The Snow Shoveler

Stephan Michael Martel, 25, was clearing a loaded restaurant roof of snow when the slab released. Roof slides are not uncommon in Colorado’s Elk Mountains, and March 2019 had been especially dangerous: monster storm chasing monster storm, foot upon foot of heavy-wet concrete. The slide occurred on a bright Saturday afternoon, the first clear day in weeks.

By chance, that same day, I was three stories up a log mansion, anchoring a length of ice-stiffened rope to an eyebolt protruding from the roof’s ridgeline. Seven miles from the restaurant, close but infinitely removed, my focus was on knots, on stance, on descending safely to the eave, where a Volkswagen of crust demanded a delicate nudge of the shovel.

How I arrived on that roof is a kind of love story. Growing up in Vermont, shoveling snow was a chore but also a game, an enticement to play both in and with the wild outdoors. Driveway plow piles, once excavated, made incredible forts. Pillowy hillsides, given