Tom Key 
Discover Mt. Bachelor Community Ownership Benefits
In Central Oregon, the winter air carries a kind of clarity you don’t find everywhere—sharp and clean, amplified by the endless expanse of the Deschutes National Forest. Rising out of this wilderness is Mt. Bachelor, a volcano that, for more than six decades, has been the beating heart of skiing and snowboarding in the Pacific Northwest. To outsiders, it’s a destination. To locals, it’s a way of life. And in 2024, it became a battleground.
Powdr Corp., the Utah-based resort operator that owns Mt. Bachelor, announced its intention to sell the resort as part of a sweeping divestment strategy. The news triggered a rush of interest from ski industry giants like Vail Resorts and Alterra Mountain Company. But while billion-dollar conglomerates circled like hawks, a grassroots movement emerged with an audacious goal: to buy Mt. Bachelor and return it to local control.
This is a story about a volcano, a community, and what happens when the two intersect in the fight for identity, independence, and a mountain’s soul.
The Soul of a Volcano
Mt. Bachelor isn’t just a pile of rock and snow; it’s a geological masterpiece. Born from fiery eruptions roughly 15,000 years ago, the mountain towers 9,068 feet above sea level, its summit offering views of the Cascade Range that can feel like a glimpse into eternity. Unlike many ski resorts built on fragmented peaks, Bachelor is a textbook stratovolcano—symmetrical, massive, and singular.
Its terrain is just as distinctive. The volcanic slopes hold a peculiar kind of snow—lighter and drier than the notoriously heavy Pacific Northwest variety—thanks to the mountain’s elevation and porous lava-rock base. On good powder days, Bachelor feels like skiing on silk.
Skiers have flocked here since the late 1950s, when Bill Healy turned Bachelor Butte into a ski hill with little more than a rope tow, a vision, and the persistence of someone who truly believed in the mountain.
By the 1980s, Mt. Bachelor had become a national draw, and for kids like me, it held a particular mystique. I remember seeing ads in Ski Magazine for the Bob Beattie summer racing program held on its storied slopes. Bob Beattie, the fiery and relentless co-founder of the World Cup circuit, was a hero to anyone who dreamed of racing glory. His camps were legendary, where the best young talent in the country came to train under his watchful eye.
But what really stuck with me wasn’t just the magazine ads—it was seeing Kurt Lageshulte, a couple of years older than me, walking around Barrington, Illinois in a “Bob Beattie Junior Ski Racing” sweatshirt. To a kid like me, that sweatshirt might as well have been a gold medal. The dream of skiing Mt. Bachelor was suddenly tangible, even if it felt a world away.
Today, it’s one of the largest ski resorts in North America, with 4,300 skiable acres wrapping around the volcano like a white cape. It boasts some of the longest snow seasons in the country and remains one of the few places where you can carve turns well into May.
But the mountain’s unique allure also makes it a prime target for buyers.
The Sale Heard Around Central Oregon
When Powdr Corp. put Mt. Bachelor on the market in 2024, it was part of a larger move to recalibrate its portfolio. The company, known for its ownership of resorts like Snowbird in Utah and Killington in Vermont, faced increasing financial pressure to adapt to a changing ski industry dominated by multi-resort passes. The Epic Pass (Vail Resorts) and the Ikon Pass (Alterra) had reshaped the landscape, forcing independent resorts to compete on scale, pricing, and access.
Powdr’s decision to sell didn’t just rattle Central Oregon—it set off a chain reaction across ski communities nationwide. In Nederland, Colorado, locals scrambled to explore a bid for Eldora Mountain Resort, another Powdr property. (See Could the Town of Nederland Really Buy Eldora?) On the East Coast, a group of activists successfully purchased Killington, proving that grassroots efforts could sometimes triumph over corporate juggernauts.
A Grassroots Dream: Mount Bachelor Community Inc.
Enter Mount Bachelor Community Inc. (MBCI), the brainchild of Chris Porter and Dan Cochrane, two Deschutes County residents with deep ties to the region. Their goal? Buy the mountain and make it locally owned. It’s the kind of dream that feels both quixotic and inevitable in a place like Bend, where people’s identities are often intertwined with the outdoors.
Porter and Cochrane raised $40,000 in donations to cover the costs of forming MBCI and lobbying for their cause. But that’s a drop in the bucket compared to what they need. Industry experts estimate that acquiring Mt. Bachelor could cost upwards of $200 million—a figure that puts the enormity of their task into stark relief.
Still, the group isn’t backing down. Their strategy hinges on attracting one or two “anchor investors” with deep pockets who believe in the vision of a community-owned resort. Beyond that, they’re exploring ways to involve the broader public in future ownership. That’s where Regulation CF comes into play.
Crowdfunding a Volcano
Regulation CF, part of the JOBS Act passed under the Obama administration, allows businesses to raise up to $5 million annually from individual investors. It’s a democratizing tool that could, theoretically, bring thousands of small investors into the fold—turning Mt. Bachelor into a kind of cooperative where profits are reinvested into the mountain and its community.
MBCI hasn’t yet activated this option, citing the tight timeline for making a bid. But the potential is undeniable. Crowdfunding could turn locals, skiers, and outdoor enthusiasts from around the country into stakeholders, fostering a sense of ownership that goes beyond mere dollars.
“Imagine owning a piece of the mountain you grew up skiing on,” one Bend resident said at a recent town meeting. “It’s not just about money. It’s about connection.”
The Other Suitors: Corporate Goliaths Eye Mt. Bachelor
While MBCI pushes its vision of local ownership, corporate players are circling. Alterra Mountain Company, which already includes Mt. Bachelor on its Ikon Pass, is considered a leading contender. The Denver-based giant owns 16 resorts in the U.S., including nearby Crystal Mountain in Washington. Their strategy is clear: consolidate their portfolio and lock in passholders.
Vail Resorts, with its sprawling Epic Pass empire, is another potential bidder. Though CEO Kirsten Lynch has signaled a focus on European expansion, Vail’s history of snapping up high-profile resorts makes them hard to rule out.
Then there’s Mountain Capital Partners, a smaller player that has been aggressively expanding in the West, and Boyne Resorts, whose leadership has a deep history with the Pacific Northwest.
Each of these companies brings resources, infrastructure, and economies of scale. But for locals, the fear is that corporate ownership could strip Bachelor of its character, turning it into just another cog in a sprawling machine.
Lessons from Killington and Eldora
The Mount Bachelor Community effort isn’t without precedent. In 2024, Killington Resort and Pico Mountain in Vermont were sold to a group of local investors, led by Phill Gross and Michael Ferri. Gross, a co-founder of Adage Capital Management and a longtime homeowner in Killington, joined forces with Ferri, a partner in Valvoline franchises and a trustee at Killington Mountain School. Together, they formed an alliance to purchase the resort, emphasizing their shared commitment to preserving its unique culture and ensuring its long-term sustainability.
Unlike crowdfunding, the Killington acquisition relied on private investment from local stakeholders with deep ties to the region. It highlighted the potential for communities to reclaim control of their mountains when local passion is combined with the financial means to execute a deal. The Killington model demonstrated that even in an industry dominated by corporate consolidation, local ownership is possible—if the right players step up.
What’s Really at Stake
This isn’t just about a ski resort. It’s about a way of life. For the people of Central Oregon, Mt. Bachelor isn’t a commodity—it’s home. It’s where kids take their first runs, where friendships are forged on chairlifts, and where generations have built their lives around the rhythm of the seasons.
But as the sale looms, the question is whether that spirit can survive in a landscape increasingly dominated by conglomerates. If MBCI succeeds, it won’t just save a mountain—it will prove that communities still have a place in an industry that’s often more about profit than people.
If they fail, Mt. Bachelor could become another asset on a corporate balance sheet. And something intangible—the mountain’s soul—might be lost.
