In Cortina d’Ampezzo’s main plaza, a translucent sculpture clutching a Dior handbag and skis is meant to look like carved ice. Up close it feels like plastic. The piece has become a shorthand for the contradiction around these Winter Games: a glamorous image of alpine winter life while the region’s real mountain environment is being reshaped to preserve that image.
Warmer winters have thinned natural snowfall across the Dolomites, a UNESCO-listed mountain range, and organizers are increasingly depending on manufactured snow. Ski runs now thread over exposed rock and brown grass; where white slopes remain, they are often strips of artificial snow. Milan–Cortina 2026 was sold to voters and the international community on promises of sustainability and protection for fragile alpine habitats. On the ground, however, conservationists and many residents say the balance has tipped toward construction and commercialization: centuries-old forests felled for new venues, Alpine streams diverted to feed snow machines, and a wave of infrastructure that critics say urbanizes a once-rural landscape already strained by mass tourism.
Luigi Casanova, 70, who runs the local chapter of Mountain Wilderness, surveys a town ringed by cranes and calls Cortina “the Queen of Cement.” He points to a new bobsled track that winds down a mountainside where hundreds of ancient larch trees were removed to make way for concrete. Casanova and other opponents recall a striking protest: cellist Mario Brunello performing on a stool at the clearing as the larches crashed behind him — a visual symbol of what opponents call irreversible cultural and environmental loss.
The International Olympic Committee originally proposed holding sliding events in Innsbruck, Austria, where an existing track could have been used. Italy’s deputy prime minister and transport minister, Matteo Salvini, insisted the competitions remain on Italian soil, writing on X in February 2024 that “The Games must be Italian games” and accusing critics of trying to “sabotage” the effort.
Environmental organizations pushed back. A coalition of eight groups, including WWF Italia, reported they found “no evidence to certify the environmental sustainability” of projects pledged in Italy’s 2019 bid. One prominent worry is water for snowmaking: organizers estimate the Games will require about 84.8 million cubic feet of water — roughly equivalent to 380 Olympic swimming pools — to be pumped from rivers and streams. Activists from Open Olympics 2026 point to a black intake pipe on the Boite River that lifts water toward the slopes; official statements say the intake operates at about 25 gallons per second. Nearby, diesel generators run and exhaust hangs in the air.
Beyond water consumption, critics highlight a lack of thorough environmental review. Public documents show that more than 60 percent of the roughly 98 authorized projects lacked a completed full environmental assessment at the time of reporting. Activists call this omission the biggest cause for alarm, warning that piecemeal approvals without comprehensive study risk long-term harm to biodiversity, hydrology, and alpine ecosystems.
Simico, the state company overseeing Olympic infrastructure, did not reply to requests for details about sustainability claims. Organizers and government representatives counter that many existing venues are being reused, and that new roads, parking and facilities will deliver long-term benefits for local residents — improvements that, they say, will outlast the Games and support the community. But locals are divided: some welcome investment and jobs; others fear transformation of their town and loss of identity.
Roberta Zanna, leader of the municipal opposition in Cortina, says the scale of development was not what residents asked for. At a wood-paneled café she worries the town will lose its character. She and others point to the 1956 Winter Olympics — when Cortina last hosted — as a contrast: then, tourists largely arrived by train, little new paving was required, and events relied on natural snow. Today’s approach, they argue, is built for a warmer climate and a different tourism model.
Tourism itself is already putting pressure on the Dolomites. Popular spots promoted on social media now draw crowds that overwhelm trails and parking. Lake Sorapis, a turquoise basin ringed by peaks, can see more than 2,000 visitors in a single high-season day, according to the mayor. Most visitors arrive by car, adding traffic and strain to local services.
In the town center, heritage hotels and small shops sit beneath cranes and construction banners; luxury brands and sponsors are visibly embedded in the landscape, with a Prada logo even affixed to a chairlift pylon above scant snow. For many activists, that branding signals priorities: visibility and development to service affluent tourism rather than protection of the natural environment.
The bobsled run has become an especially potent symbol. Built near town through patches of ancient forest, opponents say cutting the larch was an irreversible loss of old-growth trees, habitat and cultural memory. Supporters counter that the track brings events, attention and sporting infrastructure to Italy, arguing benefits for athletes and the regional economy. For opponents, though, the ecological and symbolic costs outweigh the promises.
Individually many of the almost 100 projects are modest renovations or upgrades; together they represent a sizable reshaping of infrastructure — new roads, parking lots, rebuilt venues and urban improvements. Simico maintains some works will improve daily life for residents, but critics fear the changes mainly serve incoming visitors and further expand a tourism model that already pushes the Dolomites to their limits.
Scientific research into the cumulative effects of these projects is limited. Where environmental assessments exist, critics argue they often fail to account for long-term climate trends and combined impacts. The worry is that the mix of construction, more visitors and intensified snowmaking will leave a lasting, damaging imprint on a landscape that is both ecologically sensitive and culturally important.
Locals find themselves weighing two paths facing high mountains with decreasing natural snow: invest in heavy infrastructure and artificial-snow systems to preserve winter sport activity, or accept a quieter, lower-impact future that prioritizes ecosystem protection over sustaining past levels of skiing. As the opening ceremony nears, that choice is reflected in a town that trades on alpine tradition even as much of the natural fabric is altered to maintain the illusion.
The plastic “ice” statue in the square captures that tension — a polished winter image packaged for visitors while rivers, soil and ancient trees are changed to prop up the scene. Whether Milan–Cortina 2026 will be remembered as a model of sustainable hosting or as a cautionary example of environmental cost depends on decisions already taken and many projects still underway. For environmental groups and a sizable portion of residents, the evidence so far points toward lasting harm rather than the conservation legacy that was promised.