Helicopter view of Grand Targhee ski resort
In 2010 an autistic postal worker named Eddie from Queens, New York, traveled to Wyoming with his ski group. A perfect storm of white-out conditions, an unmarked resort boundary, multiple miscommunications, and Search and Rescue infighting resulted in Eddie's death.
Eddie was the adult son of my student, Ed Fitzgerald Sr. Ed came to his clarinet lesson one day, very sad. My son died. Over the ensuing weeks I learned more about what had happened, and became more and more outraged at all the mistakes that were made in connection with this tragedy.
The Fitzgerald family had won their wrongful death lawsuit, but Ed was not satisfied. He didn't care about the money. He wanted the world to know what had happened to Eddie, so it would not happen to anyone else.
He wanted a book.
I was honored that Ed would think to ask me to write a book about the dramatic and tragic final hours of his only son. The fact that he added "you're the only writer I know" did not deter me.
A young Eddie with his dad, Ed Sr., and “Rags”
I'm not a downhill skier, but I do have a lot of experience in backcountry Nordic skiing. Whatever I didn't know about downhill I looked up on the Internet. Still, I had never written a full length book and I was afraid. Fear is always a great reason to plunge ahead! Basically, my thinking was that writing this book would be so challenging that if I can write this, I can write anything.
As I was a full-time musician then, and only a part-time writer, I needed to come up with a price that would make it worth it to me to write the book. Ed had given me two HUGE notebooks filled with the depositions from the wrongful death lawsuit he had brought against the ski resort. Plus, the incident had occurred in Wyoming, which was rather far from where I lived in Brooklyn, and I knew I would have to go there in person to investigate the area, and interview any people involved in the incident that I could locate.
I asked for $15,000. Ed agreed. I got to work.
Ed made only one request. It pertained to the book title, which was to be "Death in the Tetons." I added a subtitle: "Eddie 'Cola' Fitzgerald's Last 24 Hours." While it would be supplemented by actual testimonies from the depositions, as well as some background material on Eddie (who had been diagnosed as a 'borderline moron' in childhood but went on to complete a college degree) the plot would focus on what happened in the final hours of his life.
The roman-a-clef approach allowed me to specify all the characters and the roles they played in Eddie's death without using their real names. Also I published the book under a pseudonym. I didn't want to get sued.
First I needed to make a timeline. Assembling the timeline entailed analyzing all the legal testimonies and charting the events, which were slightly different from each person's perspective. It was very tricky. Since most of the action takes place in a 24 hour period, the timing needed to be very precise.
Page 2 of the 14 page timeline
• What time was it when Eddie's roommate at the hotel realized Eddie's skis weren't there, and neither was Eddie?
• What time did the resort ski patrol team, having dinner, receive the call about a missing person?
• When did the young ski patroller show the patrol dispatcher the map displaying the fall line of the mountain that would lead directly to South Leigh Creek?
• Did Eddie's best friend Mario break his leg before or after Eddie skied past the boundary?
• How much time passed before the 911 dispatcher and the Idaho SAR team leader realized Eddie was not going to call back with more information on his whereabouts?
Then there was Eddie himself, whom I could no longer interview. I had to imagine his thoughts when he realized he was lost, then recreate his thoughts and actions as he became more and more disoriented, lost his glasses (he was found without them) and especially when hypothermia set in after he fell into the creek.
"Fred, you need to call someone in Eddie's family to tell them what's going on," said Ted.
"Oh, geez. Oh, geez," said Fred. "Who am I gonna call? I guess his mother, right? He lives downstairs from her in the basement apartment. Jesus Christ, what am I gonna say?"
"Do you have her phone number?" asked Ted.
"Uh, I should have it. I should have it. Yeah. It should be on the emergency contact list. Yeah." Fred reached for the plastic cup filled with ice and Scotch. He took a sip and placed the cup back on the table. "Ted. I can't call her. I can't do it. I'm already a nervous wreck with Mario and all." He took another drink. "Ted, do you think you could call her? 'Cause you were already on the phone with the Search and Rescue people, you know more than I do about what they said. You could talk to his mom better than I could."
Ted groaned. "Okay. All right, I'll call her. Can you go find the number now, because it's already after 1 in the morning back home."
The ski group members from Long Island wouldn't talk to me, so I had to go by their depositions, and second-hand information, such as from the owner of the hotel they had stayed in.
The time came when I needed to make the trip to Wyoming and investigate the scene of the incident. Ed paid for that. Note-taking began the moment I landed in the Jackson Hole Airport.
The Jackson Hole Airport is surprisingly well-equipped for its size. The waiting area features comfortable chairs situated around a large, modern, gas fireplace. There is a restaurant and several tourist shops. Wood beams, rustic wood paneling and stone are the primary design elements, in keeping with the Nouveau West theme so prevalent in Jackson Hole. The tony ambience of the place is in stark contrast to the actual facilities, which include exactly one tiny luggage belt. The time it takes for the belt to make a complete loop would be barely enough to nuke your cup of coffee in the microwave.
A long row of stunning nature photography stretches across the back wall of the room. Rocky Mountain sunrises and sunsets; a bison's head emerging from a swirling snowscape laden with ice crystals. Wolves. A close-up of a mama bear with two cubs. Despite the creature comforts of the airport lounge, there's no mistaking the fact that this is the West, still wild after all these years.
Eddie (far right) with Long Island Ski Group pals
It was January (I wanted to be there at the same time of year the incident took place) and it was snowing. First destination was the car rental place.
"Where ya headed?" the clerk asked. I told him I was going to Jackson Hole, and to Grand Targhee.
"Oh," he says, "forget about a compact car. You're gonna need a SUV." I rented some huge Toyota SUV, it seated like, ten passengers. But later on, driving over the Teton Pass in the snow, I was very glad I had it. Being from Connecticut I'm no stranger to driving in the snow, but this was on another level. After I made one round trip to the Grand Targhee ski resort, I said "I'm never doing this again."
As it turned out, I drove over the Teton Pass twice a day, every day, for a week. I had to. My investigation took place largely at Grand Targhee–the Ski Patrol Office, the restaurant, the First Aid Room, the ski trails, the bar, etc. All of these would need to be described in detail in the book.
The reporter who had broken the story in the local paper about the missing rope boundary that caused Eddie to ski out-of-bounds had contacted me when I was still in New York. He offered to take me to the place where Eddie's body had been found. Little did I know that this would involve a hair-raising ride through the dense woods of South Leigh Canyon on the back of a snowmobile!
Another reconnaissance mission was scoping out the house of the Wyoming SAR leader. And meeting with the famous lawyer who had represented the Fitzgerald family in the lawsuit. And driving across the state line of Idaho and Wyoming, to get a feel for the great difference between the two States. And going to the ski resort at Jackson Hole, where the group had skied prior to Grand Targhee. I stayed at the same hotel the ski group had stayed at, the Parkway Inn, where I interviewed the owner about that fateful night.
Driving over the Teton Pass yet again, I spotted a couple of hitchhikers. A common practice is for local skiers to hitch a ride to the top of the mountain so they can ski down the back trails, without entering (and paying for) the resort. I picked up these two guys with all their equipment. In explaining to them what I was doing there, one of them revealed that he had been the ER nurse on duty when Mario had been brought in with a broken leg! This was an incredible streak of luck for me, as the guy told me everything that had happened with Mario. You see, Mario was Eddie’s best friend. He was the only one in the ski group who would have noticed that Eddie was missing. But Mario had been in the hospital on massive amounts of painkillers when Eddie, lost on the mountain, tried to phone him. The call went unanswered.
I got back to New York and resumed the writing of my creative non-fiction novel Death in the Tetons: Eddie “Cola” Fitzgerald’s Last 24 Hours, now armed with all the additional information I had gathered on my Wyoming trip. During this time my friend Bev Getz (Stan's daughter) and I decided to take a road trip to visit a psychic we had heard about who lived in Connecticut. Each of us was to have a session with her. Basically, the medium brings in different spirits whom you ask for, or who want to talk to you.
I began my session talking with the usual suspects (Mom, Dad, etc.) At one point the medium says to me "There's someone here named Edward." (Spirits always use their formal names, never nicknames.) I said “bring him in.” She said, "Edward wants to know if he's going to be embarrassed by the book you're writing about him."
I was flabbergasted. Half of me believed in this psychic stuff, and the other half thought it was utter horseshit. But this woman had no idea I was writing a book, much less what it was about! Here was Eddie himself, whose thoughts I had imagined, whose dangerous journey through the snowy wilderness I was endeavoring to capture in words, here he was, in person–sort of.
I started to cry. Through my tears I explained to Eddie that everyone thought he was a hero for trying to get out of his predicament. That there was nothing in the book he need be embarrassed about.
Eddie told me, through the medium, that after he fell in the creek and got wet, he extricated himself but fell down in the snow as he was walking along the bank. He said "I could have hung on for longer....but I was so tired...I gave up. Maybe I shouldn't have given up."
I did not tell any of this to Eddie's father.
Eddie (far right) with LISG pals aprés ski
All in all it’s a work I'm quite proud of. It's a full-length novel based on a true story, complete with pertinent legal testimony, photos, and a glossary of ski terms.
Ed, having a background in advertising, had told me he would promote the book. But as he was in his eighties at the time, and the book subject hitting so close to home, I think it was too much for him, and he never did promote it. It really is quite a gripping tale, and it's all true. It would make a great film. Johnny Depp could play Eddie. I don't know if he skies, but his stunt double would be wearing ski clothes and goggles so that wouldn't be a problem.
It took me three years to write this book. But I think it took ten years off my life.
I’m indebted to my editor, Franny Hogg Lochow, who enabled me to bring this undertaking to a successful conclusion. The book was published in 2014.
It was quite dark now. It was quiet. The sound of his awkward steps through the deep snow, his skis dragging behind him, seemed like the loudest thing he'd ever heard. It was odd to be alone like this, at night, in the woods. Even the times he had gone camping with Fred, there were always people around. He was sure he must be near a road, it was just too dark to see. He had skied the fall line down the mountain, he couldn't imagine how he had gotten lost, why there were no signs, no traverse leading back to the base of the ski resort. This had never happened to him in his life, and he had skied all over Europe and North America. But he couldn't think about that now. The fact was, he was hopelessly lost and it was freezing out. He'd been trying his phone since 4:00 in the afternoon; it had worn itself out looking for a signal and was almost out of power when one bar began to flicker at the top of the screen. Now it was 7:30 and he had made it down to this stream, where water peeked out from underneath snow bridges and fallen trees. The mountains loomed above him; he felt their presence even without looking, silent sentinels of the valley below.
He had already reached the dispatcher twice, briefly, before being cut off. Surely they could track his signal and figure out where he was. And the ski group must have noticed his absence by this time and alerted someone. They were probably out looking for him right now. He looked up as if to pray for more bars. The stars were out. The sky had cleared at last, and it wasn't snowing anymore, but he shivered in the January night as he stood, gloveless, pressing the three numbers again.
"Nine one one. Where is your emergency?"
"This is Edward. Do you know where I am?"
"Uh, Edward."
"Yes."
"I need you to tell me what kind of GPS unit you have. Do you know, is it one that gives you a latitude longitude, or is it a beacon or is it a UTM?"
Eddie shut his eyes tight. He had told them his phone had a GPS, but he had never used it. He didn't know what a beacon or a UTM was. He opened his eyes. "It measures latitude, I don't know."
"It measures latitude longitude?"
"Yes."
"OK. Do you have it turned on right now?"
"I don't know how it works."
"You don't know how it works? OK. Do you have it out right now?"
END OF TRANSMISSION
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Death in the Tetons: Eddie “Cola” Fitzgerald’s Last 24 Hours is available in ebook and paperback formats.
Knowing how it ends makes me sad. Yes, you are a writer.
Thinking about finishing a gig in Denver and driving back to L.A. with the 4 of us and equipment in a station wagon, driving up the pass in winter, after a snow, the road strewn with boulders and the car was a rear wheel drive. I turned the car around and turned it into a front wheel drive and drove over the mountain backwards,, down into the valley, turned the car around and was facing a herd of cows crossing the road. Amazing what one will do to play music for $250 a week. I came close to death once. It was a time of panic and thinking, this is the end.
very impressive, quite some project! our stories need to be researched and told, they're necessary to weave our existence into a meaningful whole, creating and maintaining communities. since both my uncles (in their '80s) are still alive and clear-minded, I've begun to collect our family's history, with their stories (oral tradition) and old photographs at the centre. every installment is commented upon by other relatives and the written anecdotes are now growing into a longer, multi-layered story, with a beginning (going back 250 years this year) and incorporating many, many side paths. when finished it'll be great reference for the (great-, grand)children.