Tom Reeves inherited his family's ski lodge debt-free in 2019, along with $200,000 in savings his father had set aside for capital improvements. He spent the first three winters watching those savings sit in the bank while revenue dropped 40% in years with late snow or early melt. Last spring, he decided to use the money.
"My dad built this place in 1983 for winter," Tom tells me, standing in the empty parking lot on a Tuesday morning in late November. Rain falls on the Bitterroot Range where snow should be. "Forty-three winters of skiing. I can't keep running a business that only works three months a year, though."
The $380,000 investment—his father's savings plus a manageable second mortgage—goes into summer infrastructure: downhill bike trails, a pump track, a zip line course. The trail builder starts work in April. Tom's betting that year-round recreation beats waiting for reliable winter.
"The skiing stays. I'm adding what we need to survive the summers."
The decision came from watching his community adapt around him. His seasonal staff—mostly locals who've worked here for years—started taking winter jobs at the Missoula REI, at Big Sky, at places that could guarantee hours. The families who used to bring their kids every weekend started driving to resorts with snowmaking. The lodge's identity as the valley's winter gathering place was already shifting.
"We need this place to work for the next twenty years," Tom's wife Sarah told me when I visited their house that evening. She works as a nurse in Missoula, an hour away. Their two kids are in high school. "Not just the winters when we get lucky with snow."
Tom spent months talking to other small lodge owners making similar pivots. One added a wedding venue and books forty events a summer. Another runs mountain bike camps for kids and pulls in $80,000 between June and August. They're all building revenue streams that don't depend on weather cooperating.
What makes the choice harder is that Tom knows he's changing what this place means. He grew up skiing here. His identity, his standing in the valley, his daily rhythms—all built around winter. Some of his oldest friends see the summer pivot as surrender.
Mike, who's been skiing here since the lodge opened, told Tom he was "giving up on Montana winters." Tom's also hearing from younger families who want year-round outdoor access. Parents who can't afford Vail or Big Sky but want their kids to experience mountain sports. The demographic shift in Montana—more remote workers, more people seeking outdoor lifestyles—might support his bet.
"If this works, we're here for another generation," Sarah says. "If it doesn't, we sell to some developer who turns it into vacation condos."
Tom knows other lodge owners are making different choices. Some are investing in snowmaking, betting that wealthy skiers will pay premium prices for guaranteed snow. He doesn't think they're wrong. He just thinks it's not his path.
"Maybe they'll be fine," he says. "Maybe I'm overreacting. I can't risk this place on maybe, though."
Tom's accepting uncertainty about summer revenue and the possibility he's diversified unnecessarily. He's gaining year-round income potential and less dependence on unpredictable snow.
He's accepting uncertainty about whether summer revenue will actually materialize. The possibility that winters improve and he's diversified unnecessarily. The reality that he's changing what this place means to the valley. The chance that mountain bikers don't show up in the numbers he needs.
He's gaining year-round revenue potential. Less dependence on unpredictable snow. A business model that might work for his kids if they want to take over. The ability to employ his staff more consistently. A hedge against the winters that don't come.
The trail builder Tom's working with has done conversions at three other small Montana ski areas in the past two years. The model exists. Whether the Bitterroots can support enough summer traffic to make it viable—that's what Tom needs to find out.
By 2028, Tom figures he'll know. Two full summer seasons should show whether the bike trails and zip lines generate enough to justify the investment. If they do, he'll add more programming. If they don't—he pauses when I ask what comes next.
"I'm trying to save this one place," he tells me as we walk back to the lodge.
The rain keeps falling. Tom heads inside to work on his summer marketing plan. Next winter can wait.