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We look up at the sky and stretch out our chins and necks like turtles. This tightens the skin and muscles and prevents us from crying. I see him stretch his neck out, and I know that he understands the significance of this moment. I had never met Killy, but Dad had many years earlier, and now our lives had come full circle. I lower my head so Killy can reach me. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” he says as he drapes the medal around my neck. ” “I know you have. I’m going to be back here Saturday.

Dad bought them cheap at the annual ski swap in Ketchum, where people sold and traded their used gear. That December my parents took me to Dollar Mountain for the first time. All four of us piled into our truck for the fiftyminute drive to Sun Valley. If there was any doubt that I was my father’s daughter, that day erased it. Baba and I clamped our boots into our skis and shuffled into the lift line. I watched as the chairs, which seated two people, descended on the cable, scooped up the skiers, and transported them high above the ground to the top of Dollar.

I am a third-generation Idahoan. Dad was born in Orofino, my grandmother in Helmer. Her father, my great-granddad, was a lumberjack and the biggest guy in town. He was the guy the townspeople would pit against the prizefighters who came through town. My mother was born in Wichita, Kansas, but raised in Salt Lake City, Utah. Her father was an FBI agent and a journalist. He was also an alcoholic, and Mom says one thing that attracted her to Dad was that, other than a glass of good wine now and then, he didn’t drink.

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