Transcript
Late November
It is the end of November, above St. Moritz, in the Engadine valley of south-eastern Switzerland.
A slope runs down through the larch and pine towards the village of Celerina. If you know where to look, there is a line in it. A shelf in the hillside. A curve that the ground seems to remember.
There is no ice on it. There is no track. Not yet.
A crew has come over the mountains from South Tyrol, in northern Italy. Most of them come from one village. They have done this before. Some of them have done it every winter for decades.
Lorries tip snow beside the line. Much of it was made by machines. A loader pushes it roughly into place. Then the shovels start.
One member of the crew holds the fire hose, soaking the snow until it turns to slush. The others stack it into walls, shape it, and smooth it with a wooden lath.
They do not begin at the top. They begin in the middle, at a bend called Sunny Corner.
In about three weeks, this will be a bobsleigh track, and four-man sleds will come down it at close to a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour.
By spring, it will be water again.
This is Slidensa — stories of ice, gravity and speed.
The first episode of this podcast told how this run was born. Bobsleigh crews had outgrown the public road, a gala raised the money, and on New Year’s Day, 1904, the Olympia Bobrun opened with a race.
That episode also mentioned something that sounds almost too strange to be true. The run is not permanent. It is built again, from snow and water, every single winter.
This episode is about how that is done today.
The Olympia Bobrun, from St. Moritz down to Celerina, is built in roughly three weeks. It is raced on for about ten. Then the spring sun takes it apart. The Swiss newspaper NZZ traced where it goes. The meltwater runs into the Inn, then the Danube, and on to the Black Sea.
And the following autumn, the crew comes back and builds it again.
That raises a question that is easy to ask and surprisingly hard to answer. How can a track that melts every spring be rebuilt as the same racecourse every winter?
And is it really the same?
It matters more than it might seem. Bobsleigh is decided by hundredths of a second. Crews spend years and fortunes shaving a little off their times. They learn every corner of every track they race on.
And here is a track that, strictly speaking, none of them has ever raced on before, because this winter’s version did not exist until a few weeks ago.
To answer the question, we need to know what is left when the ice has gone. Who builds the run, and how. How they know where the walls go. And what happens to the times when the track is never quite the same twice.
What survives the summer
Start with summer.
Walk the line in July and you will not find a bobsleigh run. You will find a path through the trees, a road, some meadows, and a slope above a village.
But the run has not vanished completely. The operator says the course stays recognisable in the terrain, even in summer. Hollows, shelves and earth banks still mark where the winter course goes.
There are buildings, too. A start house at the top, in St. Moritz. A finish area at the bottom, near Celerina.
And in at least one place, the track has a skeleton. The most famous corner, the Horse-Shoe, is reinforced with stone and timber, with masonry beneath the winter snow.
What St. Moritz does not have is a continuous refrigerated concrete chute.
That is what makes this run unusual. The other tracks on the international circuit use permanent channels and artificial refrigeration. Pipes beneath the ice let a plant control the cold from below.
The story of how the sport moved to concrete and refrigeration belongs to a coming episode. Here, only the contrast matters. On those tracks, a machine makes the cold. St. Moritz relies on the weather.
The local bobsleigh club gives a simple reason why that still works here. The other runs, in Europe, North America and Japan, it says, are not at such a favourable altitude. They have to be iced artificially.
St. Moritz is different. The start sits more than eighteen hundred metres above sea level, in a high, dry valley where winter nights are long and hard.
That is the real meaning of the word “natural” here. It describes how the track freezes. It does not mean that every flake of snow fell from the sky. As we will hear, much of it does not.
The sport’s governing body, the IBSF, words its claim carefully. It calls St. Moritz the only natural sliding track left in the world to host bobsleigh and skeleton races.
That care is deliberate. In luge, there is a whole separate discipline raced on natural tracks, with dozens of them still in use, mostly in Italy, Austria and Germany. But for bobsleigh and skeleton, this is the last one.
It was not always unusual. Natural snow-and-ice courses were once ordinary. One by one, international bobsleigh moved to permanent refrigerated tracks. St. Moritz outlived them.
The town and the operator are less careful with words than the federation. The operator’s own website calls the run the largest snow sculpture in the world. On another page, it is the longest ice sculpture in the world. The federation says that people also call it the biggest ice sculpture in the world.
None of these is a measurement. They are nicknames, and the run’s own keepers cannot settle on one. But they tell you something about how the place sees the thing it builds. Not as a facility. As a sculpture: something made by hand, and made to last one season.
In 1987, a British company released a computer game called Bobsleigh. The second episode of this podcast told its story. Among its six venues was St. Moritz.
In that game, St. Moritz was the longest course on the tape. Its map page announced a length of sixteen hundred metres. It numbered sixteen corners. Today’s run names nineteen.
The surviving code does not establish whether those sixteen corners were mapped from the real run. What is certain is that they were stored as a fixed string of numbers, exactly the same in every race.
For that game, St. Moritz never melted.
The crew
The people who make the real one melt and return are a small crew, roughly fifteen of them.
The operator describes them as South Tyrolean track workers. When the Swiss newspaper NZZ visited in December 2023, it found a building crew of fourteen men. All of them came from Naturns, a village in the Vinschgau valley. There was a fifteenth man with them, the newspaper added: the cook. He came from Naturns too.
South Tyrol is the German-speaking corner of northern Italy. Naturns sits below the mountains on the Italian side, a long drive from St. Moritz. One worker told the newspaper that the trip home takes two and a half hours, over the Ofen Pass.
At home, they do other work. The newspaper listed masons, carpenters, road builders, farmers and alpine herders. A South Tyrolean magazine, BARFUSS, added forestry and building work.
One of the crew told the magazine a story about the early days. Swiss workers, he said, used to help with the build too. They gave up after a few days.
That mixture matters. A bobsleigh wall made of snow is shaped much like a wall made of plaster. Several of the builders are masons by trade, and you can hear it in the way they describe the work.
The tradition is long. Men from Naturns have been making this trip for decades. The most senior worker NZZ met had come every winter since 1981.
The newspaper also met one of the youngest. He compared the work to the army.
Above the crew is a local coordinator. Since 1990, the operator says, the construction has been the responsibility of Christian Brantschen, from Celerina, the village at the bottom of the run.
For thirty years, NZZ reported, his own construction firm built the run under contract. He has since sold the firm, but he still coordinates the work. He has also been the mayor of Celerina for more than twenty years. And his father helped to run this same track at the Olympics of 1948.
He was not the first. Before him, from 1985, a man named Louis Prantl was in charge. And before that, from the beginning until the early 1980s, the run was built by a local family, the Angelinis, over three generations.
So for well over a century, the knowledge of how to build this track has been held by very few people, passed from one to the next.
Running the whole operation today is a managing director, Gregor Stähli. He is a former skeleton racer, three times a world champion. We will hear from him again, because when the weather turns against the track, he is the one who has to explain it.
The build
The build begins with waiting.
From the middle of November, the operator says, the management watches for the first snow and the first real cold. The crew arrives towards the end of the month.
Then they have about three weeks. Reports vary a little, from two and a half weeks to nearly four, depending on the year and the weather. The aim is always the same: a finished run around Christmas.
For the 2026 to 2027 season, the announced opening date is the twenty-second of December.
The run does not always open on the day it means to. In December 2023, the local paper reported, the weather pushed the opening back more than once. The run opened on the twenty-sixth.
The first problem is the snow itself. Natural snow, fresh from the sky, is light and full of air. That is lovely for skiing and terrible for building a wall that a four-man bobsleigh will slam into at speed.
So, for years now, much of the snow has been made on purpose. In a thin December, Swiss television reported in 2015, snow was made at three places between St. Moritz and Celerina and spread along the whole course.
When NZZ visited in December 2023, lorries had tipped dozens of loads of artificial snow onto a golf course. It belonged to the Kulm Hotel, at the centre of the winter tourism story in the seventh episode.
The builders prefer machine snow. Machine-made snow, they told NZZ, is tougher. It soaks up water well. Worked properly, it becomes as compact as concrete. Fresh natural snow, by comparison, is porous.
One of them put it simply to a German radio reporter. The run, he said, is much more stable with artificial snow. It is just harder to shovel and cut.
There is a reason for the difference, and it lies in the shape of the grains. A snowflake grows in a cloud as a branched crystal, and a pile of them is mostly air. A snow gun works the other way round. It sprays water into the cold with compressed air, and each droplet freezes into a small, dense pellet. Two scientists who study mountain snow put it this way in 2026. Machine snow begins and ends its life as an ice pellet, with a thin film of water around it. That makes it easy to shape. Once frozen, it hardens in place.
It is, in other words, the material a plasterer would choose.
But snow machines need cold too. A snow gun makes nothing on a mild night.
In November 2022, the local paper, the Engadiner Post, ran a story under a headline that translates as “the constant look at the thermometer”. The season was due to open on the twenty-third of December. To make that date, the snow machines had to start by the twenty-third of November at the latest. Snow was to be made in the finish curve, and at depots along the line. And Stähli said what he was hoping for. Minus ten degrees, he said, would be ideal.
Before snowmaking, the crew depended entirely on the sky. In the poor winter of 1988 to 1989, there was so little snow that it had to be trucked in. It came by lorry from three mountain passes: the Albula, the Bernina and the Julier.
The quantities are large. The operator now says a build uses about fifteen thousand cubic metres of snow. And about ten thousand cubic metres of water. That is ten million litres, poured onto a hillside, a hose at a time.
The order of work is fixed. The operator says construction starts every year at Sunny Corner, partway down the course. From there, the crew works down towards the finish. The top section, from the start down to Sunny Corner, comes last.
The method, as reporters have described it, goes like this.
A wheel loader roughs out the line first, pushing the snow into a rough shape. Lorries and a tracked loader bring and pile more. But the operator is clear on one point. The shovelling, it says, is still done by hand.
A tipper dumps its load. One man waters it with the hose. The others stack the wet slush into a wall, shape it, and smooth it. They keep going, BARFUSS wrote, until the surface is as smooth as a mirror.
The tools are humble. Shovels, bright orange ones in the photographs. A measuring staff. A mason’s trowel. A wooden lath, drawn along the wall like a plasterer’s float. And the red fire hose.
In places, the snow walls are metres thick.
It is heavy work. NZZ reckoned that a shovelful weighs about ten kilos. Their reporter guessed that each man makes more than a thousand shovel movements in a day.
In 2016, BARFUSS described eight-hour days, seven days a week, until the run was finished. Their one day off was Christmas Day.
And one more thing goes into the run, or rather, does not. The operator says no chemicals are used. Snow, water and cold. That is the recipe.
No printed plan
So far, this sounds like a very large building site. Machines, lorries, volumes of snow, a fixed order of work.
But here is the detail that surprised the reporters who watched.
There is no printed plan.
NZZ put it directly. There is no printed construction plan. A great deal is done by eye. Trees and hydrants serve as reference points.
BARFUSS described the same thing from the crew’s side. The hardest part, a worker told the magazine, is laying out the base line, because there are so few fixed points. A tree stump here. An earth bank there. Then a wooden lath, rammed into the snow as a marker.
The most important tool, he said, is a trained eye. The plan, the magazine wrote, exists only in their heads.
That needs a little care. It does not mean nothing is measured. A measuring staff is one of their tools. And a man who had been track chief for twenty-six years told German radio that the measurements are passed on, year after year, by the workers responsible for each corner.
What it means is that the knowledge lives in people, and in the ground, more than on paper.
The crew has its own hierarchy. The longest-serving builders set the pace and take the hardest corners. Only they, the newspaper found, carry in their heads how those walls must be built. On NZZ’s visit, the newest member held the hose, and learned by watching.
Once the rough build is finished, each worker is given a stretch of track to finish. From then on, that stretch is theirs.
And still, the run is never exactly the same. The former track chief said it has a few quirks every year, depending on how much snow there is. That, he said, makes the first test runs always very exciting.
The crew test their own work, too. One of them told BARFUSS that he rides down the run in a bob once a year, to see how the track rides. Another told NZZ that he used to slide down it himself to check it. He does not anymore. Back then, he said, he was young and stupid.
Somebody has to take the first proper runs. He said he was the first to slide down the finished run. The managing director, Gregor Stähli, still tests the run himself, head first, on a skeleton sled. NZZ noted that he was fifty-five at the time.
Compare that with a track in a computer game.
Slidensa, the game this podcast grew out of, has one track so far. It is Igls, near Innsbruck, in Austria. And in the game, that track is a file.
The file has one row for every metre of the run. About fifteen hundred and fifty rows. Each row gives a position, the bank of the ice, and the width of the channel. Every time you race, the game reads the same rows in exactly the same way.
In St. Moritz, the plan lives in the hillside and in the crew’s working knowledge, and it is rebuilt by hand every winter. In a game, the track is nothing but its plan.
The track
So what do they build?
The finished run is one thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two metres long, from the start to the finish. It has nineteen named corners. And the operator gives its drop as a hundred and thirty metres, measured from the start down to the lowest point of the course.
The names are part of the place. Sunny Corner, the sunniest part of the run. The Horse-Shoe. Shamrock. Telephone. Devil’s Dyke. Bridge. Martineau. Some honour people from the run’s long history. Listeners to the ninth episode already know three of them, from the race of 1928.
The lore of the run explains a few of the others. Telephone, because a telephone stood there on the first run. Bridge, because the railway bridge comes into view after it. Nash-Dixon remembers two Britons, Tony Nash and Robin Dixon, the Olympic two-man champions of 1964. The names were given by the British founders, and the crew from South Tyrol builds them again every winter.
The Horse-Shoe is the showpiece. NZZ called it exactly that. It is a tight, high turn, where crews feel roughly five times their body weight pressing them into the sled.
Its ice wall stands about four metres high, BARFUSS reported. A four-man bob weighs around six hundred and thirty kilos with its crew. It arrives here at about a hundred kilometres an hour.
It is also one of the coldest places on the course. Until the middle of February, NZZ reported, practically no sunlight reaches it at all.
Race bobs can approach a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. Visitors can ride it too, as passengers in a four-man bob, between a professional pilot and a brakeman. The operator says the ride lasts about seventy-five seconds. Guest bobs reach up to a hundred and thirty-five kilometres an hour. Passengers must be at least sixteen. A seat costs two hundred and sixty-nine francs.
The guest bob has carried some famous passengers. NZZ mentioned one: the Brazilian footballer Ronaldo.
The run starts in St. Moritz and ends near Celerina. For the whole season, the road between them is closed to private traffic.
The season
Once the run opens, the building is not over. It simply changes shape.
Each worker keeps a section until the last run in early March. In the season, BARFUSS reported, the crew patrol the run for up to twelve hours a day. And each day has the same rhythm.
Early in the morning, the magazine wrote, they spray the ice wall. The operator’s winter hours run from seven in the morning to four in the afternoon, and races and training take place by day.
In the afternoon, after the run closes, the repairs begin.
The steel runners of the sleds cut grooves into the ice. The workers fill the damage with ice shavings and smooth it over. Cracks are patched with the hose. NZZ compared it to repairing their plaster. By one account, the afternoon repairs take up to four hours for each section.
A section is not handed over lightly. When a worker takes a day off, the newspaper found, he checks first that his stand-in can spray. An experienced sprayer, in his words.
The sun is a constant opponent. Big shade sails are stretched over parts of the run to protect the ice. As spring approaches, the sails struggle to do their job. At the end of the season, they come down.
They watch the public, too. Spectators lean over the walls. On other tracks, the newspaper noted, phones have fallen into the channel.
The cold has its own dangers. In a hard frost, NZZ reported, the hose has to be turned off in time, or it bursts. The temperature here has fallen as low as minus thirty-nine.
And yet one worker told the newspaper that the warmth bothers him more than the cold.
You can understand why. Cold is the material. Warmth is the enemy.
The eighth episode explained why ice is slippery at all. Here, the relevant science is practical: water, timing, temperature, and a century of watching the surface.
There is even a sweet spot. A few degrees below zero, a worker told BARFUSS, a thin film of water on the ice is good for the athletes. In milder weather, a driver told German radio, the same water made the ice slippery.
The run carries a lot. Monobob, two-man and four-man bobsleigh. Para bobsleigh. Skeleton, and luge. Children have a small practice run of their own beside it. And then there are the guest rides, which fill the run with visitors who want to feel the Horse-Shoe for themselves.
It carries history, too. The Winter Olympics came here twice: first in 1928, and again in 1948. The ninth episode told the first of those races. In 2020, the Youth Olympic Games held their sliding events here. The run has hosted more than twenty world championships, and World Cup races most Januaries.
In 2023, the world championships came back. The Engadiner Post noted that they fell in the federation’s hundredth year. A sport now raced almost entirely on refrigerated concrete marked its centenary on a track made of snow.
Stähli likes to point out that February is the run’s best month. Over the past decade, he told NZZ, he could count on one hand the February days the run had to close because of heat. He is, of course, the person whose job is to make the track’s case.
Every one of those races was held on a track that had been built a few weeks earlier, by hand.
And then, every year, the season ends.
The last runs come in early March. In 2026, the run closed on the seventh of March. The dismantling starts straight away. The shade sails come down, and the spring sun does the rest.
For a few weeks, the operator warns walkers, what is left along the line is icy and unmaintained. Then the walls slump, the corners soften, and the water finds its way down to the Inn.
By early summer, there is only the hillside again, with its shelves and hollows, waiting for November.
Pressures
All of this depends on one thing: cold, in the right amount, at the right time.
In 2022, Stähli was asked by the local paper, the Engadiner Post, what happens if it stays warm.
There is no plan B, he said. And then, laughing, he added that they can hardly run races on a water track.
On the twenty-sixth of January 2025, the warmth won.
St. Moritz was hosting a World Cup weekend. But the night before, the temperature did not drop far enough below zero for the track to freeze. The IBSF cancelled the two-woman and four-man races. Earlier that month, warm weather had already cancelled a training session and moved a women’s monobob race back by two weeks.
And the weather does not only work against natural ice. A year later, in January 2026, a skeleton World Cup race was due at Winterberg, in Germany, on a refrigerated track. The weather there forced a cancellation. St. Moritz took the race over at short notice, and held it.
Later that month, the Engadiner Post reported, the para bobsleigh world championships were raced here in the best of conditions.
The cancellations of 2025 were not typical. Swiss television reported that in the 2024 to 2025 season, the run was unusable on only two days, and that earlier winters had been worse. The operator says guest rides are usually cancelled on two or three days a season at most.
But the direction worries people. Back in 2009, Christian Brantschen was calmer. We are at eighteen hundred metres above sea level, he told the Swiss news service swissinfo. That, he said, will take a while yet.
Seven winters later, the valley had a February it did not expect. In 2016, the same news service reported temperatures of eight or nine degrees in St. Moritz. The horse races on the frozen lake, White Turf, were cancelled, for the first time since 1986. The problem was not thin ice. It was soft snow on top of the ice, into which a horse’s legs could sink. A hotel manager told the reporter that he thought the climate was heating up.
That winter, the bob run still held its World Cup round. The British team’s performance director said that sliding on it was like running on velvet. The natural surface, the report noted, kept the teams guessing: as the snow changed, they changed their equipment.
The question came to a head in a very public way before the 2026 Winter Olympics, in Milan and Cortina.
Cortina’s old track needed a complete rebuild, and the project stumbled. In the summer of 2023, the tender for the work closed without a single bid. In October, the Italian organisers said the government was considering an existing track abroad instead.
Stähli had seen it coming. A year earlier, he had told the local paper that the run had already told the federation’s congress it was ready to look at hosting the races.
Six countries offered tracks, the luge federation said at the time. St. Moritz was one of them. According to the Engadiner Post, the canton and both host villages agreed in principle, and a dossier was ready.
By the middle of October, the Swiss paper Blick was naming three candidates. St. Moritz. Igls, near Innsbruck. And La Plagne, in France, the track of the 1992 Games.
Stähli made the case in NZZ. A natural track, he argued, is more sustainable than any artificial one. And an artificial track, he said, costs at least seventy-five million francs just to build.
The Italian press, as reported in Switzerland, leaned the same way. In October, Blick cited the newspaper La Repubblica. The tendency, it said, was towards St. Moritz, partly on ecological grounds, because the cooling plant at Igls runs on ammonia. In December, it cited La Stampa: the International Olympic Committee wanted the sliding events in the Engadine. A decision, Blick wrote, was expected that week.
None of this was an IOC statement, and none was ever made.
The Swiss press also reported the doubts. The loudest came from Germany. The general secretary of the German federation, Thomas Schwab, asked publicly for Igls instead. A run that opens around Christmas, the Germans said, leaves too little training time before a February Games. That was a risk they did not want.
Some feared the February weather itself. One Swiss bobsleigh pilot, Melanie Hasler, worried aloud that Olympic races might have to be held in the middle of the night, when it was cold enough. And an Olympic event would need temporary lighting, stands and media facilities.
In the end, the Italian side chose to build. The contract for a new Cortina track was awarded at the end of January 2024. The Engadiner Post put the price at about eighty-two million euros.
At the signing, the Italian economy minister, Giancarlo Giorgetti, was quoted saying that he was beginning to regret having promoted the Games at all. One party in the governing coalition claimed the credit for stopping what it called a backdoor deal to hold some of the races in St. Moritz.
The Engadiner Post reported an IOC remark, passed on by Italian television: no track had ever been built in so short a time. The paper’s own headline read: St. Moritz probably out of the running.
The IBSF raised serious concerns about the tight timetable. The new track had to reach its pre-homologation test runs by March 2025. The International Olympic Committee required a backup plan, and Lake Placid, in the United States, became it.
When that was confirmed, in January 2025, Blick wrote that the last tiny chance of Olympic racing in St. Moritz had gone out. The local paper had already given its verdict on the whole affair, in an editorial under a two-word headline. In English: a nonsense.
Cortina’s new track was finished in time. It passed its test runs in March 2025 and was formally approved that November. The 2026 sliding events were held there.
The Olympia Bobrun did not stage Olympic sliding for a third time. But it appears in Switzerland’s plans for 2038. In 2025, Swiss television looked at what that would take. For an Olympics, it said, the track would have to work for several weeks at a time, and adjustments would be unavoidable. Rising temperatures, it said, were a threat.
Same racecourse?
So, back to the question. Is it the same track every year?
The operator’s own answer is careful. Every corner, it says, is precisely fitted into the terrain. And yet there may be minimal changes to the course from year to year.
The line itself has barely moved. NZZ wrote that the route has not changed much since the beginning. Writing in 2012, the international luge federation said it had changed very little in a hundred years.
There have been deliberate changes, of course. Corners were raised after serious accidents in the middle of the twentieth century. The lower part was reshaped more than once. When speeds reached a hundred and forty-five kilometres an hour, the bobsleigh club says, the final section was altered in 2002.
But the shape of each winter’s ice is new. And that has a consequence that most sports would find very strange.
NZZ explained it. Because the run differs slightly from winter to winter, no permanent track record is awarded. Athletes can only set the best time of the season.
You can see this convention in the federation’s own reports.
In January 2024, the IBSF reported a four-man track record at St. Moritz. The time was one minute, four point two eight seconds. In the body of the same report, it called that time the best of the season.
In January 2025, it reported a new track record. One minute, four point three one.
In January 2026, another track record. One minute, four point four seven.
The skeleton race that St. Moritz took over from Winterberg that month ended the same way. The federation reported a track record: one minute, seven point three nine. It was set on ice that had existed for a matter of weeks.
Each time was slower than the last. Read together, the reports appear to begin a new record book with each winter’s rebuilt course. That matches the newspaper’s account: there is no all-winters record, only the best on that season’s track.
So a record here makes a smaller, truer claim. On this ice, this winter, nobody went faster.
The athletes know this. They arrive each January at a track whose line they have learned, and whose ice they have not. The corners are where they were. Their shape is a few weeks old.
Our game made the opposite choice.
In it, for a given sled and physics version, the simulation uses the same ice on every run. The same friction. No temperature, no weather, no wear. Within that version, a best time stays a best time, and a recorded run can be replayed and checked against it.
The real track never promises identical conditions. The game deliberately does.
The 1987 game from the second episode played it the other way round. Its tracks never changed, but after each event it rolled a new day’s weather.
And St. Moritz is coming to Slidensa. When it does, the game will face the question this run has answered every winter for more than a century.
Which winter’s track?
What survives, what melts
So how can a track that melts every spring be rebuilt as the same racecourse every winter?
Not by memory alone.
What survives the summer is the ground: shelves and hollows shaped by a century of the same line. A start house and a finish. Stone and timber in a famous corner. Trees, hydrants and stumps that someone, long ago, decided to steer by.
And people. A crew from one valley in South Tyrol. The measurements for each corner. And the knowledge of how a wall of snow should lean, passed from the senior builders to the newcomers.
What melts is the ice. And with it, in a sense, every time that was set on it.
It is the same racecourse. It is never quite the same track.
When late November comes, the crew makes the drive over the mountains again. Lorries tip snow beside the line, and one member takes up the fire hose.
They will start in the middle, at Sunny Corner.
Sources, a transcript and the project are at slidensa.com.
Slidensa is an independent game about bobsleigh, luge and skeleton.