you’ve trained, or how many medals hang around your neck. There’s something almost sacred in that. Pushing to the extreme edge of what’s possible. It’s what we have done as a species from the very beginning.
These Olympics have packaged winter into something triumphant: slow-motion replays, soaring soundtracks, the podium moment. And that’s not dishonest. Those athletes are extraordinary. The skill required to hurtle down a mountain side at 80 miles per hour or spin four times through open air is staggering. Behind every glorious run is a negotiation with physics, a dare made at the razor’s edge of what the human body can withstand. They inspire us precisely because they go where most of us never would.
What the Olympics rarely show you is the mountain on its own terms – without the race bibs, the timing gates, the perfectly groomed courses. The backcountry is a different conversation entirely. It’s the mountain unmediated. No nets, no course markers, no safety infrastructure. Just snow, slope, and the decisions you make in the moment.
When news broke of the avalanche not far from where I’m sitting, fifteen backcountry skiers caught in conditions that showed no mercy, the word “incomprehensible” doesn’t begin to capture it. What was unfolding outside was nature unchained. Snow was detonating out of the skies. That six survived was a miracle. And as the full magnitude of the tragedy continues to expand, I won’t dare try to put words around the loss of so many extraordinary people. It hits too close to home on too many fronts.
What I’m left with is the sheer, stunning juxtaposition of it all. Outside my window, the snow is falling. On the screen, the Olympians are inspiring, showing us the outer limits of human possibility on snow and ice. And the mountains, indifferent as ever, remind us of what lies beyond those limits.
That is the part that stays with me, the humbling truth that nature doesn’t negotiate. Some lines, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed. Tonight, the snow falls just the same. May we move forward with greater care, and hold close those who are grieving beneath it.
