![]() He played football, basketball and golf at Lindbergh High School. Boyd was an A student, though his real focus was sports. Boyd Contracting Inc., his dad's excavation company, moved earth for the Edward Jones Dome, America's Center and other large-scale St. Growing up in Valley Park, Boyd admired his father, Glenn. "He's got his father's genes," says Grenier. As he conducts his business, he maintains a level, professional manner. Boyd travels about twice a month, recently spending the bulk of his time at Vermont's Mount Snow, his latest and largest project. "I kind of flit around wherever there is a need," he says. It spans 11 ski resorts dotting the Midwest and New England, including Missouri, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Indiana, New Hampshire and Vermont. Today Boyd's company, Peak Resorts, stretches well beyond St. He's always been the hands-on type of guy he feels detached if he's not out working with the guys." The decisions he makes aren't always in line with the rest of the ski industry, but he's done his homework." Sitting inside a Sno-Cat in Vermont in mid-November, Jesse adds, "He's actually snow-making here today. "He's not afraid of failure," agrees Boyd's son Jesse, who helps manage several ski resorts. "If everyone else goes left, you can bet he'll go right." "He's not a roll-with-the-crowd guy," says Dave Grenier, general manager of Boyd's Snow Creek ski resort near Kansas City. "He plays things, from what I can tell, close to the vest," says Joe Soraghan, a local ski patroller.īut truth be told, Boyd is far from average. He comes across as down-to-earth, downplaying his accomplishments ("I'd rather be lucky than good") and listening patiently before speaking, the consummate golfer sizing up the situation. During winter, he works every day, sometimes in the office, other times in a snowplow.Įverything about Boyd is unassuming: his height (5-foot-10), his weight (185 pounds), the way he dresses (fleece pullover and jeans), his preferred movie genre (sci-fi). He spends much of his day on the phone - more than he'd like. "He always knows what's going on in all his areas and what people are thinking," says Missi Boyd, his wife and co-founder of Hidden Valley. He might flip on FOX News or check his favorite ski blogs. He reads the Post-Dispatch and Wall Street Journal. ![]() "I tell everybody, the older I get, the better I was," he jokes, though he's still a scratch player more than three decades after playing on his college team. He swings his Ping irons right-handed, but putts left-handed. The 56-year-old frequently carries a shag bag with him, hitting balls when he has the chance. Today he rarely goes, preferring tennis shoes to ski boots. He didn't try on a pair of skis until he was 27, just a few years before opening his first ski resort. Here's the thing about Boyd: He's not a skier. As they speak, sometimes fighting back tears, their words are pierced by occasional bursts of applause from outside.Īnd missing from this great spectacle, working more than 1,100 miles away: the owner of Hidden Valley, Tim Boyd. The council hears from 42 people, from a business owner to a passionate skier with cerebral palsy. ![]() The meeting lasts more than four hours, running until just past 11:30 p.m. As the meeting is called to order, a chant rises in the night air, starting with one woman and quickly spreading: "Save Hidden Valley. The mayor, dressed in a turquoise shirt, finds his seat beside the city attorney. A young entrepreneur wears a tie-dyed T-shirt that reads, "Make Snow, Not War." A pair of ski patrollers sits side by side in matching red-and-white jackets. The room fills to capacity, with more than 100 people squeezing inside. Over the course of a month and a half, the drama unfolded in newspapers, on TV and in locals' conversations - with the loudest outcry at a September 22 city council meeting. But when a dispute erupted in early September between Hidden Valley Ski Area and Wildwood, causing the resort's owner to threaten to close, skiers suddenly emerged from all over the Midwest. Louis - was a relatively quiet place, one of those dots on the map that most people blow past on I-44. Indeed, before this fall, Wildwood - a quaint city of 35,000 nestled in the hills west of St. "This is like something out of a movie," she says. Standing at one edge of the lot, 23-year-old Jane Tellini stares in amazement. A policeman guards the door to city hall, informing newcomers the room is full but they can listen to loudspeakers set up especially for the occasion. Big Heart" and "Wildwood - City of Extortion." Firefighters watch as more than 300 people filter into the parking lot.Īcross the road, teens gather around a red SUV and sell "Save Hidden Valley" T-shirts for $12. They hold makeshift signs that read, "Small Hill. They've come wearing ski caps and neon goggles, clutching snowboards and skis in the 70-degree weather.
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