Boots to Fill

Thrifting a Bozeman legend’s ski gear.

As I drank a cup of coffee at the pack rack near the top of the Bridger lift, I chatted with Eddie, a longtime Bridger Bowl ski patroller, when I noticed his purple-and-lime-green Salomon ski boots from the ’90s. I complimented him on the boots and asked where he got them. He smiled as he looked down at the boots.

Twenty years earlier, he’d stopped at a local thrift store on his way home from work to look for a jacket when he found the boots sitting on a shelf in the far back corner. They were covered in a thick layer of dust with a frayed price tag hanging from the top buckle that read four dollars. With a 50-percent store-wide spring sale factored in, he walked away with them for two bucks.

Now, a lot of folks, upon discovering that they owned a pair of boots previously worn by the godfather of extreme skiing, would have mounted them on their wall or put them in a glass case or donated them to a museum. But Eddie did no such thing.

They sat on a shelf next to some old paint cans in his basement for years, until one day he was doing some spring cleaning when he noticed there was what appeared to be a name engraved into the back of the right ski boot. He wiped the thick layer of dust clear and there it was. Etched into the heel was the name: Doug Coombs.

Could these really be Doug Coombs’s old ski boots?

The Doug Coombs, who had gone to school at MSU in the late ’80s and cut his ski chops at Bridger Bowl, pioneering lines on the Ridge before becoming a fixture on the Jackson Hole extreme-skiing scene during the years following college?

The Doug Coombs, who had won the World Extreme Skiing Championship twice—first in ’91 and again in ’93—and was instrumental in founding the heli-skiing industry in Alaska?

The Doug Coombs, who was the subject of this quote by Theo Meiners, a fellow extreme-skiing pioneer: “Doug was the Chosen One; the point of the spear. It wasn’t a new level, it was a new world.”

That Doug Coombs?

Now, a lot of folks, upon discovering that they owned a pair of boots previously worn by the godfather of extreme skiing, would have mounted them on their wall or put them in a glass case or donated them to a museum. But Eddie did no such thing.

Ten years ago Eddie broke his ankle while wearing the boots, and despite the paramedics’ best attempts to convince him, had refused to consent to them cutting the boots off as protocols had called for.

Eddie wiped them clean of dust, slipped his feet in, and buckled them up. It was almost eerie how perfectly they fit. He has been skiing them ever since—almost 15 years now.

But before you question Eddie’s commitment to the preservation of ski history, consider the fact that ten years ago he broke his ankle while wearing the boots, and despite the paramedics’ best attempts to convince him, had refused to consent to them cutting the boots off as protocols had called for. He had instead warmed them up with a hairdryer and pulled them off his shattered ankle with his bare hands while the paramedics and ski patrollers looked on like they were watching a building burn to the ground.

As I followed Eddie across the Ridge to the north, up the steady slope toward Hidden Gully, I watched flashes of purple and lime green through the blowing snow—the old boots appearing, disappearing, then appearing, then poof, they were gone.

I imagined Doug Coombs hiking these very steps all those years ago. A chill ran through my entire body. And then a smile spread across my entire face.