The Olympic Valley Before the World Arrived

By Lisa Arnbrister Barbash

Sixteen years before I ever unpacked a box in the valley, the world had already been here. You could still feel it—ghosts of medals won and medals lost, the echo of cheers ricocheting off the granite, the quiet pride of competitors who stayed long after the closing ceremonies, building lives and families in the shadow of their own greatness.

They were the ones who carved out this place as more than a postcard. They coached the next generation, raised children who grew up measuring time in training runs, and stitched together a community tied not just to a mountain, but to a purpose.

But time, as it always does, moved. Recreation became an industry. Dreams became business plans. And many of the original dreamers—the men and women who once pinned bibs to their chests and hurled themselves downhill with the blind faith of youth—have aged, retired, or passed on, leaving behind a landscape changed and a generation determined to build legacies of their own.

That tension—between what was and what is becoming—is the heartbeat of Four Women and a Mountain, Legends and Legacies of the Sierra,. The book spans decades of women who were shaped by this valley and, in turn, shaped it back. They loved fiercely, competed relentlessly, and carried the weight of their families’ dreams on terrain as unpredictable as the weather.

Back in 1960, the Olympics lived almost entirely within a ten-mile radius of this narrow valley. One place. One heartbeat. Today, as we look toward 2026, the Games stretch across cities, resorts, and continents of media coverage—bigger, louder, more complex. Yet the question remains the same: what will be left behind when the world moves on?

Growing up, we had Wide World of Sports, that unforgettable line: the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. It lived in us. It taught us about risk, ambition, heartbreak—the necessary ingredients of anyone brave enough to chase speed downhill. We watched heroes rise, records fall, mistakes replayed in slow motion. We saw triumph. And sometimes we saw tragedy. But we kept watching.

And in 2026, we’ll watch again.

In the book, I write about witnessing the rise of snowboarding—to see a fringe counterculture pastime morph into an international force was like watching someone you once knew as a teenager suddenly become a global phenomenon. In 1978, no one could have imagined what it would become: a beast of creativity, athleticism, and unfiltered individuality. And yet, strangely, beautifully, the essence hasn’t changed.

Because no matter how big the venues grow or how many cameras are pointed at the halfpipe, it always comes down to this:

An athlete.

A course.

A single breath.

That quiet, private moment at the top—when everything they’ve ever sacrificed sharpens into a single chance—is the soul of the sport. And the ones who rise to the top? They do it because they have given pieces of themselves most people will never see. They have shaped their lives around a dream that asks everything and promises nothing.

As the next Olympics approach, I find myself grateful—grateful to witness the cycle repeating, grateful for the athletes who still chase the impossible, grateful for the history we stand on and the legends still being written.

To all of them: may the climb satisfy something deep in your bones.

May the descent set you free.