Monday, March 24, 2025

The Heroes of the Wildfires That Nearly Erased a New Mexico Ski Town

Ruidoso's landscape bears the scars of the South Fork and Salt Fires, which devastated over 25,000 acres and 1,400 structures in mid-June. Thousands of residents lost their homes, including some of the firefighters who fought the blazes. | Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

Phoenix (noun): in ancient Egyptian and Classical mythology, a legendary bird symbolizing immortality and resurrection, believed to be reborn from its own ashes after a fiery death every 500 years.

"Nothing left." Those were the two words my father had texted me the night of the Summer Solstice when he confirmed the unthinkable: our home in Ruidoso was gone. Growing up in West Texas, Ruidoso, in south-central New Mexico, was a five-hour drive away, and I went skiing there every weekend with my father from the time I was 2 years old until I moved to Utah for college at 19. Being a ski bum, my father hated West Texas, which had lured him there for work, and we were both in Ruidoso every chance we got. He had owned a property in town for 15 years until it, along with over 1,400 other reported structures, burned down earlier this summer after two wildfires ignited near the town, home to Ski Apache Ski Area. The South Fork Fire was reported on Monday, June 17, at 9:07 a.m. and the Salt Fire was reported later that day at 2:00 p.m. With high winds and plenty of fuel to burn, two massive wildfires had converged on the town from opposite sides; at the time Ruidoso was experiencing its own Perfect Storm moment.

By mid-morning, the sun was blotted out by a thick orange plume rising miles into the sky. At 6:48 that evening, the town's mayor Lynn Crawford issued a mandatory "GO NOW" evacuation order for all of Ruidoso's 8,000 residents. They were told not to go home and collect personal belongings but to get in their vehicles and leave the area immediately. Videos on social media showed flames as tall as ten-story buildings approaching rapidly. "We were at our tattoo shop. We were frantic," Logan Fleharty said, a longtime local and business owner who goes by Fle. "We saw it coming. You could see the fire close—you're watching the fire roar on houses and explode propane tanks." The roads then turned into gridlock. Some residents reported that it took them three hours to drive five miles. Cars were stuck bumper to bumper in a hectic attempt to get out of Dodge while their home was burning.

This photo showing a plume of smoke stretching several miles into the sky was captured by a resident the day the South Fork and Salt fires ignited in Ruidoso. | Photo: Austin Miller

A smoke report rushed into the Smokey Bear Ranger District on Monday morning from the Bonito Fire Department, a few miles north of Ruidoso, indicating smoke rising from the Mescalero Apache Reservation near the base of 11,981-foot Sierra Blanca, the area's tallest peak. The smoke report was relayed to an interagency dispatch center, which began coordinating resources by contacting various crews and agencies for assets, including fire engines, air support, and wildland firefighter teams known as Hotshots. The cavalry was getting organized. Meanwhile, officials at Smokey Bear went up to the Ruidoso Fire Lookout Tower to get eyes on the blaze. By mid-morning, it had been confirmed: a large wildfire had been started in an extremely problematic area and was heading directly for the town of Ruidoso. 

The South Fork Fire started in the northeast section of the Mescalero Apache Reservation in an area known as Upper Canyon, which is a box canyon just a few miles west of town. Upper Canyon is surrounded by steep terrain and has a high concentration of forest fuels like dense swaths of conifer trees and thick shrubbery. It had been previously identified by the Forest Service as a high-risk area where a wildfire could have severe consequences. That, paired with strong winds from the southwest, was causing the fires to burn at an exceptional rate—hundreds of acres an hour. Within 24 hours, the South Fork Fire would have burned over 15,000 acres of pristine forest.

Thousands of homes like this one were destroyed by the South Fork Fire in Ruidoso, which ignited on the Mescalero Apache Reservation on June 17. | Photo: Austin Miller

By mid-afternoon on the first day, three Hotshot crews were dispatched: Sacramento, a New Mexico unit; Tatanka, from South Dakota; and Ruidoso's own Smokey Bear unit. However, the steep terrain and ready-to-burn fuels made it impossible to charge in immediately. The crews had to devise a tactical plan to enter the area safely, especially with spot fires popping up away from the main blaze. As the fire grew, some locals reported falling ash in the form of burnt clothing and charred chunks of magazines landing on their properties as far as 19 miles away. Southern New Mexico's fire season is from March through July, and with the abundance of fuels and dangerous fire conditions in the days leading up to the fire, the South Fork Fire was no freak occurrence—it was only a matter of time. The factors that set the stage—ripe fuels and strong winds—were such that a significant wildfire was almost inevitable. Crews quickly recognized the need to pull back and develop a safer, more coordinated approach.

Air support began dropping slurry, a red fire retardant, but the high winds and heavy concentration of fuels kept the wildfire growing. Helicopters were using Ruidoso's nearby Grindstone Lake to pick up water to drop on the fire. Even with aircraft darting across the smoke-filled sky, the situation continued to devolve. By the next day, the South Fork Fire had consumed 15,000 acres and over 1,000 structures, killing two people. One person was found in a burned vehicle and another was discovered with burn injuries, according to New Mexico State Police spokesperson Wilson Silver who spoke with NBC News. Air support wasn't making much of a dent initially because the fuels were just too receptive. Firefighters had to balance the necessity to combat the blaze with ensuring the safety of their crews. Then even worse news came in over the radio: another massive wildfire had started on the other side of town.

By Monday night, the South Fork Fire had already incinerated thousands of acres and hundreds of structures. | Photo: Austin Miller

Enter Salt Fire. By 2 p.m., Ruidoso had two massive wildfires raging on either side, choking the town from opposite directions. At the time it wasn't clear how either fire started, but the causes weren't the focus yet; regular people just needed to get out of the area so crews could get in and fight. As additional support poured in with more fire engines and Hotshots, those resources were now being divided and sent to both the Salt and South Fork fires. The Salt Fire was situated in a more remote area of Ruidoso, with fewer structures in its path, unlike the South Fork which was already burning through Ruidoso neighborhoods like Cedar Creek and Alpine Village. Soon, nightfall would come, bringing with it diminishing winds and more suitable conditions for Hotshots to get in and battle the advancing fires.

By the evening, the town had been completely cleared out and evacuation centers were established at the Inn of the Mountain Gods Convention Center, the Mescalero Community Center, and Eastern New Mexico University in Roswell. Residents were advised to seek shelter with loved ones outside the affected area or at the designated centers. Yet there were a few stubborn locals who decided to stay in the empty, smoke-riddled town and ride it out. They refused the mandatory evacuation. While the order is legally enforceable, forcible removal of residents is rare. Law enforcement typically focuses on strongly urging compliance, documenting those who choose to stay, and potentially restricting re-entry to evacuated areas.

The author parked his vehicle on Ski Run Road where he captured this image that shows how the South Fork Fire spread and devastated thousands of acres of once pristine forest. | Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

"No one was forcing us to leave but if we left we wouldn't be let back in because of the evacuation order," Fle said. 

Fle is a 39-year-old tattoo artist and co-owner of a local tattoo shop, Scorpion Tattoos, who grew up in Ruidoso and didn't evacuate when he heard the order. He's about six feet in stature with medium-length, wavy almond brown hair, light green eyes, a friendly face with big nostrils, an outgoing, charismatic demeanor, and lots of tattoos. When I spoke with him in mid-July, almost a month after the fires were contained, we were sitting in front of a mural he painted inside of Downshift Brewing on Sudderth Drive. The mural portrayed a colorful scene of Ruidoso: a short blue and white camper with the door open revealing a disco party inside of it which was placed in a field amongst green ponderosa pines and wild raspberry bushes; there was a mountain biker and a happy hiker, the changing fall colors of aspen trees, a campfire at the edge of a mountain lake, and a skier going downhill—all at the forefront of Sierra Blanca with a bright yellow and red Zia hovering over it, an ancient Pueblo Indian symbol for the sun and the state icon for New Mexico. Fle told me it was a work in progress and that he wanted to add a few more features before he was through with it, like some raver raccoons partying under the disco ball in the camper. 

When the fires first started spreading they quickly wiped out the cell towers, rendering Ruidoso a dead zone. Only Hotshot crews with radios and satellite communications systems could communicate with one another on the first day—except for Fle, who realized he had something that could play a key role in keeping the community connected. "All the cell phone towers went out. Dead silence," Fle said. "When I made it to my farm I realized, wow, I have Starlink. I can give people information. So that was my Base Camp One." With internet access, Fle began sharing updates on his social media accounts, posting videos of the flames, and sharing general updates. He would talk into his iPhone camera about where the front line was and what neighborhoods had gotten scorched, letting his followers know what was going on. He said a lot of people who saw that he was still in town messaged him on social media asking him to check on their homes and feed their animals. He spent the next several days driving from property to property, offering help wherever he could. With buckets of water and shovels stashed in his truck, he put out small spot fires igniting away from the main blaze. At one point, he even saved a coop of 19 chickens from the flames.

This graphic shows the burn zones of the South Fork, Salt, and Blue 2 fires in Ruidoso, New Mexico, which occurred earlier this summer. The Blue 2 Fire started a month prior and was already contained by the time of the South Fork and Salt fires. | Photo: Wildfire.gov

Austin Miller, another local who owns a septic, excavations, and fire-clean-up company in Ruidoso called Summit Operations, took to fighting the fire himself on the first night, using his company's water truck to spray houses to prevent them from catching on fire. He told me that he was up until 4 a.m. on Monday night trying to save people's homes, using his water truck to spray houses where fire was approaching. He was also using the water truck to fill up first responder fire trucks because the water system in Ruidoso had gone down, making it hard for them to extract water from fire hydrants. "There was volume but there was no pressure because the power went out and then the gas went out and it made it to where it was hard to get water, but we have a pump on our truck that we can do suction and pull water of ponds," Miller said. "We pulled water out of the ponds twice because we had sucked one of the tanks dry."

Miller and a few buddies protected multiple houses from burning and they supplied three fire trucks with water that ended up saving 30 to 40 houses or more. Although he didn't have enough water to spray houses that were currently on fire, he could spray the lawns, trees, and homes that hadn't burned yet to prevent the fires from spreading there. He described the situation as chaotic, saying they were "jumping from one house burning to the next," barely able to keep up with the spreading flames. It was a relentless effort: "spray this one, move 50 feet, start spraying here, and just keep trying to save the houses that weren't on fire." Monday night, in particular, stood out as the worst, with embers raining down and igniting spot fires behind them as they fought the flames in front. "It was total chaos—like Armageddon," Miller recounted.

The forest surrounding Ski Run Road was decimated by the South Fork Fire. | Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

Crews and locals alike were working tirelessly to save their hometown. Exhaustion set in. Sleep-deprivation. Everyone was worked; hungry, sweaty, thirsty. Despite their valiant efforts, several of the Hotshots on Smokey Bear who live in Ruidoso would still end up losing their houses to the South Fork Fire. But everyone kept charging on. When Fle was sending updates from business owner Jasper Riddle's property, another Ruidoso local and business owner whose home is much closer than Fle's farm outside of town and who also had a Starlink system, he noticed three cases of sparkling water in his garage. That's when Fle found another way to make himself useful. After being badged as a First Responder by Downshift Brewing—a local brewery converted into an operations center providing free coffee and meals for first responders—he took the cases of water and drove to the crews to deliver refreshments. Later that week, Fle was asked by a friend who owned a car wash in Ruidoso to close the bay doors at his facility, and he noticed that there was a functional icemaker. Then the Hotshots started getting cold drinks. To boost morale, Fle placed an old mannequin in his truck bed named "Ken" that would accompany him on his runs. "Promote positivity. Give them a crisp high-five. A hug if they need it. Make a silly joke. Anything to get us out of our tension—tease the tension. That became so important because these guys were struggling," Fle said. He was working 17-18 hour days for a month straight, even after the fires were contained, dropping off supplies, meeting with residents, sorting through the rubble, and helping clean up damaged homes, which he was still doing at the time we sat down for our chat. "We're exhausted but we have to continue. It's my home," Fle said.

Downshift Brewing is a new brewery in the middle of Ruidoso that has a three-tiered balcony on its back that's surrounded by towering ponderosa pine trees and overlooks the Ruidoso River. It's constructed of wood giving it the appearance of a large log cabin. Eddie Gutierrez, the owner, opened its doors in August of 2021. Gutierrez is a tallish man with a dark goatee and long, jet-black hair that touches his shoulders. During the fires, Gutierrez stayed behind, keeping the doors to the brewery open to cook meals for first responders and residents alike. Gutierrez and his staff were whipping up to 600 meals a day, providing food to anyone who walked in. Fle, who had recently been working on the mural on the inside of the brewery, frequented Downshift, popping by several times a day. During the fires, he ran food and drinks from the brewery to the front line while Gutierrez and his crew worked hard on cooking.

"The whole community was affected by this fire. Everyone was evacuated. I turned my attention to trying to support the systems that were here as best I could. For us, that meant feeding people," Gutierrez told me.

Downshift Brewing served as a hub for first responders to come get coffee, food, and use Wi-Fi during the Ruidoso fires. | Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

Those working in the kitchen that first week at Downshift were all volunteers—no one was getting paid, and they were working long days, often 12 hours or more at a time. "None of us were perfect, but we did the best we could," Gutierrez said. His brewery also had electricity and more importantly, Wi-Fi, at a time when all of the electricity in town was shut off. Gutierrez utilized this to share updates on the brewery's social media accounts of what he saw and how the community was responding—a move his wife convinced him to take. A lot of misinformation was circling at the time, according to Gutierrez. People were gossiping about how all of mid-town had been wiped out, that Albertson's was gone, or that there wasn't even a Ruidoso left, so he used his brewery's platform to share accurate information. It was a warm, sunny morning in mid-July when I met with Gutierrez at the brewery, and the National Weather Service had issued a flood warning for later that afternoon. Seemingly everyone I spoke to that morning in Ruidoso was planning their day around the flood warning, nonchalantly, almost with a mild sense of humor or lightness attached to it, cracking small jokes about having to escape the incoming floods. Yet no one was mistaken; what was happening later that day would be purely devastating.

After the wildfires were contained, the monsoon came, bringing with it flash floods that were almost as devastating as the fires themselves. This Ruidoso neighborhood was devasted by the flooding. | Photo: Austin Miller

By the first weekend after the fires started, they had been mostly contained. Structures were no longer burning down thanks to diligent work from Hotshots, a break in the winds, and some much-needed rainfall that arrived mid-week. The town was closed to the general public until Sunday, June 23, when Mayor Crawford lifted the evacuation order, first allowing full-time residents to come back in before permitting all of the general public, including visitors, the following week. Early in the afternoon of June 27, after both the South Fork and Salt fires had been 99% contained, Fle had come upon a team of flood specialists from a Burned Area Emergency Response team sent by the Forest Service walking out of Cedar Creek, which is north of Upper Canyon where the South Fork Fire initially started. Cedar Creek sustained some of the most ferocious devastation from the blaze with thousands of acres of old-growth forest, hundreds of houses, dozens of hiking and mountain bike trails, and an array of National Forest infrastructure completely wiped from the face of the earth. Fle told me that he tried to give the flood specialists some snacks and cold drinks but they wouldn't accept them. They looked solemn. After a brief conversation, they expressed relief that the fires were over but said that what they had witnessed in Cedar Creek and Upper Canyon was so disturbing it had ruined their appetite. They knew what would happen once the rains came.

Monsoon season in the Southwest typically occurs from July to September. It's a seasonal weather pattern that brings with it thunderstorms and elevated rainfall, particularly affecting areas such as Arizona and New Mexico, but also extending to parts of western Texas, southern Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and occasionally southern California. Despite the containment of the fires, the aftermath was far from over. The monsoon rains caused flooding, exacerbating the situation, as the soil burned by the fires had become weak and unable to absorb moisture. That, combined with Ruidoso's steep terrain that undulates through and around the town, was another invitation to chaos. The first big rain storms that rolled in brought with them floodwaters that had reportedly reached as high as 12 feet in some areas, causing further destruction and displacing even more residents. Highway 70, a major route, constantly flooded, and there were over 100 swiftwater rescues by mid-July. One video that emerged from Ruidoso showed an 18-wheeler truck overturned by a flash flood on Highway 70 with its driver still inside.

Another one of Fle's friends, who owns a bookstore in a lowlands area of Ruidoso, was caught in a torrent of fast-moving water as it broke in through the doors of her bookstore. She was pinned against a wall and couldn't move, suffering minor injuries. Fle continued documenting the devastation despite the emotional toll it took on him, often breaking down in his truck after witnessing the destruction of his hometown. At one point, he called his business partner, James Flores, in tears. Flores urged him to keep filming for the world to see. Fle then stepped back out of his truck, donned his muck boots, and trudged through the muddy, contaminated water to capture more footage of the aftermath.

Flash floods with water levels reaching 12 feet were reported in some low-lying parts of Ruidoso after the fires were contained and the rains came. | Photo: Austin Miller

"It's something that nobody is prepared for," Austin Miller said, who was working on clean-up efforts at the time we spoke on the phone at the end of July. "I've seen houses get torn apart because of so much water. Cars, full garbage dumpsters floating down in a river," he said.  The fires destroyed over 1,000 homes and the floods added to the toll, with over 200 more homes damaged by late July. The community rallied to clean up and rebuild, but the waiting game with federal aid was frustrating.

"I don't know if we'll be here six months from now," Gutierrez said. "All of Ruidoso is an industry driven by tourism. Even if anybody isn't directly employed by tourism, they are somehow associated with it."

Downshift Brewing, a new business and popular social hub with weekly live music before the fires, was now struggling to make ends meet. June and July are the biggest months for business in Ruidoso, holding over most everyone until Labor Day. Profits from Labor Day Weekend then hold businesses over until Christmas, when ski season kicks off. Gutierrez urged his workers to claim unemployment, but Disaster Unemployment Assistance hadn't kicked in. "Everybody's going through this crisis even if your house didn't burn or flood," Gutierrez said. "We're trying to avoid financial instability as best we can." Like the majority of Ruidoso's business owners, Gutierrez was literally trying to stay above water.

Jasper Riddle is another local who's been a part of Ruidoso's business community for over 30 years and is the owner of Noisy Water Winery and a few other businesses in town. When I spoke with Riddle on the phone it was exactly one month after the fires started and he was "knee-deep" in insurance claims for his enterprises that were impacted. There was another flash flood risk issued for Ruidoso that day.

"We need a lot of damn help," Riddle said. "It's not bottles of water and thoughts and prayers; it's people showing up to help rebuild. It's money. It's infrastructure. It's tourism."

Collin Hood, a long-time friend and business partner of Riddle, lost his ski shop and cannabis dispensary while half of his home burned down, all within four hours of one another. Swiss Chalet, a long-time-standing hotel in between mid-town Ruidoso and Ski Run Road leading to the ski area, was caught in the direct line of the South Fork Fire and was burned to the ground. Nothing from the iconic hotel survived. "The businesses are getting kicked in the face right now," Riddle said. At the time I spoke with Riddle, the only financial aid available for the Ruidoso economy was disaster relief loans from the Small Business Administration. He talked about how COVID was rough for Ruidoso and how they had just barely started to pull back out of the weeds from it this year. But that was a global crisis—this time it was only the people of Ruidoso who were suffering.

Despite the devastation, the people fight on. Fle organized a fundraiser, raising over $150,000 for fire victims through Venmo, silent auctions, and partnerships with other tattoo shops. "Absolutely all of the money will be going toward the Ruidoso community," Fle said. "We want to see how much we can raise for those who lost their homes." Fle’s efforts extended beyond financial support; he also organized a silent auction featuring paintings donated by local artists, raising $19,000 from the event alone. Additionally, eight other tattoo shops in El Paso and New Mexico partnered with Fle, contributing to the total funds raised. "Now people have realized what stronghold our outreach is, creating positivity, giving back, giving thanks to the people," he said with tears in his eyes as he talked about the community's response. "You got to look for the good things. And be a good neighbor."

The author’s father’s home (pictured) was burned to the ground by the South Fork Fire, along with the rest of Ruidoso’s Alpine Village neighborhood. | Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

The South Fork and Salt Fires together burned a staggering 25,508 acres and destroyed over 1,400 structures. According to Miller, the damages brought by the fires and floods will end up costing over $1 billion. The official cause of the South Fork Fire was a lightning strike, according to a report shared by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Lightning is a common natural cause of wildfires, particularly in areas like New Mexico, where dry conditions and thunderstorms frequently coincide. According to the National Interagency Fire Center, lightning accounts for about 60% of all wildfires in the United States, with New Mexico being particularly susceptible due to its climate and topography. The state experiences thousands of lightning strikes annually. While the South Fork Fire was a natural disaster, the Salt Fire was determined to be human-caused.

FBI agents have identified a man and a woman as suspects in the Salt Fire, as well as several other fires on the Mescalero Apache Reservation. According to court documents, the suspects were linked to the fires through a vehicle seen fleeing at least five other fire scenes and shoe prints left at the Salt Fire site. A federal search warrant application, filed by an FBI agent in New Mexico on July 11, sought to obtain a pair of Vans shoes belonging to the female suspect. The warrant was executed on July 15. Although the El Paso Times has chosen not to disclose the names of the suspects, as they have not been formally charged, the warrant details that between May 3 and June 18, there were 16 wildfires in the Mescalero Apache Reservation believed to be human-caused. The man and woman named in the warrant have been linked to at least six of these fires. The investigation into the Salt Fire and other suspicious fires in the area continues as authorities work to gather more evidence and potentially bring charges against the suspects.

To boost morale, Fle placed an old mannequin named "Ken" in the bed of his truck to keep him company during his runs. | Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

The road ahead for Ruidoso is long and fraught with challenges. The response from government agencies has been a mix of immediate action and bureaucratic delays. While the initial firefighting efforts were swift and coordinated, the distribution of financial aid and resources has been slower. The Burned Area Emergency Response team has been assessing the damage and planning for flood prevention, but the community is still waiting for substantial federal aid. With damages estimated to be over $1 billion, Jasper Riddle has been advocating for more proactive government intervention. "That's a lot of damn money you need to get moving really really rapidly in order to get people to start to feel normal again." The community's determination is also evident, but the support of tourists and the broader public will be crucial in the town's recovery since tourism is the town's lifeline. It needs people to come back and support its businesses. Riddle added that it's not only about the immediate financial support but also about rebuilding their reputation as a destination. "We need to show the world that Ruidoso is still here and still beautiful," he said. However, both Gutierrez and Riddle recognize the delicate balance between encouraging tourism and ensuring responsible visitation. "People need to come back in responsibly and understand their surroundings and be aware," Riddle said."That's the negative externality associated with wanting to live so close to nature."

Riddle emphasized that visible progress—for people to actually see work getting done to rebuild Ruidoso—is crucial for restoring a sense of normalcy in the community. Riddle says people are already bouncing back in more beautiful ways than he could ever imagine. He recounted how one local, whose home was destroyed by the fire, had already started planting trees on his former property. "He's like, 'Well, I can't build a house yet, but I can get some trees in the ground.'" The people of Ruidoso are trying to get back on the mend. A strong winter tourism season will likely aid in the economic recovery, which is something Riddle—like all Ruidoso business owners—is desperately hoping for, but none of them are thinking that far ahead yet. They are trying to make ends meet right now; to keep their staff's payroll flowing and their livelihoods secure. Amidst the loss from the fires and floods, Riddle does see some signs of hope, like how the recent rains have caused green grass to sprout on the site where Swiss Chalet once stood. "If it wasn't for the fires, this would be one of the most beautiful summer seasons I've seen." This regurgitation of life is an indication that they, too, as a community can grow back.

An elk grazes outside of Downshift Brewery in mid-town Ruidoso. | Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

One positive aspect of such a destructive fire, Riddle thinks, is that much of the damage occurred near existing infrastructure. This makes the recovery efforts much easier than if a wildfire of similar size occurred in a remote location, far from roadways. The fire, perhaps, could allow a clean slate for Ruidoso. "It gives you the opportunity to come back in and build better. To build better master-planned areas. It's just a matter of having the resources to do so." Riddle hopes that each day brings a bit of improvement and that they make small progress every day. "I hope in six months we look back and say, 'Oh my God, it doesn't even look like something happened.'"

Looking ahead, the path to recovery is clear but challenging. The community needs continued support from government agencies, financial aid, and, most importantly, the return of tourists. The rebuilding efforts will take time, but the personal stories of resilience from the people of this ski community crystalize and make known the spirit of Ruidoso, New Mexico—a place where tall, powdery peaks collide with big, open ranches with livestock surrounded by herds of wild horses and elk; where cowboys and skiers mingle, share stories, have cookouts, build friendships, and start families. Where ancient indigenous culture dances with proud Southwest tradition. The courageous Hotshots who worked day and night to put out the fires, the pilots dropping slurry left and right, Logan Fleharty's efforts to use his Starlink system for communication, Austin Miller's late-night firefighting with his water truck, Eddie Gutierrez's kitchen staff providing thousands of meals a week and his PSAs to clear up misinformation, and Jasper Riddle's strong voice in the community to get tourism back up and running—these are but some of the countless stories of the brave souls who have given their time and energy and health to help their neighbors in any way they know how. The light shone from these vicious fires has illuminated the truth of a town that refuses to give up. "It's moments like these that show the true strength of our community," Fle said. "We are down but we are not out."

Nobody in Ruidoso is the same as they were the day before the fires. They probably won't be for a long time, either. Yet hope still remains, like a seed sprouting in the fire-scorched soil, reaching for the sun despite the odds. "It's still a beautiful place. I still love this place and I still believe in it. You could come to Ruidoso today and have a great experience. We are going to continue to focus on healing this place in any capacity that we can. If we're going to make it, we're going to make it because the whole place is stronger. And if we fail—we're going to fail trying," Gutierrez told me, teary-eyed, as we were wrapping up our chat at the brewery. It was approaching mid-day and the sun was still shining but clouds were starting to form in the distance; tall, white, puffy, ethereal castles amidst a sea of azure sky. They floated nearer, silently, ever so gently yet ominously toward this little mountain town of heroes. Their life-giving water would soon turn the ashes left behind from the fires into deadly, earth-devouring waves. Like Ruidoso, it will be from these same ashes that a phoenix rises.

In the wake of the fires, Fle and his mannequin companion, Ken, became symbols of hope and support for first responders. Photo: Martin Kuprianowicz

Ruidoso Wildfire Relief Fundraisers 

 

Is Mont Blanc the Prettiest Mountain I’ve Ever Seen?

Mama Blanc in all her ethereal glory, as seen from Courmayeur. | Rider: Aleksi | Photo: SnowBrains

The morning cracked open clean. Cold air, sharp and honest, moved down the valley like breath from something older than memory. And there it was—Mont Blanc. White, not soft, not pure in the way of lullabies, but pure in the way of a serrated knife.

It doesn’t ask to be looked at. It just stands there, immense and indifferent. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t need your approval. The kind that makes you feel like your life is a very small thing, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

SnowBrains Founder and CEO skis in front of the base of Mt. Blanc, shrouded in clouds. | Photo: SnowBrains

The sun started to lean in over the ridge, brushing light across the ice. Not golden. Just light. Clean light that made no promises. The glacier ribs caught it first, then the summit. For a moment it was fire, then it settled into white again. Cold, still, alive in a way that didn’t move.

There were no birds. No wind. Just the slow breath of the snowpack and the long look of stone. If you’ve ever stared too long at a fire, you know the feeling—it gives you something and takes something. Mont Blanc does that too. Only it doesn’t flicker. It just is.

You think about climbing it, maybe. Skiing it. You think about writing about it. But the mountain doesn’t care what you think. It has its own truth. It’s been saying it forever. You can hear it if you’re quiet enough. Not words—just that steady, enormous silence. Like God forgot to leave, and this is where He stayed.

Some places, you take a picture. Some places, you just look, and then you go—ski. Mont Blanc is the second kind. Perhaps one day.

Esko, SnowBrains' Norwegian correspondent, skis towards the toe of Mont Blanc from Courmayeur. | Photo: SnowBrains

How the Queen of Big-Wave Surfing Got into Writing Kids Books

Maya Gabeira defies limits both on the water and through her writing, inspiring a new generation of women surfers and creatives. | Photo: Ana Catarina

On a 70-foot wave, Maya Gabiera looks like an ant. With a wave that's the size of an industrial parking garage, you can hardly see her. Most often, the trailing spray flying off her board is what becomes first visible, and then you can make out her small, shadowy figure speeding down the wave that's curling up toward the sky, its giant jaws lurching forward, trying to devour her whole. At peak velocity, she is moving at the same speed as a car on the highway—up to 50 miles per hour. Chop from the wave at that speed can be bone-breaking if it hits the board wrong. On the biggest waves in the world, the room for consequence is zero. If she falls it's going to be terrible, if not deadly.

Big-wave surfing tests courage, hard-earned skill, and sheer willpower against the ocean's raw force. Maya Gabiera has spent over a decade defying odds and pushing the limits on the planet's most dangerous waves. From the heavy, churning swells of Brazil, where she first cut her teeth on a surfboard, to the towering, treacherous waves of Nazaré, Portugal, Gabeira has carved out a legacy as the world’s best female big-wave surfer. She’s the queen of a sport that’s long been dominated by men, but the tides are finally turning. Her rise to the top of the surfing world isn’t just a personal triumph; it’s also a story of breaking barriers and challenging the sport’s long-standing norms. Even with the risks of surfing the world’s most monstrous waves, Gabeira’s career has been driven by her relentless pursuit of greatness. But while she continues to dominate this high-risk sport, she’s also taken on a new and surprising challenge: writing children’s books.

Maya Gabeira is a 37-year-old big-wave surfer from Rio de Janeiro; she is 5 feet, 6 inches tall with an athletic build shaped by years of surfing, sun-bronzed skin, and dark, wind-tousled hair with streaks of golden blonde. Her bright brown eyes and calm, laid-back attitude reflect a certain strength that can only be forged from years spent in an arena—in Gabiera’s case, the ocean. Her love affair with the sea began when she was just 14, surfing the challenging but not massive waves of her hometown. While the waves in Brazil aren’t particularly huge, they’re heavy, making them perfect for a young surfer eager to master the sport. By 17, her passion had taken her all the way to the North Shore of Hawaii, a legendary spot for surfers worldwide. Amidst the powerful waves and vibrant surf culture, Gabeira found her true passion for big-wave surfing. The North Shore is where surfers go to prove themselves, and for Gabeira, it became the testing ground that shaped a remarkable career.

Gabiera's near-death experience marked a pivotal moment in her career, compelling her to rethink how she approached big-wave surfing. It heightened her respect for the ocean and led her to adopt a more strategic and safety-focused mindset. | Photo: Hatsumi Ajinomoto

Her love for the world's largest waves was not without its costs. Everything in action sports has a price; the bigger the feat, the more deadly the consequence. In 2013, Gabeira nearly lost her life while surfing a gigantic wave at Praia do Norte in Nazaré, a location infamous for producing some of the largest waves ever surfed and 10 minutes away from her home. The wave’s chop, moving at immense speed, broke her ankle and knocked her unconscious, a terrifying experience that could have ended her career—or worse. "You live and you learn," she reflects. "It was a huge learning curve for me. Today I see Nazaré in a completely different way. I surf much safer today even though we surf bigger waves." This near-death experience was a turning point for Gabeira, forcing her to reevaluate her approach to the sport. It deepened her respect for the ocean and instilled in her a more strategic and safety-oriented mindset.

Despite the trauma of the 2013 accident, Gabeira’s determination only grew stronger. Four years later, in 2017, she returned to Nazaré, the very place that had nearly claimed her life, and set a world record for the largest wave ever surfed by a woman—a 68-foot behemoth that would have been a career-defining moment for any surfer. But Gabeira wasn’t finished. In 2020, she broke her own record by surfing an even larger wave at the same location, this time measuring 73.5 feet. It was accomplishments like these that cemented her as the best in her field. "It was something I had to overcome if I wanted to continue surfing big waves. It's about not giving up, I guess," she mused, calmly reflecting on her journey back to the top.

The physical and mental demands of riding such colossal waves are immense. Gabeira’s preparation is nothing short of grueling. Her training regimen is rigorous, involving intense sessions in the gym, pool, and ocean. She works on her breath-holding capacity, practices high-stress underwater intervals, and conditions her body to withstand the punishing conditions of big-wave surfing. "In Nazaré, you take a lot of waves on the head, so it's more about stamina than anything," she explains. The relentless nature of the sport requires her to be in peak physical condition, with every part of her training designed to maximize endurance and resilience. Gabeira's training also includes mountain biking and wind-foiling, a sport that combines windsurfing and hydrofoil surfing, allowing her to glide above the water’s surface. This variety keeps her sharp and physically prepared for the demands of big-wave surfing.

Gabeira approaches big-wave surfing with a focus and discipline that borders on the meditative. | Photo: Ana Catarina

Her intense preparation is not just physical but mental as well. Gabeira approaches big-wave surfing with a focus and discipline that borders on the meditative. She describes the days leading up to a big swell as a time for getting her head in the zone, developing a routine that helps her stay centered and ready. On the morning of a big surf, she channels all her preparation into action, allowing her instincts to take over once she’s in the water. "Then you can be present and just enjoy it," she says.

But even with all this preparation, the risks are real. The tragic death of Brazilian big-wave legend Márcio Freire in January 2023 was a stark reminder of the sport’s inherent dangers. Freire, a pioneer in big-wave surfing, died while surfing at Nazaré’s Praia do Norte, the very spot where Gabeira set her records. Freire’s death, during a tow-in session where surfers are pulled into waves by jet skis, showed the world just how risky big-wave surfing can be. Despite immediate rescue efforts, Freire could not be revived, and his passing was a significant loss to the surfing community. Gabeira, reflecting on the risks, maintains a clear-eyed perspective: "I don't go out there if I feel like I’m going to die. There's always another day. There's always another swell. There's always another wave."

Despite the risks and physical toll of big-wave surfing, Gabeira’s passion for the sport hasn’t faded. But when the pandemic hit and brought global travel and competitions to a standstill, she suddenly found herself with unexpected time on her hands. Missing her kid nephew who was in Brazil and wanting to stay connected with him, Gabeira turned to a new challenge—writing. "I had time on my hands, and I missed my nephew. I wanted to connect and share some stories like having fun with my dogs and nature, so I had the vision to write picture books. It's been harder than I could've expected," she admits with a laugh. The shift from the physical demands of surfing to the creative process of writing was not easy, but it was a challenge she embraced wholeheartedly.

A page from Maya Makes Waves shows young Maya marveling at the vibrant coral reef, capturing the ocean’s beauty while hinting at the environmental challenges beneath the surface. | Photo: Abrams Books

Her first foray into children’s literature resulted in the book Maya and the Beast in 2022, a story inspired by her own experiences with the ocean and her bond with the waves of Nazaré. This book introduces young readers to the thrill and beauty of the ocean through the eyes of a young girl named Maya, who learns to face her fears and respect the power of the sea. Gabeira’s storytelling evolved further with her second book, Maya Makes Waves, which she debuted in August. Tailored for children aged 4 to 8, this book follows a young girl discovering the ocean through her encounters with various sea creatures. More than just an adventure, it’s a gentle introduction to environmentalism, revealing the impact of pollution on the ocean and its inhabitants. "It was a fun, interesting process for me," Gabeira says. "It demanded more creativity than my first book, which was mostly my own personal story. This one I felt more free to create."

The book captures the beauty and fragility of the ocean, with vivid descriptions that bring an underwater world to life. The coral reef, also known as the rainforest of the sea, reminded Maya of flowers. Blue, green, purple, red...so many colors and shapes! (Though lately, she had also noticed that some parts of the coral were whitening and seemed less alive—she wondered why), reads an excerpt from the book, touching on the delicate balance between the ocean’s beauty and the environmental destruction it currently faces.

Gabeira’s writing is deeply influenced by her love for nature and her desire to foster a similar appreciation in young readers. "Nature and surfing are necessary for writing," she says, drawing a direct line between her experiences on the waves and the creative inspiration that fuels her stories. Writing, she explains, has become a way for her to connect with children, share her passion for the ocean, and inspire the next generation to care for the planet. "It connects me with them. And it connects them with the ocean hopefully," she reflects.

Released on August 6, Maya Makes Waves is Gabiera's second publication. | Photo: Abrams Books

The writing process, however, is far from easy. Gabeira describes her routine as one of discipline and focus, much like her approach to surfing. She spends her mornings walking her dogs on the trails behind her house near Nazaré, using the time to think about her books and develop her ideas. Her writing often takes place in Indonesia, where she retreats for a month or two each year after the big-wave season ends in Portugal, using the peaceful tropical environment to put her concepts into words. "I like to take months to go surfing and then write," she says.

Currently, Gabeira is working on a young adult book, an autobiography that traces her journey from a young surfer in Brazil to a world record-breaking athlete. Set to be published next year, this book will offer a deeper look into the experiences that have shaped her, including her struggles in a male-dominated sport. "Being the minority is different. We didn't have a lot of opportunity or contests. It was a sport of hard access," she says as she reflects on the challenges she faced early in her career. The sexism in big-wave surfing was palpable, with women’s failures and accidents often viewed more harshly than those of their male counterparts. It wasn’t until a concerted effort by female surfers like Gabeira, who even had to petition to have the world record for the biggest wave surfed by a woman recognized due to the lack of an official category, that women’s achievements in the sport began to receive the recognition they deserved.

Gabeira’s wisdom for aspiring female surfers is simple yet profound. "Enjoy yourself, enjoy the ocean, respect the ocean, train hard, and believe in yourself—we are the only ones who know our limits and how deep we can dig. A lot of times we are the only ones believing in ourselves." Her journey, from nearly losing her life to breaking world records, and now to writing children’s books, is a testament to the ability to build from the ground up, as she herself says.

On the day I spoke with Gabiera, she had just returned from Indonesia, jet-lagged but already back to her disciplined routine. She had taken her two dogs on a 50-minute hike with a weighted vest, completed her two training sessions, conducted other interviews, and was preparing for another trip to the Maldives in 10 days. The big-wave season in Nazaré is exciting, to say the least, but she still needs some time in the tropics every year to just chill, she tells me. Even with her packed schedule, she carves out the time to share her passions—whether it’s surfing, environmental advocacy, or her new journey as an author. And if her approach to writing is anything like her approach to surfing, it’s clear that she’s going to give it everything she’s got.

Maya Gabeira continues to push boundaries, balancing her fearless pursuit of the world's biggest waves with her creative journey as a children’s author, inspiring others both in the water and beyond. | Photo: Abrams Books

Himalaya 500: A Project to Ski 500 Lines in the Planet’s Highest Mountain Range

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Luke Smithwick prepares to launch another expedition from base camp in the Karakoram Mountains of Pakistan. | Photo: Luke Smithwick Instagram

Flamingos, pelicans, and crocodiles thrive in the intricate network of marshes and mangrove forests at the mouth of the Indus River. As the fourth largest river in Asia, its muddy silt-rich water has traveled a long way from its headwaters in the Himalaya roughly 2,000 miles away. Tracing the Indus backward from its mouth, the river flows from the Arabian Sea through the arid farmlands of Pakistan, which nourish millions of people. Once in India, it slices through lush deciduous and evergreen forests in the Kashmir Valley before climbing thousands of vertical feet onto the high desert of Ladakh near the border with China. Finally, it arrives back at its birthing grounds at Lake Mansarovarar, 15,060 feet above sea level on the Tibetian Plateau. The lake is planted at the base of Mount Kailash, a 21,778-foot peak shrouded in mystery for centuries as the dwelling place of the Hindu god Shiva the Destroyer. Every year Hindus from all over India travel to Kailash to undertake pilgrimages and circumambulate the sacred mountain, believing that by trekking in a circle over the course of several brutally exhausting days at high altitude they can cleanse themselves of worldly sin; a holy journey that is referred to as the Kailash Parikrama. Luke Smithwick, too, visited this region of the Himalaya surrounding Kailash in 2018 for the sake of his own holy journey—it just wasn't the same one as most of the other visitors.

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Luke Smithwick at the top of one of the Himalaya 500 ski lines in West Nepal. | Photo: Luke Smithwick

Originally from North Carolina, 44-year-old Luke Smithwick climbs, skis, and guides on the world's tallest mountains for a living. He is the founder of the Himalaya 500 project, a monolithic undertaking to ski and document 500 descents in the Himalaya. I took a phone call with Smithwick in November 2022 when he was back in his home in the Tetons near Victor, Idaho, where he spends extended periods of time in between expedition seasons. He told me that his long-term goal with the Himalaya 500 is to create a spatial publication that will be organized by region and serve to unravel the diverse snow climates, terrain, and natural history that define each area of such a large range. Once completed, it will effectively be the first guidebook for skiing in the Himalaya ever published. The project officially took flight in 2010 when Smithwick first moved there, however, his original inspiration goes back even further to almost an entire decade before he ever started climbing and skiing in the highest mountain range on Earth.

"I saw the scale of things there. Everything is just so massive," Smithwick recalled. He was 19 at the time. On an extended break from school, Smithwick was taking a six-month backpacking trip through the Himalaya. He started in Nepal, traversing the Annapurna region west of Kathmandu before working his way north to the Langtang region. After months of wandering, he eventually ended up to the south in India's Ladakh province. By then he saw the potential the Himalaya had for first ski descents, which at that time were still very few. Skiing had been taking place in the range for over a century already, predominately by visiting Westerners, yet there was still almost zero information about any good backcountry ski runs. It was a simple mystery that stared him in the face; why did one of the largest mountain ranges on the planet have some of the fewest skiers? Smithwick's trip eventually ended and he went back home to the United States to finish college. Although he may not have known it at the time, he was profoundly changed by what he saw.

After graduating from CU Boulder with a double major in Environmental Biology and Cultural Anthropology, Smithwick moved to Girdwood, Alaska, where he dove head first into the mountaineering world and began his career as a ski guide in Alaska's Chugach Range. Along the way, he obtained credentials as an AIRIE-certified mountain guide and wilderness first responder, learning the ins and outs of an environment that is constantly trying to find ways to kill him. But after learning about avalanche safety and working as a guide in Alaska for almost 10 years, he still couldn't shake the feeling he had brought back with him from his initial trip to Asia. So in 2010 he sold off what he didn't need, packed up his things, and headed off for the Himalaya.

Smithwick relocated to Kathmandu and began running guided trips in Northern India. Initially focused on climbing, he soon integrated his experiences from Alaska and started exploring skiing options in the Himalaya in his free time between expeditions."It's just not really on people's radar for skiing," Smithwick told me. "I just came to realize, there's a lot." Then the Himalaya 500 was born, sparked from the same embers that ignited Smithwick's soul and told him to drop everything and move to Nepal.

 

 
 
 
 
 
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The Himalaya 500 is composed of 500 hand-selected ski lines that span across Tibet, Nepal, Pakistan, and Northern India. These are not your average ski runs. The lines are perched as high as 26,000 feet above sea level and descend to as low as 8,500 feet. Smithwick explained that he didn't have an exact rhyme or a reason as to the number 500, but just that if he skied an "absurd" amount of ski descents for a future publication he'd be able to make known to the ski industry at least 20-30 new ski lines of utterly iconic, classic status, among the likes of the classic runs shared in publications like The 50 Classic Ski Descents of North America. Apart from the skiing itself, Smithwick aims to really show an area with his work by examining its geology, analyzing its snowpack, and understanding how each zone is inherently unique as compared to others within the massive 1,500-mile-long Himalaya Range. "These 500 lines—all of them aren't going to all be beautiful, iconic things. But it's exploratory skiing," Smithwick said.

21,778-foot Mount Kailash is a sacred peak in the Himalaya revered in Hinduism, Buddhism, and other religions. | Photo: Wikipedia

His expeditions are often Herculean tasks. Trips to ski lines located above 26,000 feet can last four to six weeks at a time and the challenges are complex with remote locations, vicious weather, no pre-existing guidebooks, and a lack of avalanche forecasting resources or basic rescue services. A lot of these lines are first descents, including several that he documented at the 20,000-22,000 foot elevation in an area not far from the sacred Kailash in 2018. Travel logistics can be a nightmare, Smithwick says, and he often has to travel on horseback for days through wilderness just to establish base camp. Saying that timing is 'critical' in the Himalaya is a massive understatement.

Smithwick meticulously plans his year every December based on seasonal weather trends. He told me that regions like Kashmir in Northern India and Humla in Western Nepal offer the best mid-winter conditions and are great for powder skiing, so he usually starts his season ticking off lines there in early January. As the season progresses and the snowpack trends toward stability, Smithwick will then hop on a plane to Pakistan to ski long, steep lines in the Karakoram for most of March and April, or head to the Annapurnas in Nepal to ski large runs in powder snow conditions. He has to frequently make fast decisions, weighing options and strategizing where to head next all based on current weather and snow conditions. Come late springtime when the powder conditions depart and a proper corn cycle starts, Smithwick shifts his gaze toward larger objectives in India above 20,000 feet. From June until September, he's completely focused on high-altitude expeditions in India, the Karakoram, or Tibet. He is planning weather windows, setting up high-altitude acclimatization camps, and mingling with local communities almost non-stop during these summer months. As he roams the Roof of the World, Smithwick meets diverse communities of people, each with their own unique life experiences who inspire him as energetically as the mountains he climbs.

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Smithwick getting through a tricky section in the Karakoram. | Photo: Luke Smithwick

"The greatest thing about the Himalaya 500 Project is the people you meet," Smithwick said with a tone that implied a smile. "What really keeps me going is just learning about all the people living in these regions and thriving. It's fascinating to learn from people who are still living a subsistence existence, living off the land. It's really inspiring." The individuals Smithwick meets along the way are a critical part of the project. He engages with locals, learning from shepherds and relying on their invaluable knowledge of the mountains when no other such information exists on paper, weaving their wisdom into his expedition plans. He describes one process by which shepherds in remote regions of the Himalaya travel in the mountains via what they call "avalanche codes," huge slides that break in the spring whose paths cross rivers and create natural 50 to 100-foot high bridges of debris. The shepherds know precisely where and when these avalanches will break each year and use the natural bridges to get to and from the high pastures where they graze their sheep. This intuitive use of the land is something Smithwick holds with great admiration.

The people he has met on his mission to ski the 500 have also incited another journey that reaches beyond the summits of the peaks he climbs. Smithwick and his team have started helping communities in the remote Himalaya by creating new ski areas in Nepal, India, and Pakistan. By bringing the joy of skiing to small rural communities and connecting people through sport, they are making an impact that enriches the lives of those who are living in chronic poverty."The people you encounter and the experiences you have, you realize it's an interactively, changing world that we are all doing the same thing in. It's cool to bring people together through skiing."

 

 
 
 
 
 
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In 2014, Smithwick and his team established the Kashmir Avalanche Association which trains professional patrollers up to AIRIE Level 2 Pro standards in Gulmarg, India. The program enhances safety in the region and empowers local experts in avalanche management. Smithwick also works with Gulmarg's youth, educating them about avalanche safety through hands-on experiences in the mountains via a program he started called Outreach Himalaya. Supported by brand contributions from LEKI, COROS Global, and Scarpa North America, Outreach Himalaya's aim is to foster a sense of community and create positive change among the younger generation of the Himalaya through skiing. Smithwick believes that skiing is one surefire way to promise a better future for many of these children. From training patrollers, giving community avalanche safety talks, and helping build new ski areas, none of this would have been possible if it weren't for Smithwick's initial vision for the Himalaya 500 thirteen years ago.

When I last spoke with Smithwick only a few days ago, it was over email and he was on an expedition to climb and ski 26,693 foot Manaslu, the eighth highest peak on Earth and the mountain that claimed the life of mountaineering legend Hilaree Nelson in September 2022. As he was preparing for what he described as an "acclimatization push" to 20,000 feet, he casually mentioned that he was currently more than halfway through with the Himalaya 500. He has conducted 94 expeditions in the range so far. One day, Luke Smithwick will sit down and put all of his documentation over the course of more than a decade of skiing and climbing in the Himalaya into a single publication. It will be a ridiculous amount of work. But what will come of it will be a Bible for skiing and snowboarding in the most immense mountain range this planet has to offer—one that will only strengthen the faith that a sport like skiing down big, tall, scary mountains will never stop evolving.

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Smithwick refueling while skiing lines in the Karakoram for the Himalaya 500o project. | Photo: Luke Smithwick

Thursday, March 20, 2025

What FOMO Actually Does to Your Brain

The "Fear of Missing Out" affects brain chemistry. | Photo: SnowBrains
 
I'm now two weeks into recovering from an ankle injury and I've caught myself doing something counterproductive: scrolling through Instagram incessantly. While I'm currently mastering the delicate art of navigating stairs on crutches, my feed is full of friends skiing powder lines, standing on sunlit summits, and linking perfect turns. Not only am I  missing out—I'm hyper-aware of what I'm currently missing. This reaction is known as FOMO: the Fear of Missing Out. It’s more than just a passing feeling of envy. FOMO is a psychological and neurological response that kicks in when we perceive others having rewarding experiences without us. And it has some very real effects on how our brains process social and emotional information.

How the Brain Creates FOMO

Fear of Missing Out isn’t just emotional—it’s structural. Neuroimaging research shows that people who score high on FOMO tend to have reduced cortical thickness in a brain region called the precuneus. This part of the brain, nestled within the Default Mode Network (DMN), is heavily involved in memory, self-reflection, and social cognition. It’s what helps us imagine scenes, reflect on our relationships, and picture what others might be doing. 

When you’re watching your friends get face shots in deep pow while you’re laid up with an injury or stuck at work, your brain’s DMN starts firing. You don’t just see the scene—you mentally simulate being there. You imagine what it feels like, sounds like, even smells like. And then you compare that imagined experience to your current reality: being stuck inside. 

FOMO also overlaps with the brain’s reward system. Normally, dopamine—a neurotransmitter associated with pleasure and motivation—helps reinforce rewarding behavior. But it also works through something called reward prediction. If you expect something good to happen and it doesn’t, dopamine levels crash. That’s called a negative prediction error

In the context of FOMO, when you see others having an experience you want, your brain calculates that you’re missing out on a reward. The result? A mix of frustration, craving, and emotional discomfort. This cycle can make you keep checking your phone or social media feed, even when you know it won’t make you feel better.

Why Social Media Makes It Worse

Social media platforms are designed to hook attention and deliver quick dopamine hits. Fast-scrolling apps like TikTok and Instagram amplify this by showing bite-sized content that’s emotionally engaging. This pattern conditions the brain to seek out constant updates—and to feel anxiety when those updates seem better than our current situation. The term “TikTok brain” has been coined to describe this hyper-stimulation of neural reward pathways. For injured skiers, this can be especially brutal—we’re not just missing out, we’re being shown exactly what we’re missing in real time.

So if you’re injured or sidelined, and you keep watching ski content, your brain isn’t just reacting—it’s being trained to keep reacting. It’s easy to fall into a loop of checking, comparing, and feeling left out. Not everyone experiences FOMO the same way, either. Research shows that people with stronger emotional regulation and better connectivity between the brain’s control centers and the DMN are better equipped to manage it. Those with less emotional regulation tend to be more vulnerable.

There are gender differences, too. A Spanish study found that women tend to score higher on social media addiction and “phone obsession,” often tied to emotional connection, while men scored higher on internet gaming-related behaviors. These findings suggest gendered differences in how social stimuli are processed and what kinds of digital FOMO we’re more prone to. 
Social media has a way of turning every powder day you miss into a full-blown mental highlight reel. | Photo: SnowBrains

Injury and Isolation Can Intensify It

For skiers, missing a season or even just a few ripping storm cycles can feel like missing a part of your identity. Skiing isn’t just an activity—it’s often a form of community, self-expression, and mental health maintenance. Being cut off from that doesn’t just hurt physically. It changes your sense of connection and belonging. That isolation makes the social comparison loop of FOMO even more potent. The brain, looking for connection and stimulation, turns to digital sources. But those sources can backfire, triggering even more comparison and dissatisfaction.

How to Manage the Spiral

Understanding the brain science behind FOMO can help reduce its power. Here are a few strategies supported by research: - Mindfulness meditation: Helps calm the Default Mode Network and reduce obsessive thoughts. - Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) techniques: Challenge distorted thinking patterns that fuel social comparison. - Digital boundaries: Take structured breaks from social media to break the dopamine-checking cycle. - Real-world interaction: Talking to friends in person or journaling your thoughts can ground your perspective.

The Bigger Picture

FOMO isn’t a personal failing—it’s a byproduct of how our brains evolved interacting with modern technology, which is currently ongoing. Our neural wiring, designed for in-person social groups, is being constantly triggered by digital platforms that weren’t built with mental health in mind. The neuroscience of FOMO also raises ethical concerns for tech design. If digital platforms are designed to tap into the brain’s reward system and capitalize on our fear of missing out, there's a real argument for making those systems more responsible. Researchers suggest that dopamine-triggering features, such as endless scrolls or social comparison cues, should be implemented by social media companies with caution—especially for users more prone to compulsive behavior.

Understanding the neurological roots of FOMO won’t make it disappear, but it can help us navigate it. When you find yourself feeling left out or anxious about what you’re missing, it helps to pause. Recognize the neural systems at play. You’re not weak. You’re human. And sometimes, the best move for your mental health isn’t catching up on everyone else’s adventures—it’s stepping away for a bit and focusing on your own. Even if sometimes, like in my case, that means just healing, resting, and waiting for next season. 

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Scroll. Cringe. Repeat. The FOMO loop always starts with one innocent tap. POV: Miles Clark at Palisades Tahoe, CA, on an epic powder day in March 2025. |  Photo: SnowBrains