The chainsaws were a dead giveaway. 

Jim Carter, the new general manager at Black Mountain of Maine, wasn’t sure what he’d find as he wandered toward the woods of his Rumford, ME, ski area, but spotting the same green Tundra in his lot again—and in August no less—had set off alarm bells. Through thick summer heat, Carter hiked up from the base lodge in search of answers. Somewhere on the side of the mountain, they almost ran into him.

Jeff Marcoux and his father Gerry had spent the afternoon dreaming of winter. For the last few days, they’d thinned trees and cleared deadfall near an area known as the Woods Trail, slicing pathways that, once the snow fell, would transform into private powder stashes. It wasn’t a legal practice per say, but one they’d operated undetected for a few years now. Plus, the risk seemed worth the reward—that is, until they stepped out of the forest and right into Carter’s sight line, incriminating tools in tow…

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