CORTINA D’AMPEZZO, Italy — In Cortina’s main square, an elegant, translucent statue clutching a Dior handbag and skis looks like ice — until you touch it and realize it’s plastic. The sculpture captures the contradiction at the heart of these Winter Games: an ornate display meant to celebrate a mountain winter that is steadily vanishing.
Climate change has thinned natural snowfall in the Dolomites, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and the white runs that remain increasingly rely on artificial snow. Ski lifts now climb exposed rock and brown grass; the pistes are strips of technogenic snow. Milan-Cortina 2026 was pitched on a pledge of sustainability and of protecting fragile mountain ecosystems. Environmentalists say the reality is different: old-growth forests felled for new infrastructure, Alpine rivers tapped to feed snow cannons, and a wave of construction that is urbanizing a landscape already strained by heavy tourism.
Luigi Casanova, 70, director of local group Mountain Wilderness, surveys a town dotted with more than 20 cranes and calls Cortina “the Queen of Cement.” He stands beside a new bobsled track that snakes down the mountainside where hundreds of ancient larch trees were cut to make way for the concrete run. “These are trees that survived two world wars,” Casanova says. He and others remember a dramatic scene when cellist Mario Brunello played on a stool near the clearing while the larches crashed down behind him.
The International Olympic Committee originally suggested hosting sliding events in Innsbruck, Austria, where an existing track stands. But Matteo Salvini, Italy’s deputy prime minister and minister of transport and infrastructure, insisted the events 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 Olympics.
Environmental organizations have pushed back. Eight groups, including WWF Italia, said they found “no evidence to certify the environmental sustainability” of the projects promised in Italy’s 2019 bid. Among the concerns is water use for snowmaking: the Games are estimated to require 84.8 million cubic feet of water — the equivalent of 380 Olympic swimming pools — drawn from Alpine rivers and streams. Fabio Tullio, an activist with Open Olympics 2026, points out a black pipe on the Boite River where water is pumped up to slopes; official statements say the intake draws about 25 gallons per second. Nearby, generators hum and diesel fumes hang in the air.
Beyond water, critics cite a lack of comprehensive studies. Publicly available documents show no full environmental assessment was completed for more than 60 percent of roughly 98 projects approved for the Games. “This is the great omission and the biggest concern,” Tullio says, warning that the region could suffer a negative, long-term legacy.
Simico, the government company overseeing Olympic infrastructure, did not respond to requests about the sustainability claims. The organizers argue the Games reuse many existing sports venues and that new roads, car parks and facilities built — some of which will only be completed years after the Games — will benefit residents. But locals are divided.
Roberta Zanna, leader of the opposition in Cortina’s municipal council, says residents did not ask for this level of development. At a wood-paneled café she worries the projects will further damage the environment and “we will really lose our identity.” When Cortina last hosted the Winter Olympics in 1956, the impact was different: visitors arrived largely by train, little new paving was required, and local facilities bolstered the economy without the same scale of modern infrastructure. Back then, one skating event was held on a frozen lake; snow fell naturally from the sky.
Today, tourism has already strained the Dolomites. Popular sites promoted by social media influencers attract crowds that overwhelm once-quiet trails. Lake Sorapis, a turquoise basin ringed by peaks, can see more than 2,000 visitors in a single high-season day, the mayor has said. The influx of people arrives mainly by car, adding to traffic and pressure on local services.
The visual contrast between alpine tradition and commercialization is stark in the town center, where walkers pass historic hotels and luxury storefronts beneath cranes and bannered construction sites. Sponsors and private investments are visible on the slopes: a Prada logo adorns a chairlift pylon over thin snow cover, signaling the role of high-end branding in funding infrastructure. Activists see that as a sign of priorities — development and visibility over conservation.
The bobsled track has been a particular flashpoint. It was built close to the town through remnants of ancient forest, with opponents saying the cut of old larch is irreversible. Supporters argue the track brings events and attention to Italy and will create facilities for sport. But for opponents, the symbolic and ecological losses — centuries-old trees, disrupted habitats and new concrete in a fragile landscape — outweigh the promised benefits.
Many of the almost 100 authorized projects are small upgrades or refurbishments, but together they represent a significant transformation: roads, parking lots, new and rebuilt venues, and urban improvements. Simico says some projects will improve life for residents. Detractors fear those improvements primarily serve visitors and future tourism growth rather than the existing community.
Scientific studies into the cumulative effects of these works on biodiversity, hydrology and alpine ecology are limited. Where assessments exist, activists argue they are incomplete or fail to account for long-term climate impacts. The concern is that the combined effects of construction, increased visitor numbers, and intensified snowmaking could leave a permanent, harmful imprint on the Dolomites.
Locals recall a simpler era of alpine tourism. Casanova and Zanna both point to the 1956 Games as a model rooted in lower-impact infrastructure and rail access that minimized road building and paving. Now, with warmer winters and uncertain snowfall, the choices are different: invest in heavy infrastructure and artificial snow systems, or shift to models that accept reduced skiing and focus on protecting mountain ecosystems.
As the opening ceremony approaches, the image of the plastic “ice” statue remains apt: a flashy symbol of winter packaged for visitors while the real environment — the soil, ancient trees, rivers and native snow — is altered to sustain that image. Whether the Games will leave a sustainable legacy or a scarred landscape depends on decisions already made and the many projects still ongoing. For activists and many residents, the evidence so far points toward environmental cost rather than conservation.