On January 8, 2025, we signed the final settlement, subject to the required restructuring approvals that were being arranged as part of the agreement. It provided for $3 million in two installments, with the first due within thirty days and the second tied to completed removal and restoration. The association was to dismantle all 109 cabins, the welcome center, the docks, access pavement, utilities, and foundations, and return the disturbed shoreline to an approved natural condition. Independent environmental specialists would inspect the site, and the final water restoration would follow a safe refill plan rather than a promised instant reversal.
The original 120-day removal timetable was replaced by an enforceable completion date of May 8, 2025, giving contractors sufficient time to work through winter conditions without leaving the site unsecured. The agreement also addressed storage of records, inspection access, insurance, and what would happen if work stopped or milestones were missed. David read every provision with me at the table in his office. The papers weighed less than the original lawsuit, but they represented more actual progress.
When I signed, I felt none of the excitement Garrett had probably expected when he threatened a $40 million claim in July. I was tired. The legal fight had consumed nearly every waking hour for half a year, and I missed looking at open water from my deck. I had won control of the decisions that belonged to me, but I still had to see whether a bankrupt association could keep its final promise. The only part of the settlement that mattered emotionally was the paragraph requiring the land to be restored.
The first $1.5 million cleared through the agreed funding arrangements on February 4. David confirmed the transfer and the court-approved security before telling me I could rely on it. A week later, on February 10, the demolition company began moving equipment onto the eastern shore. Summit Removal and Restoration, a Denver firm experienced in large commercial site work, had been hired under a contract worth approximately $2.1 million. Its schedule covered safe disconnection of services, removal of structures, debris handling, foundation work, and rehabilitation of the disturbed ground.
I drove to the site before sunrise on the first day. Snow lingered beneath the pines, and frost covered the metal roofs of the abandoned cabins. Large pieces of equipment waited near the old parking area, their engines idling while workers reviewed the day's plan. There were twenty people in the initial crew, with additional specialists scheduled for utilities and environmental monitoring. A temporary fence had been installed to keep former guests and curious locals away from the work zones.
The foreman introduced himself as Ray Hutchkins, a broad man with weathered hands and a voice made rough by years of shouting over machinery. He had seen my name on the project documents and knew why the cabins were coming down. Before starting, he walked me through the work areas, explaining how they would remove materials and protect the remaining natural bank. I told him I wanted photographs, disposal records, and a clear accounting of every foundation and buried service line. He nodded and said that the contract already required all three.
The welcome center came down first. I stood behind the safety barrier while workers removed fixtures, separated salvageable material, and brought down sections of the building in a controlled sequence. The roof that had sheltered the desk where Hannah greeted guests was reduced to a stack of sorted materials. The polished lobby disappeared behind temporary dust screens. By afternoon, the entire center had ceased to look like a place where anyone would ever check in again.