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MIAMI BEACH — South Florida is seeing a wave of new cars, but they won’t add to traffic or lengthen anyone’s commute. That’s because the cars are made of marine-grade concrete and were installed underwater.

Over several days late last month, crews lowered 22 life-size cars into the ocean, several hundred feet off South Beach. The project was organized by a group that pioneers underwater sculpture parks as a way to create human-made coral reefs.

“Concrete Coral,” commissioned by the nonprofit REEFLINE, will soon be seeded with 2,200 native corals that have been grown in a nearby Miami lab. The project is partially funded by a $5-million bond from the city of Miami Beach. The group is also trying to raise $40 million to extend the potentially 11-phase project along an underwater corridor just off the city’s 7-mile-long coastline.

“I think we are making history here,” Ximena Caminos, the group’s founder, said. “It’s one of a kind, it’s a pioneering, underwater reef that’s teaming up with science, teaming up with art.”

She conceived the overall plan with architect Shohei Shigematsu, and the artist Leandro Erlich designed the car sculptures for the first phase.

Colin Foord, who runs REEFLINE’s Miami coral lab, said they’ll soon start the planting process and create a forest of soft corals over the car sculptures, which will serve as a habitat teeming with marine life.

“I think it really lends to the depth of the artistic message itself of having a traffic jam of cars underwater,” Foord said. “So nature’s gonna take back over, and we’re helping by growing the soft corals.”

Foord said he’s confident the native gorgonian corals will thrive because they were grown from survivors of the 2023 bleaching event, during which a marine heat wave killed massive amounts of Florida corals.

Plans for future deployments include Petroc Sesti’s “Heart of Okeanos,” modeled after a giant blue whale heart, and Carlos Betancourt and Alberto Latorre’s “The Miami Reef Star,” a group of starfish shapes arranged in a larger star pattern.

“What that’s going to do is accelerate the formation of a coral reef ecosystem,” Foord said. “It’s going to attract a lot more life and add biodiversity and really kind of push the envelope of artificial reef-building here in Florida.”

Besides the project being a testing ground for new coral transplantation and hybrid reef design and development, Miami Beach Mayor Steven Meiner expects it to generate local jobs with ecotourism experiences such as snorkeling, diving, kayaking and paddleboard tours.

The reefs will be located about 20 feet below the surface of the water and about 800 feet from the shore.

“Miami Beach is a global model for so many different issues, and now we’re doing it for REEFLINE,” Meiner said during a beachside ceremony last month. “I’m so proud to be working together with the private market to make sure that this continues right here in Miami Beach to be the blueprint for other cities to utilize.”

The nonprofit also offers community education programs, where volunteers can plant corals alongside scientists, and a floating marine learning center, where participants can gain firsthand experience in coral conservation every month.

Caminos, the group’s founder, acknowledges that the installation won’t fix all of the problems — which are as big as climate change and sea level rise — but she said it can serve as a catalyst for dialogue about the value of coastal ecosystems.

“We can show how creatively, collaboratively and interdisciplinarily we can all tackle a man-made problem with man-made solutions,” Caminos said.

Fischer writes for the Associated Press. Associated Press videojournalist Cody Jackson contributed to this report.

The return of winter has already claimed a life on the tallest mountain in the continental United States, with the death of a hiker on slippery Mt. Whitney, according to the Inyo County Sheriff’s Department.

Over the weekend, the hiker fell in the notorious “99 Switchbacks” section of the main trail, said Lindsey Stine, Community Outreach Coordinator for the Inyo County Sheriff’s Department. The switchbacks begin just above Trail Camp at almost 12,000 feet, where many hikers spend the night before making an early morning start for the 14,500-foot summit.

In the summer, when the trail is dry, the switchbacks section is a long slog, winding back and forth up two miles, and nearly 2,000 vertical feet.

When it gets a big snow, as it did earlier this month, the trail becomes buried and the whole slope becomes perilously steep.

Wes Ostgaard, who said he has climbed Mt. Whitney four times, posted on Facebook that conditions on Saturday were so treacherous he and his climbing partners decided to turn around.

“Winds were extremely intense, and with the recent snowfall, the wind was blasting snow in our faces,” Ostgaard wrote. The snow covered the trail and, in many places, rendered it “invisible,” he wrote.

When Ostgaard and his companions were descending the switchbacks they encountered the body of another hiker who had apparently fallen above a section of steel safety cables and then slid another 70 ft, or so.

“I believe it is highly unlikely he survived,” Ostgaard wrote of the hiker. “There was a fair amount of blood from [colliding with] the cables, and a lot of blood around a rock he made contact with.”

Ostgaard used Starlink to contact his father around 12:30 p.m., who then contacted emergency services. A helicopter arrived about four hours later, Ostgaard wrote.

Another hiker that day, Kirill Novitskiy, encountered the same conditions on the switchbacks on Saturday but made the “wrong decision” to keep climbing.

He made it up with just microspikes — little metal cleats that attach to the bottom of shoes and provide winter traction on flat ground — or on gentle slopes where falling would be no big deal.

But microspikes are notoriously inadequate for winter mountaineering, when a fall could be fatal.

As so often happens in the mountains, when Novitskiy returned to the steep switchbacks after a few hours traveling on relatively flat ground to and from the summit, he discovered conditions had deteriorated so much that he was in real danger and seriously under-equipped.

“I had a couple of dangerous places where the trail became a slope full of powdery snow, and it was very easy to slip off,” Novitskiy wrote on Facebook. “The worst part on the way back were the switchbacks. Almost all the trail was covered with powdery snow brought up with the wind, it was very hard to go with just microspikes.”

Near the cables he saw a pair of trekking poles with nobody around, and then encountered a group of five hikers at the bottom of the switchbacks who told him about the accident.

Anyone attempting to climb Mt. Whitney from this point on in the winter season should bring crampons — much larger spikes that attach firmly to mountaineering boots and dig deep into snow and ice to prevent falls – and an ice axe.

Experts also advise traveling in groups, and bringing a satellite communication device to contact help if anything goes wrong.

So far, the Inyo Sheriff’s Department has not released the identity of the hiker who died.

In January this year, a hiker from Texas died after attempting to climb Mt. Whitney in bad weather. His body was found at an elevation of 12,000 feet near North Fork Lone Pine Creek Trail.

In June, a 14-year-old hiker became delirious on Mt. Whitney and fell off of a 12,000-foot cliff. He survived.

Kings captain Anze Kopitar has a significant foot injury that could sideline him for the near future.

The Kings announced that Kopitar is “week to week” on Friday, a day after he missed the team’s 4-2 loss to Pittsburgh.

Kopitar was hit in the foot by a deflected puck during a shootout loss at Minnesota on Monday. After saying Kopitar’s availability would be a game-time decision for the game against Pittsburgh, the Kings acknowledged the injury could be more significant.

Kopitar is beginning his 20th and final season in an NHL career spent entirely with the Kings. The Slovenian center announced his impending retirement last month at the start of training camp.

The two-time Stanley Cup champion has twice won the Selke Trophy as the NHL’s top defensive forward. He is the second-leading scorer in Kings history and a five-time All-Star.

The Kings are off to a rough start to the season, losing three straight to fall to 1-3-1. New general manager Ken Holland made only a few changes to the roster that matched the franchise records for points and victories last season.

Los Angeles hosts unbeaten Carolina on Saturday night.

Kilian Jornet, one of the world’s most accomplished mountaineers, did something this month that left even other elite athletes gasping: He climbed all 72 summits in the contiguous United States that stand over 14,000 feet tall.

In 31 days.

That’s like climbing California’s Mt. Whitney — the nation’s tallest mountain outside of Alaska — two-and-a-half times per day, every day, for a month.

But reaching so many summits, so quickly, was only half the battle. In fact, it was “the fun part,” a surprisingly rested-looking Jornet said in a Zoom interview from Seattle earlier this month, three days after summiting Mt. Rainier in knee-deep snow to complete the grueling journey, which he started in early September.

The hard part was negotiating the spaces in between.

Spanish mountaineer Kilian Jornet treks through the Sierra Nevada range known as the Normans 13, which connects 13 summits over 14,000 feet.

(Andy Cochrane)

“If you’re driving, you see the landscape,” Jornet explained. “But you don’t feel it.”

OK, how do you feel it?

By running the hundreds of miles of remote mountain ridges, and biking the thousands of miles of desolate highway, that separate the towering summits scattered across Colorado, California and Washington.

In total, Jornet covered 3,198 miles under his own power. He biked 2,568 miles. He ran 629 miles. He climbed 403,638 vertical feet.

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Tommy Caldwell, arguably the best technical rock climber of his generation and the first to climb Yosemite’s nearly impossible Dawn Wall, followed Jornet’s progress on Instagram. When the Spaniard finished, Caldwell posted, “my mind is officially blown.”

Like many elite climbers, Jornet, 37, slips into a stoic, been-there-done-that voice when describing mountain conditions that would terrify mere mortals. But he broke character, briefly, talking about climbing the summit of Mt. Shasta in Northern California.

As often happens on that free-standing volcano, a howling gale struck just as Jornet approached the 14,162-foot summit.

Shaky video shot by a climbing partner shows Jornet’s trekking poles flailing and his feet sliding around on the ice as he struggles — and fails — to remain upright in what sounds like a hurricane.

“It was crazy,” he conceded, “probably the windiest day I have ever had in the mountains.”

Asked why, exactly, he puts himself through so much agony, he snapped back into aw-shucks mode. He sank into his comfy seat, smiled with the confidence of a man who has parried that question a thousand times, and said:

“Why not?”

Spanish mountaineer Kilian Jornet climbed 72 summits over 14,000 feet in the contiguous U.S. in 31 days.

(Nick Danielson)

In an age saturated with professional outdoor athletes competing for social media attention and lucrative sponsorships — and in a world where the most iconic summits have been climbed, the biggest waves have been surfed and the wildest rivers have been run — one fashionable way to stand out is by setting a fastest known time, or “FKT.”

Jornet’s jaunt over and between those 72 summits, which he dubbed “States of Elevation” and gorgeously documented for his 1.8 million followers on Instagram, was, by all accounts, the fastest known time. It was also the only known time. Apparently, nobody else has tried to link all of those summits together in a single, human-powered push.

“Yes, it’s hard,” Jornet said with a laugh when asked if the constant, grinding pain was worth it. But after a while, “you get used to the discomfort, it’s just part of it, it doesn’t really bother you.”

The finale of Jornet’s 72-peak feat was a 14,441-foot volcano covered with glaciers, one of the broadest and most visually imposing mountains on the planet. Few people even attempt to climb Mt. Rainier this time of year because the weather can be so brutal.

As Jornet pedaled closer to the peak, it started to rain down in the flats, so he knew that meant snow on the mountain.

Crossing the glaciers with their immense, yawning crevasses hidden by fresh snow would have been too dangerous, so Jornet chose a steep and challenging rock route known as Success Cleaver. But even that was buried in knee-deep snow.

After summiting Mt. Rainier, Jornet posted that his U.S. journey was, “never about just the numbers, but rather a deep connection to wild places, and true test of resilience in body and mind.”

Anyone else claiming that might have been met with eye rolls, but Jornet is one of the few outdoor athletes who probably doesn’t need to pad his resume: He cemented his legacy as one of the all-time greats long ago.

Spanish mountaineer Kilian Jornet hikes in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado in September.

(Nick Danielson)

Born just outside of Barcelona in 1987, he grew up in a ski area in the Pyrenees where his father was a mountain guide. He climbed his first mountain over 10,000 feet when he was 5.

At 20, he won the first of six titles in the Sky Runner World Series, an international competition consisting of long, high-altitude foot races that test speed and endurance on steep mountainsides.

At 26, he set FKTs for climbing Switzerland’s Matterhorn and France’s Mont Blanc, the tallest mountain in Western Europe. A year later, he broke the speed record climbing the bitterly cold and deadly Denali, in Alaska, the tallest mountain in North America.

A few years after that, he climbed Mt. Everest twice in one week without supplemental oxygen.

In addition to all of the technical mountaineering, Jornet has been one of the most successful ultramarathoners in history, winning the prestigious Ultra-Trail du Mont Blanc, a 100-mile race through the Alps, four times.

After his early career dominating distance races in relatively cold climates, Jornet showed up at Northern California’s Western States ultramarathon in 2010. It’s a 100-mile race that starts near the shore of Lake Tahoe and descends to the Sacramento suburbs in late June, when the sun and temperatures can be unforgiving.

He was comically unprepared. “I didn’t do any heat training,” Jornet recalled, “so when I arrived I was like, ‘Should I have brought water for this race?’” Still, he came in third, then returned the next year to win.

In June, he went back to the Western States 100 for the first time in 14 years. The event has evolved since then: The field is fitter and more professional. But even at his relatively advanced age, Jornet came in third, dropping more than an hour off his winning time in 2011.

Back then, he relied mostly on raw talent, Jornet said. “I train much better now, I know I need to prepare specifically and put in the work.”

But does he ever just kick back and spend a weekend sprawled on the couch, a remote in one hand and a bowl of ice cream in the other?

“For me, that’s not relaxing,” he said, recalling the time he and his wife, Emelie Forsberg, also a world champion runner and skier, tried to take a normal vacation.

They had just completed a race on Reunion Island, off the coast of Madagascar, when they decided to spend a week on the nearby tropical island of Mauritius.

“We said we’d just sit on the beach and read books, and that’s all,” Jornet said. But by the end of the first day they looked at each other and wondered if they should change their flight to get back to running and skiing in the mountains. “It was like, yes, yes, yes for both of us,” Jornet said.

Spanish mountaineer Kilian Jornet in the Sierra Nevada range known as the Normans 13, which connects 13 summits over 14,000 feet.

(Andy Cochrane)

After years living in Chamonix, France, a hard-partying resort in the Alps regarded as the mountain sports capital of the world, Jornet and Forsberg moved to a house by a remote fjord in Norway. It’s a quiet place to raise their three young children, grow their own vegetables and train in the surrounding mountains, some of which have no names.

“Sometimes when you’re climbing Everest, or Mont Blanc, or Mt. Whitney, it’s like you’re climbing the famous name,” Jornet said. As he matures, he prefers climbing mountains simply “because they’re beautiful.”

But he still craves big challenges.

Last year, he climbed all 82 summits in the Alps over 4,000 meters (13,123 feet) in 19 days, traveling the 750 miles between them on foot and bicycle.

“This was, without any doubt, the most challenging thing I’ve ever done in my life, mentally, physically, and technically,” he wrote on social media. “But also maybe the most beautiful.”

That got him thinking even bigger, trying to imagine the most “aesthetic line” for a similar expedition in the United States.

After landing in Denver last month, he went straight to the trailhead for 14,256-foot Longs Peak. “But I really felt like crap,” he said, blaming a combination of jet lag and the air being so much drier in Colorado than in Norway.

For the first week, he wondered if he should just quit. But then, somewhere along the way, his body switched, “from fighting to adapting,” and he settled into a comfortable rhythm.

After summiting 56 mountains in Colorado, Jornet hopped on his bike and pedaled 900 miles to California, where 15 more high peaks awaited. At times, the headwind was so brutal he slowed to a maddening crawl, even when going downhill.

He’d also lost 10 pounds in the mountains and, at 5’7” and about 130 pounds, his slender frame has nothing to spare. So he spent much of his time on the bike shoveling calories — even spiking his water bottles with generous helpings of olive oil — to replace lost fat.

His long slog on the bike ended in Lone Pine, a dusty town four hours north of Los Angeles, where the Eastern Sierra rise 10,000 feet, like a solid granite wall, from the desert floor.

Jornet had covered nearly 200 miles that day, and faced a 6,000-foot climb to the Cottonwood Lakes trailhead, where he would sleep before starting the toughest part of the whole trip.

The road up to Cottonwood Lakes is 23 miles of harrowing switchbacks, with vertigo-inducing views of the valley below at almost every turn. The drive, alone, freaks out a lot of people.

“It was cool that I arrived there in the dark,” Jornet said, undaunted by the prospect of pedaling off the side of a cliff. “Nice to do the climb when it wasn’t so hot.”

The next morning he started running “Norman’s 13” — a baker’s dozen of 14,000-foot summits along the Sierra Crest between Lone Pine and Bishop, the most remote and punishing alpine terrain in California. He made astonishing time: cruising over 14,032-foot Mt. Langley and 14,505-froot Mt. Whitney like they were speed bumps.

But for all their imposing altitude, the standard routes up Langley and Whitney don’t require any special skills, they’re just long hiking trails with very little exposure to deadly falls. Things changed when Jornet reached a section called the Palisades Traverse, just up the hill from Big Pine.

There, a ridge of jagged granite rises like an upside down saw’s blade over one of the last remaining glaciers in California. There are no hiking trails, just daunting towers of shattered and jumbled rock, where seemingly any misstep can lead to a thousand-foot fall.

Only the most committed mountaineers go there, and they tend to take their time, waiting for good weather and climbing with ropes and harnesses.

But when you’re on a mission like Jornet’s, you don’t get to “choose your weather,” he said. You just start and then you’re committed, you have to take what comes.

What came the day he reached the traverse was a surprising, early-season blizzard. It covered the usually reliable, grippy granite with about 4 inches of snow and ice. The storm made climbing “more complicated,” Jornet said, and more miserable.

It was cold and “I was completely soaked,” Jornet said. But with the help of Matt Cornell, a well-known climber from Bishop, he was able to keep going and finish the 100 miles of Norman’s 13 in 56 hours, shaving more than 19 hours off the previous record.

He only slept once during that span, he said, for about an hour and a half, lying in the middle of a trail.

When speed climbing over peaks, Jornet traveled light, carrying only the bare essentials to stay nourished and protected from the weather.

When possible, he was accompanied by photographers and videographers, most of whom had to be exceptional athletes to keep up.

He also stayed in contact with his press team and social media producers, and he sometimes slept in a support RV at the trailheads.

But after the frigid Palisades Traverse he indulged in a bit of luxury, pizza and a glorious night in a hotel bed in Bishop. The next morning, he hiked 14,252-foot White Mountain and then hopped on the bike for the 500-mile ride to the unexpected ordeal that awaited him on Mt. Shasta.

Having survived that with no serious damage, he biked through Oregon, finally with a tailwind, and then surmounted Mt. Rainier.

When he finally descended, instead of popping champagne in front of cameras and an adoring crowd, he and a few close friends spent a quiet night in an RV, swapping stories from the road and sharing shots of pickle juice — an inside joke that started somewhere during the trip.

“I’m not a big celebration guy,” Jornet explained.

He wouldn’t say what his next project will be, but several times he returned to the idea of climbing without crowds or fanfare.

“I do these things because I love them, because they bring me joy and happiness, not because I think they’re very important.”

One place he can sit quietly is at home in Norway, looking out the window, across the fjord to the nameless, snowcapped mountains in the distance.

He lets his eyes linger on their faces, settling on pretty lines to climb up or ski down.

Fox College Football tweeted that “The Jerry Neuheisel Era has begun with the Bruins.”

ESPN personality Pat McAfee added to the chorus of adoration for UCLA’s new playcaller, tweeting that Neuheisel “just might be a football wizard.”

Other media and sports betting sites tweeting about the Bruins’ turnaround from 0-4 to darlings of the college football world prominently featured pictures of the blond-haired assistant coach.

It was enough to prompt the sports media website Awful Announcing to ask: “Does anyone know that Tim Skipper is actually UCLA’s interim head coach, not Jerry Neuheisel?”

Having been preoccupied with saving a season, Skipper acknowledged being blissfully unaware of any narratives about who’s done what to spark his team’s turnabout.

“I guess it’s good that I don’t get on social media and all that stuff right now because I don’t feel that way,” Skipper said Monday when asked about the notion that he wasn’t getting proper credit. “But I don’t really know what’s happening in the outside world [because] I’m in this [practice] building so much.

“But I love what I’m doing, I’m just working, man, and I just try to put us in the best position to be successful on Saturday.”

Part of any credit distortion might be associated with Skipper having presided over the Bruins’ 17-14 loss to Northwestern after replacing DeShaun Foster. The next week, Neuheisel was elevated to playcaller, helping the Bruins (2-4 overall, 2-1 Big Ten) revive a dreadful offense and roll up a combined 80 points during victories over Penn State and Michigan State.

In truth, there have been enough fingerprints on UCLA’s resurgence to leave countless smudge marks.

UCLA coach Tim Skipper stands on the sideline during the Bruins’ win over Penn State on Oct. 4.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

Skipper has provided energy, meticulousness and drive, and his motivational tactics — including leaving printouts asking “ARE YOU A ONE-HIT WONDER?” on players’ seats on the team plane last week — had their intended effect during a runaway victory over Michigan State.

Neuheisel has undoubtedly elevated an offense that struggled mightily under predecessor Tino Sunseri.

Kevin Coyle, the de facto defensive coordinator who was brought in before the Northwestern game to replace Ikaika Malloe, has unleashed an aggressive, disciplined style that has largely compensated for shortcomings that were previously exposed.

There’s also been a host of other contributors, from the scouting staff that helped identify the weakness leading to a successful onside kick against Penn State, to the security guards outside Drake Stadium who continually encouraged players walking into practice amid loss after loss to start the season.

And, of course, don’t forget the players — quarterback Nico Iamaleava’s leadership and poise alongside a slew of others who have risen to the moment after so much early struggle.

The Bruins are favored against Maryland (4-2, 1-2) on Saturday at the Rose Bowl for the first time since they faced New Mexico, and it might be easy to envision their success snowballing. But Skipper said he wasn’t going to introduce the idea of making a bowl game as his next motivational device.

“I’m all about the moment that you’re in, man,” Skipper said. “… This week, kind of, [the mantra] is the standard is the standard and don’t get bored with success. We have to keep doing what we’re doing and always be on the rise, you know?”

As he neared the one-month mark since his Sept. 14 promotion, Skipper acknowledged having initially worried about keeping his roster intact since players could enter the transfer portal or redshirt.

“When I first took over, it was, like, every time I talked to you guys, everybody was asking about who’s redshirting, who’s going to the portal?” Skipper said. “That was the theme that was, like, the No. 1 question. And we’ve been able to keep the team intact, you know, and that’s an everyday thing. I think we’ve shown them that, hey, we can make it, make it a good environment here, even though we have all this change and stuff, just stick with us and we’re going to be all right.”

A clean locker room and the smiles and excitement that come with winning have been among the big changes in the aura around the team that Skipper said he’s noticed since taking over.

“It looks like the guys are in good spirits and things like that, and they know that tomorrow’s gonna be a work day and they better be ready to go,” Skipper said. “But I think we’re giving the guys the ‘why’ and the reasons why we do things, and that’s helping them know what to expect.”

Put me in, coach

UCLA unveiled a sturdy offensive weapon late in the third quarter against Michigan State.

It was Siale Taupaki, a 337-pound defensive lineman used as a blocker when the Bruins reached the red zone. Going in motion on a direct snap to running back Jaivian Thomas, Taupaki flattened a defender as Thomas scored on the second-and-goal play.

“He was begging to be able to do something on the offensive side,” Skipper said of the redshirt junior, who has vacillated between the offensive and defensive lines during his seven seasons with the team. “Sure enough, he went out there and did his job, so that gave us some juice on the sideline and it was good to see.”

Etc.

Skipper said the team’s improved tackling in recent weeks was more of a function of fundamentals than scheme. “We do drills when we get [individual] time that are specifically to use your weapons — your eyes, feet and hands,” Skipper said, “and we’re learning how to wrap up and move our feet on contact because the hardest thing to do is re-start your feet when they stop.” … The University of California regents are scheduled to meet in a closed session Tuesday in San Francisco to discuss the compensation package that will be made available to UCLA’s next coach.

The wide Exe estuary glides past the window. Leaning back in my seat, I watch birds on the mudflats: swans, gulls, oystercatchers and scampering red-legged turnstones. Worn down by a busy, admin-heavy summer, I’m taking the train through Devon for a peaceful break that hasn’t needed too much planning.

Exmouth is a compact, walkable seaside town, easily reached by train on the scenic Avocet Line from Exeter. No need for stressful motorway driving and, once you’re there, everything is on tap: beaches, hotels, pubs, shops and cafes, alongside gentle green spaces and ever-changing seascapes.

FARMINGDALE, N.Y. — Europe painted Bethpage Black in blue scores Saturday with exquisite golf that demolished and disheartened the Americans, and proved to be the best response to a New York Ryder Cup crowd that was so hostile extra security was brought in to keep it from getting worse.

When a long, loud and obnoxious day ended, Europe set a record for the largest lead going into Sunday singles under the format that dates to 1979: Europe 11½, USA 4½.

“I didn’t imagine this,” European captain Luke Donald said. “Every time the Americans came at us, we came back. The resiliency and confidence they have is really, truly incredible.”

Rory McIlroy caught the brunt of verbal abuse and at one point turned to the spectators and said, “Shut the (expletive) up.” And then he stuffed his shot to five feet for birdie that closed out the foursomes match for another blue point.

It was like that all day. The louder the crowd, the better Europe played. And barring the greatest comeback — or collapse — in Ryder Cup history, the Europeans will be heading back across the Atlantic Ocean with that precious gold trophy.

“I’m seeing what looks like to be historical putting. They’re making everything,” U.S. captain Keegan Bradley said. “They’re a great team. They’re great players. They’re a tough team to beat.”

The previous record after the four sessions of team play was 11-5. No team has rallied from more than a four-point deficit on the last day. Europe needs to win only three of the 12 singles matches for the outright win.

Scottie Scheffler also made it into the Ryder Cup record book. The world’s No. 1 player is the first to go 0-4 under the current format.

Nothing summed up the week for the Americans quite like the 10th hole in fourballs. Tommy Fleetwood hit a wedge about two feet under the hole. Scheffler followed with a shot that hit the hole and the base of the pin, then caromed into the rough.

But it was far more than one shot. Europe holed putts everywhere, often getting shouted at by the spectators as they lined up the shots. Nothing stopped them.

The Americans had a lead in only three of the 70 holes played in fourballs Saturday afternoon. U.S. Open champion J.J. Spaun hit it tight on the 17th and 18th for birdies as he and fellow San Diego State alum Xander Schauffele squeezed out one of only two U.S. points on the day.

The other belonged to Bryson DeChambeau and Cameron Young in the opening foursomes match.

The New York fans didn’t turn on the Americans for their performance. They cranked up the noise against Europe, shouting at them in the moments before — but not during — their shots, booing at every turn.

“Look, in between shots, say whatever you want to me,” McIlroy said. “That’s totally fine. Give us the respect to let us hit shots, and give us the same chance that the Americans have.”

New York State police spokesman Beau Duffy said two fans were ejected. The PGA of America said it added security to the McIlroy match and the other three. It also posted a message on the large video boards on “Spectator Etiquette.”

“Attendees consuming alcohol should do so in a responsible manner. Overly intoxicated attendees will be removed from the premises.”

Fans booed when the message was displayed.

McIlroy ultimately got the last laugh. He has won all four of his matches and can become the first European to go 5-0 on the road.

Whatever chances the Americans had might have ended on the final hole of the final match. Patrick Cantlay holed a few more big putts to keep them in the game, and a win on the 18th hole would have cut the deficit to five points.

Matt Fitzpatrick hit out of a bunker to two feet. Tyrrell Hatton, a last-minute sub for Viktor Hovland and his sore neck, hit wedge that nicked his teammate’s ball. It was another example of Europe’s superior play.

Cantlay’s shot spun back against the thick collar of the rough, and Sam Burns could only manage a shot to about 20 feet. Both missed. The throaty cheers of “Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole” returned, and the few American fans who stuck around that long were on their way home.

It got a little testy inside the ropes, too.

Fleetwood and Rose had a three-up lead on the 15th over Scheffler and DeChambeau. Rose was first to putt from about 15 feet. But he felt DeChambeau’s caddie was in his space as he was lining up his putt and he told him so.

Rose made the putt, and DeChambeau matched him from 12 feet. DeChambeau barked at them going to the 16th tee and soon the caddies were involved.

There was warm handshakes a hole later when Europe won.

“I didn’t feel like that space was being honored,” Rose said. “I made my feelings known — asked him to move, maybe not as politely as I could have done, but in the scenario, it’s coming down the stretch. We both have a lot on our minds and it’s intense out there.

“I said to them, ‘If I should have done it a different way, I apologize.’ But other than that, I had to step up and hit a huge putt with a lot going on.”

Bradley was asked what message he would give to his team to keep hopes alive, and the New England native pointed to the Patriots’ stunning comeback against the Atlanta Falcons in 2017.

“Twenty-eight to three. I was at that Super Bowl,” Bradley said. “I watched it. What a cool thing to have witnessed live in person.”

The way this Ryder Cup has played out, 11½ to 4 ½ feels much bigger.

Ferguson writes for the Associated Press.

In an overstuffed workshop in East L.A., Chris Francis reached out a heavily tattooed arm and pulled a single shoe box from one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the walls.

“Anjelica Huston,” the shoemaker and artist said. “Let’s see what’s in here.”

Removing the top of the box, he revealed two carved wooden forms known as shoe lasts that cobblers use to make their wares. Beneath those were strips of yellowing shoe patterns and a tracing of the actor’s foot with a note written in loopy cursive:

To Pasquale
My happy feet shall thank you
— Anjelica Huston

The Di Fabrizio collection includes shoe measurements for stars like Nancy Sinatra, Kim Novak, Joe Pesci and Madeline Kahn, all adorned with green, white and red striped ribbon.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

“Cool, huh?” Francis said, gazing reverently at the box’s contents. “Every time I open one it’s amazing. It’s like Christmas all the time.”

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For the last three years, Francis has been surrounded by a sprawling archive of famous feet originally amassed by Pasquale Di Fabrizio, the late shoemaker to the stars. From the early ‘60s to the early 2000s, Di Fabrizio created custom footwear for the rich, famous and notorious out of his humble shoe shop on 3rd Street.

The shoes went to his customers, but his voluminous collection includes shoe lasts, patterns, drawings, correspondences, leather samples and handwritten notes from thousands of clients, all stored in cardboard shoe boxes that the Italian immigrant trimmed with green, white and red striped ribbon.

The names, written in bold Magic Marker on the front of each box are a who’s who of entertainers from the ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s and beyond: Liza Minnelli, Tom Jones, Richard Pryor, Robert De Niro, Sarah Jessica Parker, Bea Arthur, Arsenio Hall, Nancy Sinatra, Ace Frehley. The list goes on and on.

Francis found foot measurements, wooden shoe lasts and a shoe in progress that Pasquale Di Fabrizio made for Ginger Rogers in a box marked with her name.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

“Shoe Machine” is one of Chris Francis’ art pieces that he has shown at museums.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

“So many great people stood on these pieces of paper,” Francis said, looking at the stacks of boxes around him. “Roy Orbison. Eva Gabor. Stella Stevens. Lauren Bacall. I could pull these down all day.”

Francis never met Di Fabrizio, who died in 2008, but in 2022 he traded two pairs of his sculptural shoe-art pieces to Di Fabrizio’s friend and fellow shoemaker Gary Kazanchyan for the entirety of the Italian shoemaker’s archive. Three years later, Francis is still making his way through it all.

The amount of material is overwhelming, but he is committed to preserving Di Fabrizio’s legacy. Ultimately, he wants to find a space where he can share it with others.

“I never want to be without it, but I’m realistic that it deserves to be appreciated by more than just myself,” he said. “If my life’s work ended up in somebody’s hands, I don’t think I’d want them to just keep it for themselves forever.”

A shoemaker’s journey

Francis isn’t just cataloging L.A.’s shoemaking history, he’s helping to keep it alive.

Over the last decade and a half he’s made a name for himself as a custom shoemaker, creating handmade bespoke footwear for rockers like former Runaways guitarist Lita Ford and Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols, as well as sculptural art shoes that are displayed in museums like the Craft Contemporary, the Palm Springs Art Museum and SCAD FASH in Atlanta.

Wooden shoe lasts hang from the ceiling as Chris Francis works on a shoe for the singer Lita Ford in his garage.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

In his East L.A. workshop, he eschews modern technology, focusing instead on traditional methods of shoemaking, often with hand tools.

“The handmade shoe is alive and well in this shop,” he said, dressed in pressed black slacks and tinted sunglasses, chunky gold rings gleaming on his fingers. “There’s no computer here, and even the records half the time are vinyls or 78s.”

Making shoes by hand is time-consuming and expensive work — Francis doesn’t sell a pair of shoes for less than $1,800 — but for his mostly musician clientele, a sturdy, custom-made, comfortable shoe that also boasts over-the-top style is well worth the price.

“At my price point, my customers are buying something that’s really a tool,” he said. “It’s part of their look, but it also has to hit 27 guitar pedals, keep all of its crystal, be beautiful, last multiple tours and they have to be able to stand in it all night.”

Francis, who has a certain aging-rocker swagger himself, never expected to become a shoemaker.

After going to art school and hopping freight trains for several years, he moved to Los Angeles in 2002 originally to join the Merchant Marines. Instead he found work hanging multi-story graphics and billboards on the side of hotels and high-rises on the Sunset Strip and at casinos in Las Vegas. “That gave me the same thrill of riding a freight train,” he said. “Being on a high-rise building and rappelling down.”

Francis found fabric samples and designs for shoes that Pasquale Di Fabrizio made for a Broadway production of the musical “Marilyn: An American Fable.”

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Shoemaker and artist Chris Francis makes shoes the traditional way in his workshop in East Los Angeles.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

He discovered he had a knack for pattern making in 2008 when he began creating hand-stitched leather jackets to wear to the Hollywood parties he had started attending with his now-fiancee. One day a stranger approached him and said she knew someone who would appreciate a jacket like the ones he was making. She was a stylist for Arnel Pineda, the lead singer of Journey. Commissions from Mötley Crüe and other rock bands followed.

A few years later he became interested in making shoes, but although he knocked on the door of several shoe shops in town, he couldn’t find a mentor.

“They didn’t have time, or they’d say, ‘You belong in a rock and roll band, you’re not one of us,’” he said. “But I would say, ‘Just teach me one thing, one trick.’ And everyone had time to teach one trick.”

It was an education in much more than shoemaking.

“Almost every shoemaker I met had immigrated to the country,” he said. “So I learned how to make shoes from the Italians, from guys from Armenia, Iran, Iraq, Russia, Syria, from everybody. And while doing so, I learned about all these different cultures.”

‘He was the king’

As Francis dove deeper into the history of shoemaking in Los Angeles, one name kept coming up again and again: Pasquale Di Fabrizio.

The late Pasquale Di Fabrizio, a cobbler to the Hollywood elite, photographed in front of his collection of shoe lasts, circa 1982.

(Bret Lundberg / Images Press / Getty Images)

“I started asking other makers about him, and they were like, ‘Oh yeah, we remember him,’” Francis said. “He was the king.”

For more than 50 years Di Fabrizio was the most sought after shoemaker in Los Angeles. He made Liberace’s rhinestone-encrusted footwear and shod Mickey Mouse, Goofy and Donald Duck for touring productions of Disney on Parade. He was the go-to shoemaker for country western stars, Vegas showgirls, Hollywood movie stars, gospel singers and casino owners. The Rat Pack helped put him on the map.

“My best customer is Dean Martin,” Di Fabrizio told The Times in 1972. “He buys 40 pairs a year.”

Sporting a thick, bristled mustache and oversize glasses, Di Fabrizio had a tough reputation. He once kicked a movie star out of his shop because the star brought back a pair of patent leather shoes that he claimed were defective. Di Fabrizio accused him of missing the urinal and peeing on them at the Oscars.

“Never come back here again,” he said in his thick Italian accent.

The shoemaker occasionally made house calls, but his customers mostly came to him. In his workshop on 3rd Street near Crescent Heights, he would trace their bare feet on a piece of paper and measure the circumference of each of their feet at the ball, around the arch, the heel and the ankle. Then he would customize a pre-carved wooden last from Italy, adding thin pieces of leather 1 millimeter at a time to more perfectly mimic the unique shape of the client’s foot.

The size and shapes of the lasts varied wildly. He once told a reporter that it took “half a cow” to make shoes for Wilt Chamberlain, who wore a size 15. In his archives, Francis found a petite high heel shoe last roughly the length of his hand.

Francis holds a foot tracing and shoe lasts made for Robert De Niro by Pasquale Di Fabrizio.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

“Di Fabrizio did lots of shoes for little people,” Francis said. “He really offered an important service for that community. They could have formal footwear rather than having only the option of wearing kids shoes.”

The same lasts could be used over and over again to make several pairs of shoes, as long as the heel height was the same. Each last went in its own box decorated with a ribbon in the colors of the Italian flag.

“It’s so simple, but he claims his territory with that ribbon,” Francis said. “He cared enough to take one extra step. It’s what really made that collection iconic.”

A legacy preserved

Francis first encountered Di Fabrizio’s archives in 2010 when Kazanchyan offered him a job at Andre #1 Custom Made Shoes on Sunset Boulevard. Kazanchyan inherited the shop from his uncle, Andre Kazanchyan, who once worked with Di Fabrizio and became his good friend.

Gary Kazanchyan and Di Fabrizio were close as well. When Di Fabrizio retired in the early 2000s, Kazanchyan hired all of the guys who worked at his shop. Di Fabrizio was at Kazanchyan’s wedding and when the older shoemaker was in a nursing home at the end of his life, Kazanchyan visited him every day.

For years Kazanchyan stored as many of the ribbon-trimmed boxes as he could fit in his Hollywood shop, but just before COVID he moved his shop to his garage in Burbank and transferred Di Fabrizio’s archives to his backyard. “At one point, my whole backyard was this mountain of shoe lasts,” he said.

Chris Francis, left, and Gary Kazanchyan at Palermo’s Italian Restaurant in Los Feliz.

(Deborah Netburn / Los Angeles Times)

Kazanchyan started a renovation on his house in 2022 and could no longer store Di Fabrizio’s archive in his backyard. He’d sold some of the most famous shoe lasts at auction — a bundle of Di Fabrizio’s shoe lasts for Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. went for $4,375 in 2013 — but he still had several tons of material stacked on pallets and covered in tarps. He remembered that Francis loved the collection, so he called him and asked if he wanted it. Francis did.

Francis didn’t have the money to purchase the collection in cash, but he offered Kazanchyan two art pieces that he’d exhibited and Kazanchyan accepted. The first carload of boxes Francis took to his studio included lasts for Wayne Newton, Paula Abdul, Ginger Rogers, Burt Reynolds and Sylvester Stallone.

“My excitement was on fire,” he said.

Francis spent a few weeks sorting through the archive and discarding lasts and shoe boxes that were too covered in mold or deteriorated to be worth keeping. Just before a rainstorm threatened the rest of the collection, he brought thousands of shoe lasts to his studio but even now regrets that he was unable to save it all.

“I tried to grab the big names, but there was so much I couldn’t keep,” he said. “It was heartbreaking.”

The boxes hold stories — and life lessons

Living and working among the Di Fabrizio collection has taught Francis a lot more than just the art of making shoes.

“I’m constantly seeing the obituary of a celebrity who has passed and I go to the workshop and there’s their box,” he said. “It really lets you know that life is for the living. It’s up to you to be responsible and live your life when you’re alive. Be yourself, teach others, leave something behind.”

Hanging onto the collection has not been easy — but Francis believes he was chosen from beyond to care for Di Fabrizio’s archive and to share it with others responsibly.

He’s still not sure what that will look like, but he’s determined to try.

And in the meantime, he is also determined to keep the traditional art of shoemaking alive in Los Angeles.

If you look around his workshop, you’ll spot several boxes adorned with red, white and blue striped ribbon.

Francis is making those boxes his own.

Working with hand tools, Chris Francis makes a custom pair of shoes for musician Lita Ford.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

Rescuers in the rugged Eastern Sierra are searching for a Seattle man who has been missing since early September — and possibly longer — after climbing among some of California’s most remote and daunting mountain peaks.

Billy Pierson, an experienced alpinist, was in California getting in shape for an upcoming trip to Nepal, according to a comment his brother, Steve Pierson, left on Facebook.

On Aug. 9, the alpinist was hiking with a friend. “After their hike, he separated from that friend and is believed to have headed toward Inyo County,” the Inyo County Sheriff’s office said in a news release. “He was later reported missing on September 10, 2025.”

It was not immediately clear when Billy Pierson separated from his friend, or who was the person who reported him missing. The Inyo County Sheriff’s office did not immediately respond to a request for comment Monday.

Billy Pierson, an experienced alpinist, was in California getting in shape for an upcoming trip to Nepal.

(Inyo County Sheriff)

It is believed Pierson was attempting the Palisades Traverse, a classic and technical mountaineering route along the Sierra crest that covers close to 20 miles and crosses the summits of five mountains taller than 14,000 feet.

In addition to climbing the challenging peaks, mountaineers also often have to navigate the Palisades Glacier, one of the last true glaciers remaining in California.

Steve Pierson said his brother’s plan was to begin, or end, his epic trip at Temple Crag, a familiar landmark to seasoned Sierra climbers and hikers that towers above the magnificent, glacier-fed Big Pine Lakes.

The Inyo County Sheriff’s office, working with Inyo County Search and Rescue, scoured the area around Temple Crag with no success.

Pierson is 5’9”, 165 lbs, and was last known to be carrying a large, navy blue or gray backpack. He was wearing black and yellow shoes and liked to hike in a baseball cap with a bandana underneath.

News that Pierson is missing follows several other incidents this summer in which hikers got dangerously lost or were found dead.

On Sept. 12, an Argentinian climber fell 2,000 feet to his death on Mt. Shasta. The 45-year old tech executive had summited successfully, but lost his way on the descent, winding up on the steep and icy Wintum Glacier. He attempted a controlled slide to reach the safety of a trail below, but lost control, collided with a boulder, and eventually slid the length of the glacier.

Also in September, a San Luis Obispo County man — Kirk Thomas-Olsen, 61 — was found dead in Yosemite National Park more than 20 days after he was expected to return from his solo hike.

In August, a boy scout troop hiking in the Emigrant Wilderness north of Yosemite National Park came upon a 78-year old man who had spent a night without food, water or shelter in the mountains. He had lost his pack and seemed incoherent when the scouts found him and escorted him to safety.

Last year, in the middle of a World Series celebration he had spent two decades dreaming about, Clayton Kershaw took the mic at Dodger Stadium and made a declaration.

“I love you guys, thank you!” he shouted to an adoring Chavez Ravine crowd.

“Dodger for life!”

On Thursday, that distinction was cemented.

After 18 seasons, three Cy Young Awards, an MVP, more than 3,000 strikeouts and two World Series titles, Kershaw announced he will retire from Major League Baseball after this season.

Kershaw’s announcement, which came in a press release from the team, preceded what could now be his final Dodger Stadium start scheduled for Friday night.

That game will mark his 246th time taking the bump at the only ballpark he has ever called home. Depending on what happens in October, when Kershaw will make one more run at one more championship, it could be his last.

After 222 wins, more than 2,800 innings, and a career 2.54 ERA, his countdown to Cooperstown will begin this winter.

After serving as the face of the franchise during one of the most successful runs in club history, the book will finally be closing on his illustrious Dodgers career.

Kershaw’s retirement had been a long time coming. Over each of the past four offseasons, he contemplated whether or not to walk away from the game. An 11-time All-Star and five-time ERA champion, he long ago ensured his spot as a future Hall of Fame pitcher. As the franchise’s all-time strikeout leader, his place in club lore had already been enshrined.

Yet, the 37-year-old Kershaw never lost his desire to play.

Despite an elbow injury at the end of the 2021 season, a shoulder surgery after the 2023 campaign, and foot and knee procedures this past offseason, he came back to continue his Dodgers career — never ready to give up another title chase.

This year, he has authored the kind of renaissance season that once felt beyond him. He is 10-2 in 20 starts with a 3.53 ERA, succeeding despite diminished fastball velocity and a decline in overall stuff. He has been an integral member of a first-place Dodgers team. And though one more postseason run lies ahead, with the Dodgers trying to defend last year’s World Series title, he decided his time in baseball was finally up.

“On behalf of the Dodgers, I congratulate Clayton on a fabulous career and thank him for the many moments he gave to Dodger fans and baseball fans everywhere, as well as for all of his profound charitable endeavors,” Dodgers owner Mark Walter said in the team’s release. “His is a truly legendary career, one that we know will lead to his induction in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Originally drafted seventh overall by the Dodgers out of Highland Park High School in Texas in 2006, Kershaw has spent the entirety of his professional life in the organization, going from top prospect to young sensation to Cy Young winner to pitcher of his generation.

He made his MLB debut in 2008, and broke out as a star the following year. By 2011, he had earned his first All-Star selection, his first ERA title and his first Cy Young Award. The accolades would keep coming after that — with Kershaw leading the majors in ERA each season from 2011-2014, winning two more Cy Youngs in 2013 and 2014, and becoming only only the 22nd pitcher to ever win MVP honors with his 21-3, 1.77-ERA season in that historic 2014 campaign.

The back half of Kershaw’s career was plagued by injuries, starting with a bad back that sidelined him for part of 2016.

Still, he earned another ERA in 2017, while helping the Dodgers win their first pennant in 29 years. He had a resurgent performance in the pandemic-shortened 2020 season, going 6-2 in the regular season with a 2.16 ERA before finally experiencing a World Series title.

Up to that point, the postseason was the only area were Kershaw struggled. In 32 playoff outings from 2008-2019, he was 9-11 with a 4.43 ERA — mediocre numbers underscored by excruciating collapses against the St. Louis Cardinals and Houston Astros and Washington Nationals along the way.

But in 2020, Kershaw vanquished such demons, making five starts and going 4-1 with a 2.93 ERA in the Dodgers’ first victorious World Series run since 1998. The title, Kershaw has said since, meant more than even he could have ever imagined.

“I think having that [World Series] definitely started letting me relax a little bit more,” Kershaw said in 2023. “I didn’t realize I had been carrying that weight that much.”

And once he won it once, the notoriously competitive left-hander craved to do it again.

That’s why, even as his body has continued to break down in recent years, Kershaw kept coming back every spring. He believed, when healthy, he could still contribute to a World Series roster. And despite numerous free-agent flirtations with his hometown Texas Rangers, he always saw the Dodgers as the best way to get there.

It made last year’s World Series title a sentimental one for the iconic left-hander. Kershaw was a limited participant, making only seven starts in the regular season before missing the playoffs with his foot and knee problems. But he relished in the celebration, especially the title-winning parade that the 2020 team had been denied by the pandemic.

He knew then that he would be a Dodger for life.

On Thursday, it finally became official.

Clifton Powell is unapologetically dropping the name of the agent who he alleges fired him for taking a role in the 2005 musical “The Gospel.”

“My agent at the time, and I’ll say his name, his name is Jeff Witjas at APA,” the veteran actor told “The Art of Dialogue” last week on YouTube. “He called me and said, ‘You’re doing another one of those little Black movies?’ I said, ‘You’re damn right. I got a family to feed’ and hung up the telephone on his ass and they let me go.”

Witjas did not respond immediately Friday to The Times’ request for comment.

One of Hollywood’s famous “Oh, that guy” character actors is headed toward 300 credits in his prolific career. Powell, 69, has appeared in Oscar-winning films like the 2004 biopic “Ray,” critically acclaimed films like the 1993 crime drama “Menace II Society” and box office juggernauts like the 1998 buddy-cop comedy “Rush Hour.”

Throughout his career, Powell said he doesn’t let his representation dictate the projects he takes. When picking his projects, the actor follows advice given to him by Jamie Foxx years ago.

“He said, ‘Clif Powell, keep one foot in…’ that means keep one foot in with your people and I’m always going to be with the people, because African Americans, and young white kids, young Asians, Latinos and women have made me a household name.”

Powell said his mentality has paid dividends. The director of “The Gospel” later cast him in Peacock’s critically hailed crime drama “Fight Night: The Million Dollar Heist.”

His hiccup with a top acting agency did not slow down his career. Based on his IMDb page, Powell has remained a working actor and kept his family well fed. But there are certain roles his personal boundaries have ruled out: gay roles.

“It’s not militant. It’s just that I’m — certain things I’m just not comfortable with,” Powell said.

One role that did fall within his zone of comfort was a part in 2Pac’s dystopian music video for “California Love,” where his character is introduced as “Monster” by a high-pitched Chris Tucker.

“A lot of people still don’t know that’s me … everybody thinks that’s George Clinton,” Powell said on “The Art of Dialogue.”

So shout his name next time the video plays, instead of saying “That’s the guy from ‘Rush Hour.’” That guy’s name is Clifton Powell.

KANSAS CITY, Mo. — Bobby Witt Jr. hit a two-out solo home run in the eighth inning and the Kansas City Royals beat the Angels 4-3 on Thursday night to avoid a sweep in a three-game series.

The Royals hit four solo homers in a game where all seven runs came on home runs.

Lucas Erceg (7-4) struck out two in one inning and Carlos Estévez picked up his major league-best 37th save.

Angels starter Kyle Hendricks allowed two runs on three hits in six innings, while Kansas City starter Noah Cameron allowed three runs on five hits in five innings.

The Angels (66-74) got on the board in the first on a three-run homer by Luis Rengifo. With two outs, Taylor Ward singled, Jo Adell walked and Rengifo hit a slider 384 feet down the left-field line.

The Royals (71-69) answered in the second on Adam Frazier’s home run, the 1,000th hit of his MLB career. Vinnie Pasquantino connected on his 29th home run of the season leading off the fourth inning to trim the deficit to 3-2.

The Royals tied it when Salvador Perez hit his 24th home run of the season, leading off the seventh inning.

Ryan Zeferjahn (6-5) took the loss.

Key moment: After the Royals tied the score in the bottom of the seventh, Erceg retired the Angels in order in the eighth.

Key stat: With his home run, Perez reached 495 career RBIs at Kauffman Stadium, breaking a tie with Frank White for the third most RBIs in the history of the ballpark. He trails George Brett (839) and Hal McRae (534).

Up next: The Angels return to start a three-game series with the Athletics. The Angels will send RHP José Soriano (10-9, 3.68 ERA) to the mound to face RHP Mason Barnett (0-1, 11.25).

Lonely Island member Jorma Taccone shattered his pelvis and detached his sacrum after a recent fall from a 20-foot ladder at his farmhouse in Connecticut.

The “Saturday Night Live” alum recounted the incident from his hospital bed during Tuesday’s episode of the “Lonely Island & Seth Meyers” podcast.

“There’s a barn, and the back half of the barn has a big white wall. And I was like, ‘Oh, this is great. We can do a big mural,’” the comedian said to his co-hosts Meyers, Akiva Schaffer and Andy Samberg. “The mural would be very, very large at the top. The apex of this barn is like 25 feet.”

Taccone said that he borrowed ladders, including one that his neighbor described as “bad.” As in, “you shouldn’t use this ladder. Like, it doesn’t have a footing thing. And I was like, ‘No, it’s really good.‘”

Taccone was using the ladder to hang lights around the barn to highlight the mural when he fell 20 feet onto his butt.

“I literally have enough time as I’m falling to be like, ‘I’m going to die,’” he said.

The accident was on Aug. 31, his daughter’s fifth birthday, according to Us Weekly. “It wasn’t the coolest way to start the day,” Taccone said.

Two days post-surgery, Taccone said the doctors expect him to walk again within three to six months.

“It’s been a really scary week, and we’re glad that you didn’t hit your head and that you’re not dead,” Schaffer said.

There was only one question left: How long do the hosts have before they can poke fun at the accident?

“I mean, don’t you think it should be instantaneous?” Taccone quipped.

Taccone’s film “Over Your Dead Body,” which he directed, was recently acquired by IFC in May, according to Deadline. The theatrical release date is yet to be determined.

Before arriving in Edinburgh, Nataliya Bezborodova’s impression of Scotland was shaped largely by Hollywood. “My knowledge of this country was pretty much based on the film Braveheart,” she admits with a laugh, standing before the grand neoclassical columns of the National Galleries of Scotland. As if on cue, the castle’s daily gun salute fires overhead, scattering pigeons and punctuating our conversation with a jolt.

Three years have passed since the 47-year-old anthropologist left her home in Kyiv for Edinburgh, after the Russian invasion. Celluloid warriors have long been replaced by the rhythms of life in a city she now knows like the back of her hand. So well, in fact, that she has launched a walking tour revealing a layer even locals might miss: the story of Edinburgh’s vibrant Ukrainian community.

Bridges Across Borders: Tracing Ukrainian Roots in the Heart of Edinburgh started in June and is the latest in a growing portfolio of women-led immersive walks developed in partnership with Women in Travel CIC, the UK-based social enterprise that fosters gender inclusion in the tourism industry. It now offers seven tours celebrating multiculturalism in its many forms: from a Saudi-led deep dive into west London’s Edgware Road to a sensory stroll along Ealing Road in Wembley, north-west London, with its Hindu temples and sizzling street food. All tour leaders are trained through Women in Travel’s guiding academy, which aims to help women earn an income by sharing their stories with travellers seeking a deeper connection to a place.

The two-and-a-half-hour walking tour attracts a mix of locals and tourists, Nataliya tells me. “I’ve even had people from Ukraine join the group, who had no idea about our shared heritage with Scotland,” she says, as we stroll along Princes Street, the city’s main artery.

Scotland’s Ukrainian population has grown since the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine began in 2022, with about 5,000 refugees arriving via Edinburgh. But, as Nataliya points out, the ties go back centuries. Dominating the horizon, the crenellated outline of Edinburgh Castle looms large. It houses St Margaret’s Chapel, built in the 12th century and named after a queen thought to be a quarter Ukrainian. Edinburgh and Kyiv were also formally twinned in 1989, Nataliya adds. We pass the Scott Monument, its blackened gothic spires piercing the sky. At its base, a kilted busker skirls a haunting tune on the bagpipes.

We are soon puffing our way up and down the leafy slopes of Calton Hill, pausing first at a plaque to Saint Wolodymyr – who helped bring Christianity to Ukraine more than a thousand years ago – and then at the Holodomor memorial stone honouring the seven million Ukrainians who died in the forced famine of 1932-33. “It’s a reminder that these things must never happen again,” Nataliya reflects.

A short walk away lies Royal Terrace, on the eastern edge of New Town, a handsome Georgian sweep of sandstone townhouses by the Scottish architect William Henry Playfair. Tucked between swish boutique hotels and stately homes, blue-and-yellow flags flutter at the Ukrainian community centre.

Inside, a plate of homemade potato dumplings, cooked by the centre’s summer camp children and topped with a dollop of sour cream, awaits. As we tuck in, Nataliya explains how the arrival of recent refugees has rekindled pride among Edinburgh’s older Ukrainian diaspora, whose first major wave came in the 1940s: “The newcomers helped them reconnect with a culture that had gone underground.” Today, the centre hosts coffee mornings, cookery classes and language lessons for the Ukrainian community, alongside a rolling programme of concerts and film screenings open to all.

Back out on the street, trams rumble by as we head west, passing familiar landmarks, including a bronze Sherlock Holmes, keeping watch at Picardy Place in tribute to his creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, born just around the corner. In the shadow of the redbrick Scottish National Portrait Gallery lies our final stop: the Square, a Ukrainian-owned cafe that opened in 2023.

This modest slip of a building, with its slate-grey facade and plant-fringed window, is easy enough to miss. Inside, though, it’s quietly pioneering: the first place in the city to serve both Scottish and Ukrainian staples (though not on the same plate). The full Scottish breakfast – haggis, tatties and all – sits alongside Ukrainian classics such as holubtsi (cabbage rolls stuffed with lightly spiced meat).

The owners, Ievgen and Valentyna Loievska, arrived in Edinburgh from the southern Ukrainian city of Mykolaiv in 2022. “The cafe was our way of bridging cultures and bringing people together,” Ievgen tells me. Within minutes of sitting down, the table groans under bowls of steaming borscht, plates piled high with dumplings, and deruny (crisp golden potato pancakes drenched in parmesan sauce). Just as I think I can’t manage another bite, out comes the grand finale: syrnyky – sweet curd-cheese pancakes swimming in velvety berry juice – as Nataliya shares what creating the tour has meant to her personally.

“Putting the tour together made me realise just how many Ukrainian landmarks are hidden across this city,” Nataliya says. “It’s about finding connections between seemingly distant cultures.”

As we wrap up, I’m handed a doggy bag for the journey home, a gesture that feels more like leaving a favourite grandma’s kitchen than ending a walking tour. An experience that initially seemed a little leftfield now makes perfect sense within the context of this city, I realise. In a place steeped in storytelling, Nataliya’s tour adds a fresh chapter to Edinburgh’s ever-evolving narrative.

Women in Travel’s Bridges Across Borders: Tracing Ukrainian Roots in the Heart of Edinburgh tour runs every Wednesday at midday and costs £58pp, including a taster plate at the Square cafe. Created with the support of Visit Scotland

Rising star USC wideout Ja’Kobi Lane suffered a broken foot in May, but was fully cleared this week and will be ready for the Trojans’ season opener against Missouri State, coach Lincoln Riley said Thursday.

The foot injury kept Lane limited through most of the summer. By the start of preseason camp, he was still being brought along slowly. During the portion of USC’s practices open to reporters, Lane wasn’t even running routes on air.

Lane wasn’t deemed fully healthy until the final week of USC’s preseason camp. Riley said that the junior wideout had actually “progressed a little bit ahead of schedule.”

His return is a welcomed one on a USC offense that will rely on him to stretch the field this season. Lane was second in the Big Ten in receiving touchdowns last season as a sophomore, with 12 scores on just 43 receptions. He finished the year with six touchdowns across his final two games, a dominant stretch that would put him in the conversation to be a first-round pick in next spring’s NFL draft.

But after sitting out for part of the offseason, it may take some time to see that final leap from Lane as a junior. Riley said that Lane is still getting back into shape after being limited by his foot injury, but is progressing nicely with just over a week remaining before USC kicks off at the Coliseum.

“You can see some of the rust starting to get knocked off now,” Riley said of his top wideout.

The farm shop is in the news again this week because US vice president JD Vance arrived with a huge entourage of security and police — I visited earlier this summer and one thing was glaring long before I got inside

I’ve never been anywhere quite like this — it’s got to be the poshest farm shop anywhere in Britain. Nestled in the middle of the stunningly beautiful Cotswolds countryside, Daylesford Organic sells hampers for £690.

The manicured shelves feature £36 honey, £10 chocolate and cashew butter sourdough cookies, £175 tablecloths, £40 mushroom coffee and a £23 “immunity formula”.

Outside, a beautiful garden centre displays £1,600 garden dining furniture and £1,000 trees. Walking around it in the sunshine was one of the highlights of my summer. The whole place is gorgeous — and the customers (and their dogs) are as meticulous and beautifully presented as the shop. I came away with a bag full of Isle of Wight tomatoes (the best I’ve ever tasted) and a lavender bush which cost £20.

Daylesford Organic has made headlines for its prices in the past. But it’s back in the news this week because the US vice president, JD Vance, called in. Donald Trump’s second-in-command is in the Cotswolds for a holiday with his family and footage shows his huge entourage of security and police at the farm shop and in the surrounding lanes on Monday. He reportedly spent hours there.

But on my visit, the first thing that struck me wasn’t the food or the prices. It was the cars in the car park. I immediately spotted two Ferraris, several Porsches and too many Range Rovers to count. Right outside the front door was a white Ferrari with a number plate reading “cash”. I parked my car in a distant corner of the car park and then did my best not to look too gobsmacked as I walked around.

But this level of ostentatious wealth isn’t surprising when you consider the area. The farm shop is around halfway between Chipping Norton and Stow-on-the-Wold in the Cotswolds, every inch of which belongs on a postcard. People who call this area home include the Beckhams, David and Samantha Cameron, Mike and Zara Tindall, Princess Anne, Kate Moss, Ellen DeGeneres, Simon Cowell, Richard E Grant and many, many more.

Jeremy Clarkson has made it even more famous with his huge Amazon Prime Video hit Clarkson’s Farm, on which you’ll see sweeping drone-shot views of the sunlit countryside and farmland. I’ve been to his (very different) farm shop too, which you can read about here, as well as his sensational pub, which you can read about here.

Its towns and villages, like Bourton-on-the-Water (read about it here), Bibury (known as Britain’s most beautiful village), Burford, Broadway and Stow-on-the-Wold are among the most beautiful you’ll find anywhere.

And the farm shop itself was founded in 2002 by Lady Carole Bamford, whose husband is JCB founder Lord Anthony Bamford. The couple are said to have a joint fortune of £9.45bn, making them comfortably one of the very wealthiest people in the UK. Earlier this summer, Lady Bamford was pictured alongside King Charles and Queen Camilla at Ascot Racecourse. The Bamfords own several prize-winning horses, including one bought for £1.4 million.

Walking around the shop and its outdoor garden centre, I enjoyed trying to figure out if I recognised some of the more glamorous customers (I didn’t). But visitors this week would have had no trouble figuring out who the most famous customer was, given the convoy of black SUVs he arrived with.

Locals in the Cotswolds have likened the security lockdown around Vance’s holiday to the Men in Black as roads, footpaths and village lanes were blocked.

One said: “Stopped off at a farm shop…so did JD Vance. Security everywhere.” Another said: “There were a few American SUVs and then loads of Mercedes. And a full police riot van and about three police motorbikes. “Because of this, there are loads of police everywhere at the moment – normally, you’d never see a police car around here.”

One local said: “You do seem to get a few political celebrities round here – Kamala Harris has been, David Cameron lives around here, and Boris Johnson often comes. I go to Daylesford Organic most days with my kids. It’s not often you see a presidential motorcade here though!”

I’d go most days myself if I could and am certainly looking forward to my next visit. It would have been wonderful if Cotswolds farm shop rival Clarkson had decided to pop in at the same time to check out the competition. He has described Vance as “a bearded God-botherer who pretty much thinks that women who’ve been raped should be forced to have the resultant child”.

Clarkson, whose Diddly Squat Farm Shop is no more than a mile from the vice-president’s fortress-like holiday mansion, also said: “I’ve searched for the right word to describe him and I think it’s ‘t**t’.”

Oh well, I still hope Vance, who has also said the UK is a “truly Islamist” country, enjoyed his visit as much as I did. At least he could probably afford to buy a bit more than I could.

Glacier National Park, Mont. — JOHAN looked up. Jenna was running toward him. She had yelled something, he wasn’t sure what. Then he saw it. The open mouth, the tongue, the teeth, the flattened ears. Jenna ran right past him, and it struck him — a flash of fur, two jumps, 400 pounds of lightning.

It was a grizzly, and it had him by his left thigh. His mind started racing — to Jenna, to the trip, to fighting, to escaping. The bear jerked him back and forth like a rag doll, but he remembered no pain, just disbelief. It bit into him again and again, its jaw like a sharp vise stopping at nothing until teeth hit bone. Then came the claws, rising like shiny knife blades, long and stark.

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Johan and Jenna had been on the trail little more than an hour. They had just followed a series of switchbacks above Grinnell Lake and were on a narrow ledge cut into a cliff. It was an easy ascent, rocky and just slightly muddy from yesterday’s rain.

Johan took some pictures. Jenna pushed ahead. It was one of the most spectacular hikes they’d taken on this trip, a father-daughter getaway to celebrate her graduation from high school. There were some steps, a small outcropping, a blind turn, and there it was, the worst possibility: a surprised bear with two yearling cubs.

The bear kept pounding into him. He had to break away. To his right was the wall of the mountain, to his left a sheer drop. Slightly behind him, however, and 20 feet below the trail, a thimbleberry and alder patch grew on a small slope jutting from the cliff. As a boy growing up in Holland, Johan had roughhoused with his brother and had fallen into bushes. He knew it would hurt, but at least it wouldn’t kill him.

So like a linebacker hurtling for a tackle, he dived for that thimbleberry patch. The landing rattled him, but he was OK. His right eye was bleeding, but he didn’t have time to think about that. Jenna was now alone with the bear.

She had reached down to pick up the bear spray. The small red canister had fallen out of the side pocket of his day pack, and there it was, on the ground. But she couldn’t remove the safety clip, and the bear was coming at her again. She screamed.

“Jenna, come down here,” he yelled.

She never heard him. She was falling, arms and legs striking the rocky cliff, then nothing for seconds before she landed hard.

The bear did hear him, however. It looked over the cliff and pounced. Johan had never seen anything move so fast in his life. He tucked into a fetal position. The bear fell upon him, clawing and biting at his back. His day pack protected him, and his mind started racing again.

His daughter didn’t have a pack. He always carried the water and snacks. If the bear got to her, it’d tear her apart.

He turned, swung to his right and let himself go. Only this time there wasn’t a thimbleberry patch to break his fall. It was a straight drop to where Jenna had landed, and instead of taking the bear away from her, as he had hoped, he was taking the bear to her.

JOHAN Otter lived with his wife, Marilyn, and their two teenage daughters in a two-story home in a semirural neighborhood of Escondido, Calif. He worked as an administrator at Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla. He ran in marathons and bred exotic birds. He knew the love of his family, success at his job, good health. At 43, he had dreams of a long and happy life. But dreams are often upended. Johan knew this, and whenever possible, he tried to distance himself and his family from risk.

It was Aug. 25, 2005. Seven days earlier, Johan and Jenna had packed up the family pickup truck and driven north through Nevada and Utah. In September, she would begin her freshman year at UC Irvine. Hiking was their special bond. He was a runner, she was a dancer; they both were in good shape for the trail, and it wasn’t unusual for Marilyn and Stephanie, their younger daughter, to stay home.

Johan Otter, top photo at Logan Pass in Glacier National Park on Aug. 24, 2005. A day hike that he and his daugther Jenna took. “My last day with hair,” Otter said. Bottom photo shows Jenna Otter in of the last photos taken by Johan Otter before being attacked by a Grizzly bear on the Grinnell Glacier Trail in Glacier National Park, Montana.

(Jenna Otter)

Johan and Jenna checked into a motor lodge on the east side of Glacier. Johan was eager to experience the wildness of the park, and the first night he did. A black bear, just outside the lodge.

For millenniums, bears have lurked on the periphery of everyday life, dark shadows just beyond the firelight. On this continent, they have been our respected competition and greatest threat. Even though close encounters with bears, especially grizzlies, are rare, they trigger a conditioned response, a reflex of fear and flight that is seldom called upon in modern life. Sometimes we get away. Sometimes we can’t.

But most of all, bears inspire a deep fascination. Johan remembered how, as a boy, he would go with his family on vacations to Norway and how his parents, his brother and he had always wanted to see a bear. The curiosity never left him. Three years ago, during a trip to Canada with the family, he and Stephanie saw a cub. Marilyn and Jenna stayed back.

On this trip to Glacier, they had an ambitious hiking schedule, and they were disappointed when it rained their first full day. They contented themselves with driving to various sights. The next day was beautiful. The sun cut through scattered, misting clouds. Johan was eager to get out on the trail before anyone else. It was 7:30 a.m.

The path wound through a lush carpet of thimbleberry, beargrass and lilies growing beneath a mix of Engelmann spruce and Scotch pine. They skirted Lake Josephine, and in less than an hour, Johan and Jenna were above the tree line. Surrounding peaks were lightly dusted with snow. At one point Johan spotted a golden eagle trying to catch a thermal. They talked loudly, just as you’re supposed to do in bear country. Jenna was trying to figure out how she could be both a dancer and a doctor. He wondered if he’d be able to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

As they made their way along the southern flank of Mt. Grinnell, a glacier-carved cliff that rises nearly 3,500 vertical feet from the valley floor, they fell silent, lost in the sounds of the wind and the water, the beauty of the moment. Ahead of them were the Gem and Salamander glaciers. A ribbon of water cascaded into the forest below. A river flowed into the turquoise stillness of Grinnell Lake.

Penstemon, columbines and fireweed bloomed amid the low-lying alder scrub. They passed through Thunderbird Falls, a landmark on the trail where a stream often pours from the cliff above onto a platform of flat stones. Today it was only wet and slippery, but the drop-off was unforgiving.

(Doug Stevens / Los Angeles Times)

TEN minutes past the falls, they ran into the bear. In a matter of minutes, they had all tumbled 30 feet down a rocky V-shaped chute, landing on a ledge beneath the trail. Jenna had scrambled away, and the grizzly was on top of Johan.

The attack had just started, and it had been going on too long. He grabbed the bear by the fur on its throat. The feeling of the coarse hair, as on a dirty dog, was unforgettable, and for a moment the animal just stared at him, two amber-brown eyes, its snout straight in his face. It showed no emotion, no fear, no anger. There were just those eyes looking down at him.

Johan considered fighting. He reached to his left for a rock. A piece of shale, it crumbled in his fist. He tucked his knees to his chest and tried to cover his head.

The bear bit again and again on his right arm. So this is what it feels like to have your flesh torn, he thought, still trying to comprehend the attack. He tussled about, trying to avoid greater injury.

“Aaagh,” he screamed.

Now the bear was tugging on his back. It felt as if someone were jumping up and down on him, and he found himself growing angry. Throw it off the mountain. If only he could throw it off the mountain.

He felt a sharp pressure on the top of his neck and his head. The bear was biting into his skull, chewing into the bone. This could be it, he thought. This could be his death, and his right hand was useless. He could not push the bear away.

If only this were a movie or one of those old episodes of “Bonanza” he used to watch on TV. He’d be a stuntman, and they’d stop shooting any time.

But this was real. He’d die if he didn’t make another move, so he rolled and fell again, sliding 20 feet down the slope to a small ledge and then over that and onto a narrow shelf. Right foot, left foot. He landed on his feet. He was lucky he stopped. He wouldn’t have survived the next long straight drop.

He was silent. The bear stood above him, unable to reach him. It felt good to be left alone. Water flowed down his back. Cold water. He’d fallen into a small stream, runoff from yesterday’s rain.

Jenna heard the bear panting as it came closer to where she lay beneath the branches of a low-lying alder. She felt woozy from her fall. She had a knot on her head. Her back ached, and her ankle was bleeding.

She tried to stay tucked in, but when the bear got close to her face, she had to push it away. It nipped at the right corner of her mouth, at her hair, her right shoulder. Each bite was quick, followed by a slight jostle.

Her screams split the morning silence like an ax.

Source: National Park Service. Graphics reporting by Thomas Curwen

(Thomas Suh Lauder/Los Angeles Times; Photo by Allen J. Schaben/Los Angeles Times)

JOHAN pressed himself against the mountain. There was no room to sit or lie down. He heard Jenna, but he couldn’t do anything. He would remember the sound as the worst he had ever heard, and then there was nothing. All was still.

He was wet and dirty, soaked with blood and starting to shiver. The attack had lasted at most 15 minutes. He looked at his right arm and saw exposed tendons. His medical training as a physical therapist told him no major nerves or arteries had been cut. They can sew that together, he thought, and that, and that.

Then he touched the top of his head and felt only bone. He stopped exploring. It was enough to know that his scalp had been torn off. His neck hurt. He wondered if something was broken.

He couldn’t see out of his right eye. He reached up. It was full of blood and caked over. Was his eyeball hanging out? No, it was still in place. He carefully parted his eyelids. The sweet turquoise stillness of Grinnell Lake shimmered nearly 1,500 feet below him. He could see. He was relieved.

“Jenna,” he eventually called out.

“Dad.”

She had played dead, and the bear had moved on. She assessed her injuries. A bite on her shoulder as deep as a knuckle. Lower lip torn down to her chin. Hair caked with blood.

Her father’s voice was the best sound she’d ever heard.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“I’m OK. How are you?”

“I’m bleeding a lot.” He thought of his own injuries and of his daughter’s appearance. “How’s your face? Did it get you?”

“Just my mouth.”

“And your eyes?”

“They’re fine.”

He could tell by the sound of her voice that she was OK. Thank you, God.

He gazed up into the sky above Mt. Gould on the far side of the valley. He thought of the people he knew who were dead. His mother and father. Thank you, Mom, and thank you, Dad, for being an energy that he could draw on. Somehow it made him less afraid.

And thank you, Sophie. She was a patient of his, an 80-year-old woman who had died last year. They had grown close as Johan worked with her. She would complain — I’m going to die, she’d say — and he’d tell her to be quiet. You’re not going to die, Sophie. And to think he nearly had.

And thank you, Steve, his father-in-law, Marilyn’s dad, who had become his own dad in a way.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Then he called back to Jenna. “It got me kind of bad.”

It was the only time he told her how he felt. After that, he turned stoic. No complaining. No despairing. He knew his dad would have reacted the same way. He chalked it up to being Dutch: You take care of yourself and your children. Jenna would do the same.

Together, unprompted, they began to call out.

“Helllp.”

“Helllp.”

GLACIER National Park straddles the Continental Divide. Popularly thought of as North America’s Switzerland, famous for its snowy peaks, alpine meadows, rivers and lakes, the park attracts nearly 2 million visitors each year. On the east side of the park, the Grinnell Glacier Trail is one of the most popular day hikes.

“Helllp.”

Johan knew he couldn’t stand here much longer. He took off his day pack and camcorder. His digital camera was gone, lost in the chaos. He pulled a jacket out of his pack and put the hood over his head. The night before, he’d read a book about bear attacks: how a woman in Alaska had stopped the bleeding of her scalp by covering her head. He also thought it might be easier on Jenna or anyone else who might happen to see him.

He wanted to climb to the ledge above. He didn’t know how he’d carry his pack and camcorder. Then it came to him, what they say on airplanes. Leave your luggage and take care of yourself. It made sense. He clambered and crawled off the narrow shelf and up to the ledge. He felt dizzy, so he sat down.

Johan and Jenna alternated their calls. Jenna had decided to stay where she was. She too was dizzy and uncertain of her injuries. Perched on the side of the mountain, about 75 feet apart, they looked down into the valley. Their cries disappeared in the vast open space. It was windy and cold, and the quiet seemed unreal after the intensity of the attack.

“Helllp.”

Then Jenna called out. “Dad, the boat just got to the dock. I see people getting off.” It was a water taxi that ran a regular service across Lake Josephine.

Johan knew that with the arrival of the boat, hikers would soon be streaming along the trail and their shouts would be heard. He was tired. He stopped yelling and tried not to think about how badly injured he was. Nothing a little surgery can’t fix, he told himself. Besides, he was alive, and his daughter was fine.

Amid the isolation and the cold, he grew sore and stiff and numb. Lying down, sitting up, nothing helped. Forty-five minutes later, he heard Jenna talking with someone. She called to him. “Dad, there are people here now. They’re getting help.”

Still it seemed like forever. Then Johan saw a man cutting through the bushes and sliding down toward him. The man’s eyes were wide open. The expression said everything.

“Are you OK?” the man asked.

“Do you see a camera?” Johan replied.

Jim Knapp was surprised by the question, but very little was making sense.

Knapp and his wife had started their hike that morning a little past 8, well ahead of the water taxi. After an hour on the trail, they heard what sounded like a coyote or a hawk or some animal being attacked. Then there was more, and it sounded human. They started running. Someone must have fallen or sprained an ankle.

Knapp told Johan he would look for the camera, but his attention was focused on the injured man before him. It was the most gruesome sight he had ever seen.

Blood covered Johan’s face. His arms and legs oozed blood. His voice and sentences were jerky and repetitive. He reminded Knapp of Dustin Hoffman in “Rainman,” and with his sweat shirt pulled up over his head, he looked like Beavis in an episode of “Beavis and Butthead.”

“Jenna’s OK,” Knapp said, as he began to get a sense of Johan’s injuries. He noticed the day pack — but no camera — on the shelf beneath them, and he climbed down to retrieve it. Inside were a sweat shirt and four water bottles. He covered Johan and tried to make him drink. He took off his T-shirt and wrapped it around a deep gash on Johan’s leg. He laid out some nuts and a granola bar and took some water up to Jenna.

Then Johan saw a girl. She was sliding down to him. Her name was Kari.

Kari Schweigert and Heidi Reindl had been car-camping in Glacier. They were just starting on an 11-mile hike when they ran into Jim Knapp’s wife, running down the trail, screaming for help.

Then there were two teenage boys. Johan couldn’t keep track of everyone, but one of the boys — the one who wore a beanie — did get his camera. It was the camcorder, and Johan was glad to see it. He was also glad that people were finally getting there, but he felt bad for them. He knew stumbling upon a bear attack — and finding him as bloody as he was — couldn’t be easy for them. A fall or a sprain, sure, but a bear attack? He tried to tell himself that it would be OK. He tried to console himself. If he and Jenna had not been attacked, then these other hikers would have.

What can we do, everyone asked. How can we help?

The rock at the back of his head felt like it was digging into his skull. He squirmed about. He wanted them to help him sit up, but they didn’t want to. They were worried about his neck.

Then he’d have to do it himself. He simply wanted to sit up, have a drink of water and then maybe lie down again.

But he was fading.

Grinnell Glacier at Glacier National Park

(Ryan Herron/Getty Images/iStockphoto)

VOICES told him that help was on the way, only he was losing interest. He didn’t want to deal with any of this anymore. It was all too much: wondering how they’d get him and Jenna off the mountain; wanting to be cleaned up from the dirt and sticky blood; saddened that their trip was ending this way.

Kari Schweigert sat beside him, talking. Her curly hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was in a tank top; Johan was wearing her jacket. He was shaking and numb with cold.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“The pain is OK,” he said. “I’d just like to take a nap.”

Then she started to move in closer to him. She knew he was cold. She said she wanted to warm him up. She angled around him and covered his abdomen and chest with her body, her legs off to a side.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. He didn’t want her to get covered with blood; it would be impossible to wash out.

She couldn’t cover him completely, but she did shield him from the wind. It was a moment he would never forget. How strange, he thought, to be hiking along on this trail one moment, thinking about running in a marathon, and then suddenly not being able to walk, being so dependent upon strangers, and now this girl so close to him, so tender and different from the savagery of the attack.

His mind kept going back to Jenna. Everyone told him that she was not as badly injured as he was. He felt guilty. Why had he wanted to go hiking here? Why wasn’t he a better parent?

Schweigert kept talking to him. She told him not to fall asleep. It made sense. He knew he’d lost a lot of blood, and he knew he was in shock. The wash of voices and movement of people around him, once reassuring, began to blur.

A park ranger and a dozen hikers were on the trail above them. The ranger radioed a report on Johan and Jenna’s status to the ranger station at Many Glacier, where an incident commander was assembling a rescue team.

A few of the hikers peered over the edge.

“Do you need anything?” they yelled.

“More jackets.”

Someone tucked one under Johan’s head.

His neck felt broken.

“WHAT’S your name?”

“Johan Otter.”

“Where are you?”

“Glacier National Park.”

“What time of day is it?”

“Late morning.”

“What happened?”

“Bear attack….”

The name badge said Katie. She wore the green and gray uniform of the park service. She had slid down the slope, balancing a medical kit and a shotgun in her hands, and once she determined that he was alert and oriented, she started dressing his wounds.

Katie Fullerton had pulled into the Many Glacier parking lot expecting just another summer day. Then she heard about the attack. She and another ranger were ordered to get to Johan and Jenna as soon as possible. Since opening in 1910, Glacier National Park has had only 10 bear fatalities, and they were enough.

The incident commander at Many Glacier had put a call out for additional rangers, some stationed on the west side of the park, 70 miles — a two-hour drive — away. A helicopter, chartered from Minuteman Aviation, would ferry those rangers to the site of the attack and would be used to shuttle equipment and personnel up to the mountain.

Whup, whup, whup.

Katie Fullerton looked up. At 9,000 feet, the white chopper had negotiated a U-shaped notch in the Garden Wall, a narrow filigree of stone crowning the Continental Divide. As it drew close, it circled, looking for a place to land. Johan and Jenna Otter could not have fallen in a less accessible place.

Three hours had passed since the attack, and Johan’s metabolism was slowing down. The blast of adrenaline triggered by the attack was long gone; the 15-minute torrent of thought and reaction had dissipated in a miasma of pain, discomfort and boredom. Why was the rescue taking so long?

Crashing mentally and emotionally, he knew he needed to stay warm and awake. Gusts of wind ghosted along the cliff; temperatures shot from warm to freezing as clouds drifted beneath the sun. Hikers on the trail were tossing down energy bars, water and more outerwear. A ranger was talking on the radio.

A second ranger crouched beside Johan. He had arrived with nearly 50 pounds of gear, including a life-support pack with IV fluids, medications and an oxygen tank, and he began cutting away Johan’s jackets and clothing. He introduced himself as Gary, Gary Moses. Johan appreciated his calm and confident manner.

Moses explained that the plan was to place Johan and Jenna on litters, have them lifted up to the trail and then carried down to a landing zone, where the chopper would take them to the Kalispell Regional Medical Center in Kalispell, Mont., in the Flathead Valley on the west side of the park.

Rangers on the trail set up a belaying system. They knew they had to move fast. Moses took Johan’s vitals. His blood pressure was 80 over 30, his pulse 44, his temperature dropping.

Moses prepared an IV line. Johan tried to lie still, but he was shivering uncontrollably. Then he heard something. It was Katie Fullerton; she was crying. The sound startled him at first.

“Do you want to stand down?” Moses asked his fellow ranger.

She shook her head.

Johan was glad. She had worked hard to make him comfortable and safe.

This was her first season as a patrol ranger, her first major trauma. Just last year, she’d been collecting user fees, and she had grown up near the park. She and her family had hiked these trails. This could just as easily have been her father.

Her tears reminded Johan how grave his situation was.

THE helicopter was making a second landing, and all Johan could think was: Hurry up. A second medic had joined Moses and Fullerton.

“How’s Jenna?” It was his steady refrain.

“There’re people with her.”

Moses and the other medic put a C-collar around Johan’s neck and got ready to insert a urinary catheter. Johan reminded them about a scene in “Seinfeld” in which an embarrassed George Costanza is caught naked and complains about “shrinkage.” They burst out laughing, and Johan relaxed a little. This is who he was: not just a bloodied man but someone always there with an easy line, ready to lighten the mood, to give to others.

Moses reassessed the rescue plan. It had taken nearly an hour to find a vein and get the IV started. Carrying Johan out, lifting him to the trail and then down to the helicopter landing zone was going to be too traumatic, and the afternoon was getting on.

He thought a helicopter could lift Johan directly off this ledge, in a rescue known as a short haul. It would be quicker but riskier. Still, he didn’t see any way around it. He radioed in his recommendation. The incident commander agreed. They called in the rescue helicopter operated by the hospital in Kalispell.

As they waited, Johan remembered an Air Force chopper that had crashed during a rescue on Mt. Hood little more than three years earlier. Everything — the foundering, the dipping, the rolling down the slope in a cascade of snow — had been televised on the evening news.

It made him nervous.

“Am I going to die?” Johan asked.

“You’re not going to die up here,” the second medic said.

RED against the blue sky and white clouds, the short-haul helicopter was easier to spot than the Minuteman.

“Hear that?” Gary Moses looked out over the valley. “That’s the sound of your rescue.”

Pilot Ken Justus adjusted the foot pedals and hand controls to bring the Bell 407 closer to the cliff. Travis Willcut, the flight nurse, sat next to him, calling out positions, monitoring radio traffic. Jerry Anderson, a medic, dangled 150 feet beneath them on a rope with a red Bauman Bag and a body board at his waist.

Piloting a helicopter at moments like this is like pedaling an exercise bike on the roof of a two-story building while trying to dangle a hot dog into the mouth of a jar on the ground. Lying on his back, Johan watched.

The IV had kicked in. Though stiff and still cold, he was wide awake and in no pain. Anticipation was everything, and he remembered feeling a little afraid. He hated roller coasters and worried about his stomach.

“You’ll have the best view of your life,” Moses said, hiding his worry. He knew getting Anderson in would be tricky. Because helicopters can’t cast sharply defined shadows on steep terrain, pilots flying short-haul missions have trouble judging closing speeds and distances.

Johan Otter is airlifted from the Grinnell Glacier Trail with medic Jerry Anderson, after being attacked by a grizzly bear and her two cubs in Glacier National Park, Montana on August 25, 2005. Johan tumbled down a steep chute about 75 feet where he almost died.

(Heidi Reindl)

Anderson, dangling at the end of the rope, had a radio in his helmet. He was using it to direct Justus lower and closer to Johan. Abruptly, the radio died.

“I’m at your 11 o’clock position, a mile out,” Moses broke in with his radio, once he understood the problem. “Half mile, 12 o’clock.”

“Do I need to come up or down?”

“Up about 10 feet.”

Then just as Justus got closer, he caught Anderson’s shadow on the ledge and set him down about 20 feet to the right of Johan. The other rangers shielded Johan from the rotor wash and dust.

Anderson unhooked himself. Justus moved the helicopter away. With the rangers’ help, Anderson slid the body board beneath Johan and strapped the Bauman Bag around him. He waved Justus back in.

“We’re ready to lift.”

“Roger, ready to lift.”

Johan couldn’t tell when he was off the ground. Dangling with Anderson beside him, 150 feet beneath the helicopter, all Johan would see was Anderson’s face, the blue sky and the belly of the chopper. The wind whistled around him.

“Woo hoo!” The hikers and rangers on the mountain started cheering and clapping.

With Johan and Anderson still beneath him, Justus accelerated down the valley to the helipad at Many Glacier. A waiting crowd was asked not to take pictures. Johan was transferred into an ambulance while Justus went back to pick up Jenna. Finally Johan was out of the wind and in a warm place.

Then he heard the news.

“Jenna is here,” someone said.

“Hi, sweetie,” he called out as they prepared to fly him to the medical center in Kalispell. With his head wrapped in bandages, mummy slits for his eyes and the C-collar on his neck, Johan couldn’t see her. “Make sure when they call Mom that you talk to her.”

He knew he wouldn’t be the one making that call.

“Otherwise she’ll totally freak out,” he said.

About this article

The accounts in this article are drawn from interviews over a span of 18 months with Johan, Marilyn and Jenna Otter. Additional interviews were conducted with the following individuals:

National Park Service: Jan Cauthorn-Page, Katie Fullerton, Rachel Jenkins, Kathy Krisko, Gary Moses, Rick Mulligan, Melissa Wilson, Amy Vanderbilt and Andrew Winslow.

Hikers on the Grinnell Trail: Julie Aitchison, Colin Aitchison, Kathleen MacDonald, Jim Knapp, Marla Moore, Robin Malone and Heidi Reindl.

Minuteman Aviation: Jerry Mamuzich.

Kalispell Regional Medical Center’s Advanced Life Support and Emergency Rescue Team (ALERT helicopter): Jerry Anderson, Addison Clark, Ken Justus, Travis Willcut, Patricia Harmon and Keith Hannon.

Additional reporting came from the National Park Service’s investigation report concerning the attack.

It might be a cliché this time of year, how injured players who return after the trade deadline can serve as de facto deadline acquisitions themselves.

But in the case of Max Muncy and the Dodgers, the team needed it to be true. Badly.

Immediately after Muncy went down with a knee injury in early July, the club’s lineup entered a deep midseason slump. Its actual deadline acquisitions, which included only one hitter in outfielder Alex Call, had underwhelmed the fan base.

Thus, when Muncy returned to action Monday night, the Dodgers were desperately hoping the veteran slugger could provide a spark.

Twenty-four hours later, he did it with two thunderous swings.

In the Dodgers’ 12-6 win over the St. Louis Cardinals, Muncy officially christened his comeback with a four-for-five, four-RBI performance that included a pair of no-doubt home runs off Miles Mikolas — picking up almost exactly where he left off before suffering a July 2 knee injury that he feared would end his season.

“As I was laying there on the ground that night, I thought for sure this is it,” Muncy recalled this week, after not only recovering from what proved to be just a bone bruise, but doing it two weeks faster than the initial six-week timeline the team had expected.

“It’s hard to stay positive in a moment like that,” Muncy added, while reliving Michael A. Taylor’s slide into his left knee a month earlier. “But extremely thankful and blessed to be back on a baseball field this year.”

Muncy did have some rust to knock off, going hitless in three at-bats with a walk and strikeout in his first game back Monday night against crafty Cardinals right-hander Sonny Gray.

On Tuesday, however, Mikolas gave him the chance to do some long-awaited damage.

In the first inning, after Shohei Ohtani doubled and scored on a Freddie Freeman sacrifice fly, Muncy clobbered a center-cut, first-pitch sinker 416 feet into the right-field pavilion, giving the Dodgers a quick 2-0 lead.

In the third, after the Cardinals leveled the score on Nolan Gorman’s two-run homer off Emmet Sheehan an inning earlier, Muncy went deep again, whacking an elevated fastball 404 feet for a two-run blast.

The Dodgers (66-48) wouldn’t relinquish the lead again, going on to their first double-digit scoring effort since June 22 thanks to a five-run rally in the seventh, when Muncy also added an RBI single, and two more runs in the eighth, when Muncy tacked on his fourth hit.

There were other positive signs for the Dodgers’ recently scuffling lineup on Tuesday.

Mookie Betts, who was mired in a career-long five-game, 22 at-bat hitless streak, recorded three knocks: A double right before Muncy’s second homer in the third, a line-drive single in the fifth, and a seeing-eye grounder in the eighth.

Andy Pages, who was batting just .211 since the All-Star break, made hard contact on doubles in the sixth and the seventh.

And Teoscar Hernández, who was hitting just .213 since returning from a groin strain in May, came roaring to life with a two-homer game, going back-to-back with Muncy on a solo home run in the third before smashing a game-sealing three-run drive after Muncy’s RBI single in the seventh.

Leading up to the deadline, manager Dave Roberts cited that subset of slumping hitters as potential quasi-deadline additions in their own right. Part of the reason for the team’s relative inaction at the deadline was its trust that the healthy, but scuffling, members of its lineup would get back on track down the stretch.

Still, Muncy’s eventual return had long been seen as the Dodgers’ biggest potential boon, especially after they went from leading the majors in scoring before he got hurt to ranking last in runs over the 25 games he missed.

“We’ve certainly missed him,” Roberts said ahead of Muncy’s return Monday. “The night he came off the field, you’re starting to think of it potentially being season-ending. So to get him back in a month, we’re all excited. He’s put in a lot of work to get back with this timeline. And yeah, we’ve needed him.”

Two games in, the importance of his return is already being felt.

TAMPA, Fla. — Blake Snell nearly had a flawless return from the injured list on Saturday afternoon.

If only the Tampa Bay Rays didn’t have slugger Yandy Díaz, or a quirky short right-field wall at their temporary home at Steinbrenner Field.

Making his first start since the second week of the season, when he went down with a shoulder injury that shelved him, Snell largely looked like the ace the Dodgers thought they were getting when they signed him to a $182-million contract this offseason.

Over a five-inning outing that included eight strikeouts, no walks and a whole bunch of flailing swings by the Rays, the veteran left-hander flashed his two-time Cy Young Award-winning stuff and tantalizing late-season potential for this year.

However, in the Dodgers’ 4-0 loss to the Rays, Snell gave up three runs on a pair of long balls to Díaz — who twice took advantage of the ballpark’s short porch in right field.

“I thought, to be quite frank, he was a victim of this ballpark,” manager Dave Roberts said afterward. “There were a couple fly balls to right field that just went out. … Unfortunately, got a little bit of bad luck.”

After the Rays’ permanent home, Tropicana Field in nearby St. Petersburg, had its canvas roof shredded during Hurricane Milton this winter, the club relocated to Steinbrenner Field for this season; using the New York Yankees’ open-air, Tampa-based spring training park for its home schedule.

Since the 10,000-seat venue was modeled after Yankee Stadium in New York, its defining feature is a short right-field wall (similar to the one in the Bronx) that measures at just 314 feet down the line — eight feet shorter than the dimensions at Tropicana Field.

In the bottom of the first inning, Díaz took full advantage, golfing a 3-1 fastball the other way for a solo home run. According to MLB’s Statcast system, the ball traveled only 326 feet, and would have stayed in play at each of the league’s other 29 stadiums. But not here, and especially not on a sweltering summer afternoon with a first-pitch temperature of 91 degrees.

“I was surprised,” Roberts said of watching Díaz’s ball land in the first row of seats.

“They took advantage of the field,” added right fielder Teoscar Hernández.

Indeed, Díaz repeated the act two innings later; snapping the groove Snell had settled into after retiring seven of the next eight batters, including five on strikeouts.

On a 1-1 fastball that was up in the zone, Díaz launched one to the opposite field again, hitting a two-run blast on a 341-foot fly ball that would’ve been a homer in only two other parks (Yankee Stadium, and Daikin Park in Houston).

“The first homer to Yandy, that was not a good pitch,” Snell said. “On the second homer, I thought that was a really good pitch to him, and it was. Just a good result for him.”

Still, on the whole, Snell offered plenty of promise in his return to action Saturday.

First and foremost, he filled up the strike zone, eliminating his habit of nibbling around the plate by throwing 57 strikes in 86 pitches.

“I was in the zone more than I thought I would’ve been,” he said. “You’re just trying to feel it out again, so I like that.”

And, in another positive development, many of those strikes were of the swing-and-miss variety.

Snell racked up 19 total whiffs, tied for third-most by a Dodgers pitcher in a game this season. Seven came on 12 total swings against his changeup, a key offspeed pitch that showed no signs of rust after his four-month layoff. Five more were courtesy of his slider, with the Rays coming up empty on all five swings against it.

“I was in the zone, I was confident, I knew what I wanted to do,” Snell said. “Overall, first start back, emotions, there’s a lot that I’m dealing with to get better. … But definitely something to build on, learn from.”

In the big picture, after all, the Dodgers’ main priorities for Snell are: 1) Stay healthy; 2) Pitch better than he did at the start of the season, when his bothersome shoulder contributed to two underwhelming outings that marred the beginning of his Dodgers career.

Tampa Bay’s Yandy Díaz watches his solo home run off Dodgers pitcher Blake Snell during the first inning Saturday.

(Chris O’Meara / Associated Press)

Down the stretch this season, the Dodgers’ biggest strength might be their rotation. Yoshinobu Yamamoto is in the Cy Young Award conversation. Tyler Glasnow has looked improved since returning from his own shoulder injury. Shohei Ohtani has quickly rediscovered his premium stuff coming off a second career Tommy John procedure. And even Clayton Kershaw has been productive in his 18th season.

The biggest linchpin, though, likely remains Snell — whom the Dodgers targeted this offseason in hopes of avoiding the tightrope they walked last October, when their injury-ravaged rotation was almost completely depleted by the start of the postseason.

“Last year, we found a way to do it, not having that [rotation depth],” Roberts said. “But having the starters healthy, pitching the way they’re capable of, makes it a better quality of life for everyone.”

While the Dodgers had managed in Snell’s absence, maintaining a narrow lead in the National League West despite another prolonged stretch of patchwork pitching, Roberts acknowledged they had missed his “presence” over the first two-thirds of the season.

And after watching from afar how well Snell finished last year — when he rebounded from another extended early-season IL stint with the San Francisco Giants by posting a 1.23 ERA over his last 12 starts, including his first no-hitter exactly one year ago Saturday — Roberts was hopeful the 32-year-old could mount a similar “heater” now.

“He’s really focused,” Roberts said. “I love where his head’s at.”

The results on Saturday might not have been enough to compensate for the Dodgers’ quiet day at the plate — with their lineup managing only six hits and squandering its best opportunity to rally on Hernández’s bases-loaded, inning-ending double-play grounder in the top of the sixth.

But it nonetheless raised hopes about the potential of the team’s late-season rotation, offering a long-awaited glimpse of the kind of dominance Snell could provide to the Dodgers’ push to defend their World Series championship.

“I thought Blake threw the baseball really well today,” Roberts said. “Just kind of seeing him out there, competing, making pitches, it just makes you feel better going forward.”

PORTRUSH, Northern Ireland — The rain pounded Royal Portrush right when Scottie Scheffler poured in a birdie putt on his first hole Friday in the British Open. No matter. Nothing stopped the world’s No. 1 player on his way to a seven-under 64 to build a one-shot lead going into the weekend.

Scheffler made eight birdies on another wild afternoon of weather at Royal Portrush, and his 15-foot birdie attempt on the 18th stopped inches short for another.

The result was a one-shot lead over former U.S. Open champion Matt Fitzpatrick, who made four straight birdies to start the back nine until he cooled on the home stretch and had to settle for a 66.

The rain was heavy at times but never lasted long. The wind was breezy but never at strength that can cause fits. The scoring was lower, nearly two shots easier than the opening round.

Except for a few chasers, Scheffler made it look like it wasn’t enough.

He was at 10-under 132 as he chases the third leg of the career Grand Slam, having won the PGA Championship by five shots in May.

Brian Harman got the best of the weather — surprising sunshine — and took dead aim in his hunt for another claret jug. Harman played bogey-free for a 64 that left him only two shots behind, along with Li Haotong of China, who had a 67.

Everyone else was five shots behind or more.

That includes Rory McIlroy, who went around Royal Portrush in his native Northern Ireland with plenty of cheers but only a few roars. McIlroy had a 69 but lost a lot of ground because of Scheffler, Fitzpatrick and Harman.

He started the second round just three shots behind. He goes into the weekend seven shots behind the top-ranked player in the world.

Fitzpatrick was at his lowest point just four months ago when he changed his caddie and coach and began pulling himself up. And now he takes that into the weekend against Scheffler.

“He’s going to have the expectation to go out and dominate. He’s an exceptional player. He’s world No. 1, and we’re seeing Tiger-like stuff,” Fitzpatrick said. “I think the pressure is for him to win the golf tournament. For me, obviously I hope I’m going to have some more home support than him, but it’s an exciting position for me to be in given where I was earlier this year.”

Fitzpatrick was rolling along until a pair of short putts he missed, from five feet for par on the 14th and from three feet for birdie on the 17th. Even so, he holed a 25-foot par putt on the final hole and assured him being in the last group at nine-under 133.

Scheffler was sharp from the start. He hit eight of the 14 fairways — compared with three in the opening round — though his misses never left him too badly out of position. But he is seeing the breaks on smoother Portrush greens, and he looks confident as ever.

None of his eight birdies were closer than seven feet. Five of them were in the 10-foot range and then he threw in a 35-foot birdie on the sixth. His lone bogey came on a drive into deep grass on the 11th that kept him from reaching the green.

The statistics led to a shrug.

“Overall, I’m hitting the ball solid,” Scheffler said. “The tournament is only halfway done. I got off to a good start.”

Harman was called the “Butcher of Hoylake” when he won the claret jug at Royal Liverpool two years ago because the British media were fascinated by the Georgia native’s love for hunting. Now it’s about his golf, and it was superb.

Harman played bogey-free, only once having to stress for par as Royal Portrush allowed for some good scoring in weather that again did not live up to its expectation.

Not that anyone was complaining. Temperatures were warm, at least by Irish standards. The breeze was noticeable without being overly punishing.

“They’re very different golf courses, but the golf is similar,” Harman said. “You’ve got to be able to flight your golf ball. You’ve got to know how far everything’s going. Then you can’t get frustrated. You’re going to end up in funny spots where it doesn’t seem fair, and you just have to kind of outlast that stuff.”

The group at five-under 137 included Harris English (70), Harman’s former teammate at Georgia; Tyrrell Hatton of England (69) and Chris Gotterup (65), who wasn’t even planning to be at Royal Portrush until winning the Scottish Open last week.

Also still around is Bryson DeChambeau, who made a 13-shot improvement from the first round with a 65. Still, he was 11 shots behind.

McIlroy wasn’t at his best in the opening round and was pleased to be only three behind. Now he has a real mountain to climb. But at least he’s still playing, unlike in 2019 at Royal Portrush when he shot 79 and then had a terrific rally only to miss the cut by one shot.

“I didn’t have this opportunity six years ago, so to play an extra two days in this atmosphere in front of these crowds, I’m very excited for that,” McIlroy said. “I feel like my game’s definitely good enough to make a run.”

That was before Scheffler began to run away from so many except a small collection of challengers. But this is links golf. And this is the Emerald Isle, where the weather seems to have a mind of its own.

Still, Scheffler has gone 10 tournaments without finishing out of the top 10 and would appear to present a challenge every bit as daunting as Royal Portrush.

Ferguson writes for the Associated Press.