Remembering David Page: A Writer Who Helped Define POWDER

On the shelf above my desk in Jackson, there is an unopened can of Ski Kind Lager: 1 pint, 4.9 percent ABV, white label with black lettering, a small pink heart to dot the "i" in Kind. It was given to me by my friend David Page about five years ago. He was in town to ski and represent the Winter Windlands Alliance, where he worked, for some meetings on conservation issues affecting the Tetons. 

David came up with the motto Ski Kind during the COVID pandemic because people were having a hard time being nice to one another. His local brewery in Mammoth Lakes, where he’d lived since the late 1990s, loved the idea and collaborated with David and the Winter Wildlands Alliance to craft the beer and donate the proceeds to the stewardship of wild places.

I love beer and know that beer is supposed to be enjoyed, but I saved this can as a source of inspiration. There is a simple genius to “Ski Kind” that resonated in a world seemingly gone mad with vitriol and division. Having the can available to look at whenever I needed inspiration just seemed like something I wanted to have around.

Of course, beer doesn’t change the world. People do. 

David Page was one of those people.

On July 7, 2026, he was killed in a horrific traffic accident on Teton Pass. He was 57. He leaves behind two boys and a wife he’d been married to for 22 years.

After spending the night at a friend’s house outside of Jackson, Page loaded up his Subaru, including his beloved female Husky named Rio, and started driving up the pass. He was heading to Teton Valley, Idaho, for meetings on the proposed Grand Targhee Ski Resort expansion. David, as the director of the WWA, opposed the project due to its expected encroachment on precious wildlife habitat and wilderness. (His position was not radical: The development is also opposed by the Wyoming Game & Fish and both Teton County Commissions in Idaho and Wyoming.)

Just as David approached the section of Teton Pass where it begins to ascend outside of the town of Wilson, David’s Subaru was struck by a dump truck that had lost its brakes. David died in the accident. So did his dog. Another man—a Tetonia, Idaho, resident named Nick Besobrasow—also died. Others were sent to the hospital with numerous injuries. Reporting by the Jackson Hole News & Guide describes the terrifying sequence of events.

The dump truck, from Avail Valley Construction of Victor, Idaho, was hauling asphalt. Several days after the accident, the stain of the asphalt was still on the highway, a tragic reminder of how this part of Wyoming has shrugged off the dangers of allowing big rigs to drive a steep, very busy mountain pass despite knowing—or at least being warned over and over again by locals—that such an accident was someday inevitable. Trailers are banned in the winter, though many big-rig drivers don’t respect the closure. Whether this dump truck was over the legal 60,000-pound limit is still under investigation.

David’s sudden passing has left a gaping void in outdoor communities spread across the Mountain West.

“To know David was to know his boundless energy, his uncanny wit, and his love of adventure,” Winter Wildlands Alliance posted to their social media after his death. “He was a zealous backcountry skier, a passionate advocate for wild places, and someone who believed deeply that meaningful progress begins with open dialogue, curiosity, and collaboration. He was also a fearless leader and gifted writer whose words invited people to see winter landscapes with greater wonder and purpose.”

I got to know David when he first started writing for POWDER in the early 2010’s. His mark was immediate and indelible. He had the rare gift of connecting with all kinds of people. In conversation, he was down-to-earth, funny, and fully present. His big smile and easy laughter endeared him to everyone he met. As a writer, he could drill down on the facts with the tenacity of a seasoned beat reporter, but he maintained the ability to use lyrical prose that painted beautiful pictures of the landscapes he loved. He could transport readers to a sketchy traverse, the stillness of a forest, make sense of complicated bureaucracy, and put words to how a cold beer tastes at the end of a long tour.

In 2015, his deep dive into the complex and often tragic stories around avalanche safety for “The Human Factor” earned him and POWDER a nomination for a National Magazine Award. Even better than this prestigious recognition was learning that the piece was being used in the curriculum in avalanche classes—away from the limelight, on a skin track, where backcountry skiers wanted to learn about how to live the good life in a safe way. Awards were one thing; helping people avoid dying in the backcountry was an entirely different, more worthwhile objective. And it would not have happened without David’s commitment to rigorous, boots-on-the-ground reporting and his tender approach to those who’ve lost loved ones in the mountains.

That same year, in 2015, David wrote “The Quiet Force,” a feature story about how ski towns in the modern era would not be ski towns without immigrants. As a Mammoth Lakes resident, he was well aware of this community’s essential service, as well as how they were often vilified. For that story, he did the delicate but necessary work of getting to know those within the Latino community to trust him to tell their complex, sensitive stories. The result was a moving story about people who live quietly in the shadows to make ski towns run. After the story came out, it inspired filmmakers Hilary Byrne and Sophie Danison to create a documentary film of the same name.

In 2017, David tracked down a lone, mysterious figure putting beautiful, solitary ski tracks on the volcanoes of the Pacific Northwest. Spoiler alert: He found the guy and had a beer with him. “The Soloist” appeared in POWDER Volume 46, Issue 6 (February 2018), and it stands as one of my favorite stories ever written about skiing.

In October 2019, after Jim Morrison and Hilaree Nelson skied the first descent of the Lhotse Couloir, David was the first person we called to write about it. Under an excruciatingly tight deadline, he had just a few days to track down the exhausted, jet-lagged skiers, conduct interviews, and submit the piece. In classic Page style, it was a beautiful and deeply reported story.