Linda Bresee
Events
- Birth Year:
- First year at Meany: 1977
Roles
Meandering through Meany Memories
Meany Lodge
Tucked into hills aspiring to be mountains, ten miles east of Snoqualmie Pass, then three miles south towards Stampede Pass, lies Meany Lodge, a Seattle Mountaineer ski lodge. Edmund S Meany, a U of W professor and Mountaineer president for twenty-five years, had bought fifty-four acres from the Northern Pacific Railroad in 1927 and donated the land to the Mountaineers. His only stipulation was that the property should never be used on Easter Sunday. Mr. Meany was a very religious man.
A hut to shelter skiers was built a few hundred yards from where a train from Seattle would stop to unload skiers before continuing east through the nearby Stampede Pass tunnel. Over the years, that small structure continue to expand until it became a four-story building capable of housing well over 100 people for a week-end.
The train has long since ceased to bring in the skiers. Cars are now left at a Sno-Park area just off I-90. From there, one can walk the three miles in, heavily laden with an overnight pack, sleeping bag, and ski equipment, or one can be hauled in by a Bombadier Snow Tractor, which has been transformed into a tarp-covered box atop tank-like treads, with benches capable of seating maybe eleven people on either side. To sit on the bench, it is necessary to remove the pack and hold it on one’s lap. Skis and poles are piled outside into racks on either side of the vehicle. In the middle of the snowcat the weekend’s food supply is stacked. Only those who are old or infirm or too young…or a non-skier…may ride inside. The others must load packs onto their backs, step into their skis, and grab a loop on the rope which trails behind the cat from either side. The loops are spaced about ten feet apart. As the cat slowly moves forward, skiers wait until the person in front of them picks up the loop before picking up one for themselves. A beep from the horn announces departure as skiers gripping the loops in one hand and ski poles in the other brace for that first inertia-breaking tug, newcomers praying to keep in balance. Each rope can tow about forty skiers, and it is quite a sight to see two long lines of colorfully dressed people, laden with overnight packs, glide effortlessly along the road. One rider inside the snow-cat sits facing the group, horn button in hand, watching. Should someone fall, a ‘honk’ alerts the driver who stops immediately until a double honk indicates all are ready to go again. Some days, honks seem to fill the air.
Most of that tow in is on fairly fevel ground. The final mile, though, includes a long, steep pitch which challenges one’s endurance for hanging on. Once past this pitch, the railroad tracks are reached and the way is level again. If snow conditions permit good traction, the snow-cat will haul the crowd right to the lodge. Often, though, the treads can’t grip well enough, and, with a moan of disappointment, those on skis must let go of the rope, remove their skis, and trudge up one more steep patch, about one-quarter mile in length, to reach the lodge. The rope is hauled in by the ‘horn’ person, coiled and hung on hooks; the now less burdened vehicle continues to the lodge to disgorge riding passengers and the food supply while the hapless skiers struggle ever upward, carrying the heavy pack, skis, and poles.
Entrance is into the ‘Dungeon,’ the basement level room containing ski racks, drying areas for wet clothes, restroom facilities, washbasins, a first aid room, and a spare room of sorts, which is an alcove equipped with a couch, usually filled with giggling teenagers.
Once skis are racked, the crowd surges up two flights of rather narrow stairs, past the dining and social area, to the third floor dorms, divided into ‘Men’s Dorm’ and ‘Women’s Dorm’, or up one more flight of stairs to the ‘Couples Dorm’ or the ‘Committee Dorm,’ occupied by the regulars who mostly keep the place running. Bunks are chosen and packs are left as skiers return to the main floor. Here, long tables and benches, reminscent of bunkhouse dining, fill the middle space. To the right is a large, cheerful kitchen; to the left is an area large enough for a couple of ping pong tables or for gathering chairs into sociable clusters, usually around the main heat vent, or to clear for an evening of live music and dancing. Several of the members come equipped with violins, accordians, and even a tuba or a bass fiddle.
A core committee with permanent assignments hurries to open water pipes, to get the furnace going, to get water heated for cocoa, to get a huge pot of coffee made, and to set out snacks. All work is done by volunteers. The closest one comes to being paid for work done is to be given the weekend free of charge if the job is particularly time-consuming. A sign-up sheet listing ordinary tasks to be done is filled as people arrive. Every person, regardless of age, is expected to do one task, be it shoveling snow, stoking the fire, helping in the kitchen, or doing one of the various clean-up jobs at closing. Only toddlers are exempt.
The ski area itself is another walk of about two city blocks. Here there are no chair lifts nor carefully groomed slopes. Skiing at Meany is not for the faint-hearted. Three rope tows take skiers to their destinations. Since Meany is maintained and run by a devoted Core Group with a wacky sense of humor, everything has a name to describe its virtues or lack of same.
For the absolute beginner is ‘The Snail.’ It carefully and slowly tows the learner along a very gentle and groomed slope. At almost a right angle to it is the ‘Worm Tow,’ which leads to a slightly more challenging slope, also groomed, also for beginners. It is so-named because it merely inches along at two miles per hour. Parallel to the Worm Tow is the ‘Mach Tow,’ so called because it seems, at least to a beginner, to move at the speed of sound. At nineteen mph it races to the top of an increasingly steep slope. It takes every ounce of courage one can muster for a terrified beginner to use it. The final thirty feet or so climbs at about a steep forty-degree angle. By the time one reaches the top, where two safety gates are posted to stop the rope immediately should a skier burst through it, it feels more like the rope is moving at fifty mph as one’s grip becomes exhausted and one is sure death is imminent. Release is the most exciting part of what is already an exciting enough ride. No just letting go and swinging to the right to coast to a stop. The Mach Tow becomes a giant slingshot as the steep slope abruptly levels and the tow rope ends. Here, timing is everything. Releasing too soon means a backward slide downhill into those screaming uphill still on the rope. Releasing too late means crashing through the safety gate, bringing the rope to an abrupt stop, still filled with desperately clinging skiers not sure what to do now…turn off there to ski down or hang on and hope arms aren’t jerked loose from their sockets when the rope starts up again. The path here is among trees and usually rather icy. Friendships are not strengthened for the one responsible for crashing through the gate. A perfectly timed release leaves the skier still traveling at the same speed, nineteen mph, but now airborn, as if shot from a slingshot. Twelve or fifteen feet later, the landing must be done with a quick turn, for trees are coming up fast.
At the top of the Mach Tow are choices of many ungroomed runs, right or left. However, after a heavy snowfall, since the grooming machine goes barely halfway up the slope, all skiers are drafted into slide-slipping down to do the packing, as wet deep snow is basically impossible for skiing. This is done again and again until the slope is nicely packed.
Even just getting started on the Mach Tow is an adventure daunting to all newcomers. Because the rope is moving so quickly, one can’t just grab and go. With ski poles tucked under the outside arm and the rope singing along the side of the jacket (which is very good for the duct tape business), the rope must be allowed to pass through a gloved hand as the grip is slowly tightened. Smoke rises until a strong enough grip gets the skier moving forward. At this point, the tow grip, a device resembling pliers with a hooked end, is slapped onto the rope with the other hand to ease the pressure of the gripping hand. This makes it easier to stay on the rope. Gloves need to be sturdy and reinforced with leather on the palm. Nylon ski wear is discouraged. The speed of the rope melts nylon. As it is, even the toughest material winds up being heavily patched with duct tape. Duct tape becomes the official badge of a Mach Tow user.
At the top of Mach Tow, a right turn leads across Railroad Meadows to Cognito Wood, a patch of trees thick enough to conceal a skier’s identity; hence, a skier is in ‘Cognito.’ Cognito Wood leads to Psycho Path, which parallels a cliff above a waterfall and the railroad tracks. The name comes from its warped and twisted nature. Ropes are laced between trees below to catch, one hopes, the unlucky skier who can’t maintain balance on the occasionally one-ski wide path.
A better choice is to head left, although traversing Phogbound Gulch which connects the slopes of North Slobovia and South Slobovia is almost as difficult as traversing Psycho Path, although not as dangerous. Many Dogpatch names adorn the runs: Druthers Gulch, Bullmoose Ridge, Iggle’s Nest. Phogbound Gulch was named, of course, for Senator Jack S Phogbound of Lower Slobovia.
Names of runs also honor people who ski there. A girl named Karen fell off Psycho Path at a corner now known as Karen’s Corner. A logged-off hill is called Walt’s Woods, named for Walt Little whose head looked as if it, too, had been clear-cut. Al’s Fringe, at the bottom of Walt’s Woods, refers to a fringe of trees left standing as a fringe of hair that still graced Al’s head. Then there is Ferguson’s Pool, a pond that a fellow named Ferguson could not resist trying to gain enough momentum to ski across without sinking, unsuccessfully. Richard’s Ravine, just off Psycho Path, shows where Richard Svensson, a Swede immigrant, just could not resist going down it in three feet of fresh snow. It took him three hours to climb back up.
After a day of adventure on the rope tows and the wacky slopes, hungry and often soaked and exhausted skiers return to a toasty-warm lodge where lunch or dinner await, prepared by a volunteer cooking crew. After a meal, the rule is every one must wash his own dishes plus one pot or pan. After dinner, which is always hearty and usually outstanding, the treasurer collects the money for the weekend to cover food and fuel costs while musicians tune up their instruments. Folk-dancing follows, with all ages participating. Or one can go off somewhere to read or work on a hobby. Groups gather at tables for games or good conversation. Lights out at ten. Breakfast, served by another talented group of volunteers, is at eight sharp. At nine, the rope tows are up and running again.
At three on Sunday afternoons, unless there is a three-day holiday, the slopes empty as cleaning chores and packing have to be done in time to leave at 3:30. Volunteers ski all runs to be sure no one has been left behind, then the ropes are pulled up high lest a lot of snow falls during the week and buries them. The Snowcat has moved to the bottom of the hill, about one mile away. Those not riding but planning to tow out behind it on the looped ropes must cross-country ski about a quarter of a mile, not always an easy feat on downhill skis but easy enough for those who know how to ice skate. Then a twisting road descends at an interesting pitch the remaining three-quarters of a mile to the level area where the Snowcat will be met. Skiing down this with many others ahead, behind or beside is often unnerving, considering all are carrying a huge overnight pack and sleeping bag. Once again the loops on the rope are picked up in turn and the tired but happy skiers are towed back to the parking lot and their cars to head back to the mundane work world, eager to call and book space for the next weekend.
Meany Work Parties
Meany Ski Lodge in winter offers alpine skiing, cross-country skiing, snowboarding, and showshoing. It used to have live music and folk dancing. Only with the participation of everybody doing some part of the work needed to keep it running does it all succeed. This holds true in summer and fall as well as during the winter season. Summer and fall work parties are held to prepare the lodge for winter and offer further opportunities for camaraderie, hard work, meeting new people, and learning new skills. Meany is definitely an equal opportunity opportunity. Age and gender are small barriers to doing most jobs that need to be done. A core committee meets periodically to assess what projects to pursue, and The Chairman more or less organizes work crews as people arrive. The club bulletin announces dates and possible projects along with advice on how to dress and what to bring. One week in July is set aside for some major projects. A person can choose to spend a whole week or one day or whatever. A choice can even be made as whether to work, to hike, or just sit and yak with friends. Work parties continue to be held every other weekend following Labor Day, until snowfall makes opening the lodge for business possible. Transportation is generally, but not always, easier than during winter. You simply drive yourself up to the lodge. This is fine, as long as signs pointing to Meany are heeded as there are many logging roads branching off in all directions. The drive up is fine, too, as long as it has not been raining too much and the creek just before the ascent up a logging road to the railroad tracks is not too full.
In mid-summer, fording the creek in any vehicle is generally no problem, except for the faint of heart…one might wonder at the far bank being a bit steep. After a good fall rain, The Faint-of-Heart membership increases sharply. Big wheels look more attractive. The idea of shouldering one’s pack, leaving the car and wading across to hike up that final mile is not unheard of.
Some of the work may be all lodge related: painting, re-doing plumbing, maybe building new shelves and food cages in the pantry (heavy wire mesh is necessary on all cabinet doors to make varmints at least work for their snacks). Occasionally new mattress covers are sewn, and there is always just general cleaning.
Outside work is far more interesting for the most part. Brushing crews must clip back the huckleberry and evergreen saplings. Fuel for the winter is always a priority. Fallen trees are located, limbed, bucked into lengths, loaded onto the truck, and hauled to the lodge where sore muscle opportunities abound as the wood must now be split and stacked. Seasoned wood must be re-stacked from outside piles to inside the woodshed.
Telephone lines, both for the property itself and for the outside world must be checked and repaired. Any adult game enough to try is invited to don climbing irons and safety belt to go up and loosen the bolts of crossarms and the like. Usually enought experienced linemen are on hand to see to the technical side of it all.
Although the creek is forded in summer, a bridge of logs is created in late fall, to be covered with snow for the Snowcat to drive over. In summer the logs are hidden from prying eyes seeking an easy winter wood supply. Keeping the creek fordable also requires keeping a spillway in working order so that all the gravel won’t wash out. This is always an interesting crew to be on.
Those with appropriate skills take apart the engines of the Snowcat and rope tow to tweak, repair, or replace parts. The Snowcat is a special challenge to maintain. WWII parts are harder and harder to find. No matter. One of those Meany guys will study the situation, go home, and manufacture what’s needed himself.
Every summer there seems to be a Special Project. One year, a large woodshed was constructed with concrete blocks. It was a wonderful opportunity to learn to mix cement, to use rebars, to muscle heavy objects up and up as the structure grew…and-to deal with incredible muscle pain later.
Another project allowed anyone so inclined to use a jackhammer. A rec room was being installed at the basement level, never done earlier because of the rock foundation upon which that part of the building rested. Interesting project. Great care had to be taken, of course, to see to it that the whole building continued to stand while rock was hammered apart and load after load of dirt and rock was wheeled out. Again, muscles paid a heavy price.
The most interesting project was setting up a new rope tow. Engineers make up a large part of The Committee, and they were in their glory with this project. Four or five ‘telephone’ poles had to be erected. Holes to set them into had to be dug, the poles had to be hauled to each hole, and, for the first and only time ever, I saw geometry put to practical use as the engineers figured where to place each of the two vehicles with winches and exactly where to place the ropes on the poles. At a signal, the one winch began to raise the top of the pole while the other began to pull the bottom of the pole in the opposite direction. As the pole moved into an upright position, peavy poles flew into action to steady and guide it into its hole, where it landed with a satisfying thud. When firmly set in place, the fun of rigging began.
My first summer there found me on the wood supply crew. We would pile a load onto a 1954 Dodge truck, army surplus, lovingly nicknamed The Ox. Then the driver had to be located to haul it to the lodge while the crew trailed behind on foot to unload, chop, and stack it. The Ox would return to the next bunch of wood, which maybe had to be rolled down a slope to The Ox. Although Meany did show a few signs of equal opportunity, it still had a ways to go then. It was still accepted that driving The Ox was a man’s job. I’d grown up driving my dad’s crew truck, a WWII surplus Dodge basically identical to The Ox. The usual driver was reluctant to entrust his beloved Ox to me, but The Chairman thought it was a great idea, and for the next decade, I was The Ox driver and got to haul wood, lumber, cable, gravel, machinery, and to winch logs down hills and out of gullies to storage areas…but not without a lot of testing. I had to take The Ox up ski slopes and down steep banks. I had to back closer to precipices than I cared to. I had a wonderful time in that vehicle.
While most of the work party toiled at this or that project outside, another volunteer group got the outdoor grill going and cooked up steaks or salmon or chicken. Food for work parties was always special…and the only expense to those working there. Evening hikes often followed dinner, or maybe a walk to the waterfall and its pool just below the lodge. No dancing, though, as the dance floor was usually littered with something being worked on. Slides were sometimes shown in the evening, but most were happy just to sit, relax, visit, or listen to Walt Little, our senior citizen, regale us with his stories.
it was a wonderful opportunity to get among interesting people and try one’s hand at unaccustomed tasks. If a teenager showed an aptitude for painting, ditch digging, or using a wrench, mentors were at hand to teach and encourage. If a woman wanted to help with carpentry, plumbing, or wiring, the offer was enthusiastically accepted. Most is merely grunt work, but, with the right companionship, it is always fun.
MEANY LODGE
My first visit to Meany occurred in 1977, a few days after Christmas. I’d had a little experience with cross-country skis and had the notion it would be fun to take my two nephews, ages nine and seven, and their nine-year-old step-sister to the lodge for a week-end. I’d never been there, but the description in the Mountaineer bulletin made it seem a wonderful place to take the three youngsters and introduce them to cross-country skiing and to the wonderful world of winter recreation. Little did I know the work and struggle involved.
For Christmas, I had purchased each child a mountain parka. Then I scoured surplus stores for socks, wool caps, gloves, warm sweaters and shirts. I even found bright red knickers that proved to be the perfect length to serve as children’s ski pants, although a bit roomy elsewhere. All had to be identical to avoid squabbles. Next I gathered goggles, whistles, flashlights, foam sitting pads, and packs…again all identical. Pint-sized cross-country skis were not easy to find, but, at last, each child was outfitted.
The children were terribly excited. I was terribly exhausted. It had taken all evening to get us all packed. Only I had an overnight pack. The kids all had day packs into which I crammed all their clothing. I tried to rig carrying straps onto the sleeping bags. I had no idea how far these things would have to be carried.
We arrived with plenty of time to catch the snowcat. And it took plenty of time to carry all of our gear from the parking lot across the highway to the snowcat after the children had struggled into boots, then into hats and mittens, and, finally, into packs. It was all they could do then to manage skis, poles and sleeping bags, but somehow we got settled onto the snowcat.
The ride on the snowcat was great fun, bouncing and jouncing along in a box that sits atop snow treads. There was so much snow that the ‘cat’ couldn’t make the drive clear to the lodge. We were deposited in deep snow below a steep railroad embankment, near a tumble down structure once used perhaps as a little shelter, now abandoned and lovingly referred to as ‘Oedipus Wreck.’ Steps were sort of cut into the embankment, but it was hard-going with packs, skis, sleeping bags, and three less-than-happy children. I decided that the skis could be left stuck upright in the snow, to be fetched later. That helped a little.
Somehow we struggled to the top, across the railroad tracks, and up the driveway, but we weren’t there yet. Ahead of us was one more hill. A groan escaped from all of us. Tears began to appear, not for the last time. A trail of abandoned packs and sleeping bags marked our progress. Up and up we seemed to struggle, although, in reality, it was only a short distance. After a monumental effort, we reached the lodge, then began the many retum trips as I retrieved skis, packs and sleeping bags.
After resting and refurbishing our souls with hot chocolate and graham crackers, we went out to give the skis a try. The kids looked pretty funny in those wool caps, mountain parkas, goggles and baggy, red knickers. The funniness and giggling lasted only momentarily. We soon discovered that cross-country skis do not necessarily snap on easily. After struggling with three frustrated children, my own frustration level was soaring pretty high.
At last we all got going, sort of…all but seven-year-old Steven. He was too light to get his skis to bite into the snow to kick himself forward. He compensated by walking on the sides of his shoes, but it wasn’t much fun for him.
At that time, Meany did not offer much for cross-country skiers. We puttered along on the driveways around the lodge, then headed for the railroad tracks where the ground was very level. Floods had wiped out rail traffic, so it seemed a good route for us to follow. We were pottering along, making progress of some sort…the two nine-year-olds and I on our skis, Steven on the sides of his shoes. We weren’t any of us making the carefree progress depicted in advertisements and outdoor magazines. In fact, I don’t think any of us were having much fun., but we plugged onward…onward, that is, until I thought I detected the rumble of a diesel engine. I had. A snowplow was clearing the track for a repair unit coming along. The long snow plow blades were in a folded-up position as the engine came into view, but they began to lower forever outward as the engine headed our way. We were sufficiently high enough on an embankment to be safe, but the tooting blasts of the horn convinced seven-year-old Steven that there was no such thing as ‘high enough.’ Scrambling for all he was worth on the sides of his shoes, he struggled to get even higher up on the bank. It just didn’t work. The bank was too steep. One very frightened little boy watched the engine and plow rumble past. All the way back to the lodge, he kept nervously watching for that engine to reappear. It didn’t disappoint him. This time, though, we were able to get further from it.
So much for travel along the track. We soon discovered what fun it was to barrel down the curving diveway…fun for all but Steven. I think he had a good time barreling down; it was just such work climbing back up on the sides of his shoes.
Falling on a slope presented a whole new flock of frustrations. If the skis pointed at all downhill, any attempt to rise was doomed to failure. Even with skis parallel to the slope, the edges must be anchored, and there isn’t much solid surface to push against to re-assume an upright position. This absolutely guaranteed more tears of anger and frustration. Steven finally decided that digging a snowcave in the bank offered him more promise of fun.
The other two and I continued to hone our skills on the curving driveway. Once around that curve, the skier was out of sight and stood a good chance of being run into by the next skier if a fall occurred. Because snow absorbs and muffles sound, we never knew if the first skier successfully made it to the bottom or had fallen. This presented a fine source of quarrels and snappishness. Any kid who bumped into another was guaranteed a crabby “Knock it off!” or “Cliff-ffforrrd!” as if it had been done on purpose.
We did all get one good scare due to the lack of visibility around the curve and the absorbed sound. The snowcat suddenly appeared, completely filling the space we had been using. I screamed for Tammy to jump; Clifford and I scrambled up a bank. The snowcat brushed by us. We found Tammy somewhat buried in a snowbank but happy and excited about the adventure she had just had.
We skied until dinnertime, then in we went to change and clean up. Having three children in a lodge is no picnic. Clothing and equipment quickly became strewn over three stories. Running and screaming must be kept to a minimum. Clifford would have been content to sit and read, but Tammy and Steven weren’t prone to allow that. My relaxation was compromised by constant badgering from tired, hungry children…not good for an already edgy temper. Somehow, we made it through the night.
We got as early a start as possible the next day, skiing first down the driveway to the railroad tracks where Steven nervously listened for trains. Then we found a road with well-packed snow that curved down forever. Skis absolutely hummed. I insisted on frequent sit-down stops to somewhat control speed, but the fearless threesome, knowing that ‘snow can’t hurt’ hurtled on recklessly. Clifford and Tammy made it safely to the bottom, but Steven fell, with an ankle well twisted under him. I was sure it was broken. He probably was, too, but-he didn’t even have a sprain. We were soon on our way again.
Clifford, Tammy and I continued to push along the new level road on our skis; Steven followed along on the sides of his shoes. Knowledge of snacks inside the packs dominated their thoughts. After a break, we turned to face the long, seemingly endless climb back to the lodge, arriving barely in time for lunch.
Packing to leave was another ordeal, yet, amazingly, only one flashlight, one strap, and one whistle were missing. It was with no regret that I left, but I had learned a lot. Next time would be better…so I thought.
Pains and Gains of Ski Lessons
One incident at Meany Lodge that stands out was Steven’s first sight of the ski area and the rope tows. Actually, he didn’t see the rope tows; all he saw were people zipping up that slope at nearly twenty mph.
“Wow! How do they do that, Auntie?”
“They get a good running start,” I answered.
He was really impressed. It wasn’t until the next day that he learned the truth. Very indignantly, he told me, “Auntie! They use ropes!!”
Up to that point, my only ski experience had been on cross-country skis. Snowshoe trips had been and still remain my favorite winter recreation, but cross-country skiing was just becoming popular in the 70’s, and my friends talked me into trying it. Cross-country skiing is designed to be enjoyed on gentler terrain than found in the Cascades. Eastern Washington is ideal, but we were in the Cascades, scaling ridges 1800-2000’ above sea level. On snowshoes, I did this all the time, reveling in the success of reaching the top, an issue always in doubt, and thrilling at the descent, usually done by sitting on the long tails of my snowshoes for an exciting ride down.
Climbing to these ridges on cross-country skis was somewhat more work; coming down provided more excitement than I cared to have. Snowshoes gave me the feeling of being in control. Not true of cross-country skis. I had no idea how to turn, slow down, or stop. Shooting straight down a hill through trees certainly was not an option. For me, descending a mountainside on cross-country skis became an ordeal of traversing across the side of the mountain at a shallow angle, sitting down to stop (called ‘the double-bun brake’), rolling over onto my side to face the other direction, and struggling back to my feet with my 20-25 pound pack to repeat the process in the other direction. This continued on and on until I was once more safely on level ground. I missed my snowshoes. They, at least, tended to stay put when I placed my weight on them; skis tend to want to keep on moving.
After my visit to Meany, it occurred to me that I could have fewer frantic cross-country ski moments if I at least learned how to snowplow. Downhill ski lessons were offered there at a very reasonable price. I thought I would pick up a few skills…just three lessons…and let it go at that.
The first thing I learned was how vastly different downhill (or Alpine) ski equipment is from the cross-country ski equipment. The cross-country skis require rather ordinary-looking, low-cut shoes with a sole extended just far enough beyond the toes to be attached to a hinged clamp, leaving the heel free to move up and down. Basically, on level ground, moving on cross-country skis is not very different from walking, except that one glides a few feet before taking the next step. Cross-country ski poles are also about 6” longer than alpine ski poles to allow better gliding action by pushing oneself along. And cross-country skis have scales or ridges on the bottom, with the idea of preventing backward movement when climbing but allowing smooth forward gliding. And cross-country skis are long and narrow…referred to as ‘skinny skis.’ The tips turn up sharply.
Alpine footwear and skis have evolved tremendously in the 70’s and 80’s. Leather lace-up boots gave way to plastic boots that go half-way up the calf, held shut by hard-to-budge buckles. The bindings are elaborate devices that hold both the toe and heel closely to the ski, designed to release in a fall, if set correctly. The setting is very important. The shorter poles are not designed for propelling. They are more for balance, for timing turns, and almost a necessity for regaining one’s feet after a fall. The skis themselves are wider, only slightly turned up at the tip, with metal edges along the length of the ski. The skis today are flexible, designed to slide in any direction possible, whether desired or not. Still, I was sure that after three lessons, I could figure out how to snowplow even on the very different cross-country skis. How naive I was.
It doesn’t do much for one’s ego to stand at the age of thirty-nine in a beginning class of five-and six-year-olds, but it helped to have other adults with me. The instructor patiently put up with all the problems and inhibitions we adults were having, always giving encouragement as we struggled to learn how to be ‘airplanes,’ with arms extended and trying to make turns by digging the metal edges of the skis into the snow and ‘dipping our wings.’ The little ones, of course, took to the idea immediately. We adults fell, sweated, and swore a lot.
Then we were introduced to the Worm Tow, the 2 mph torture rope that moves the skier uphill so slowly that one’s arms are like fo fall right off at the shoulder. We never “got” off; we fell off, usually losing a ski in the process. It was never a simple task to replace the ski, because snow became caked to the bottom of the boot as one struggled upright and back into the binding, which had no toleration for caked snow. Nor does a ski docilely remain stationary while the beginner struggles to knock snow off the boot and jam it back into the binding. If nothing else that first day, we did learn the importance of stomping a flat space parallel to the slope, using the ski still attached to us, then seating the unattached ski into that space before trying to click back into the binding. This is truly an exhausting activity, constantly picking oneself up, retrieving the loose ski, and struggling back into the binding, but I worked hard at it, and by the end of the third Sunday of lessons, I could do a passable snowplow, albeit with an ‘outhouse’ crouch.
Sadly, none of this was transferrable to cross-country skiing due to the total difference in equipment design. But I was hooked. Cross-country skiing, which I had only moderately enjoyed to begin with, gave way to my determination to learn alpine skiing, simply because I found it so demanding of a talent I seemed not to possess. I signed up for three more lessons, and three more after that.
None of my fun is ever without pain. There wasn’t just the pain of falling. There was that achy muscular pain, aging stuff…such as a sore right knee. There was the pain that my rental boots inflicted upon me, upon my poor toes and my ankles. Ski boots are noted torture implements if not perfectly fitted. For the knee pain, my doctor, also a skier, pronounced a case of tendinitis. He thought skiing would be good for it…gives it lots of exercise.
The solution to the boot pain brought a solution to yet another pain…that of driving to REI in Seattle every Friday evening after teaching all week to rent equipment, then again the following Monday to return it. A friend who owned an outdoor equipment store gave me a good price and now I had my very own boots, bindings, skis and poles. Now I was really into it. I wasn’t the height of ski fashion with my patched old WWII surplus wool army pants, but the patches did match the skis and boots. The duct-taped parka was yet to come.
Having my own boots and skis did not elevate me to higher levels of skiing, nor did it solve my aching knee, but toes and ankles rejoiced, and I did get better at doing the snowplow turns, although still in my outhouse crouch.
About my third Saturday up there, I decided to take the next big step…to use a tow grip. That is a metal clamp shaped somewhat like a large pair of pliers but with a hooked ‘beak’ to grip the tow rope with greater strength than mere hands could, provide. Actually, on the Worm Tow, this was necessary only because the tow’s slowness required so much time gripping that rope that exhaustion set in. And on the nineteen mph Mach Tow, few people had the hand strength required to hang on for the distance and steepness involved. The tow grip had a cord through a hole in the handle attached at the other end to a belt, the idea being not to lose the tow grip when one let go of it to swing off the rope at the desired spot.
Up to this point, our class merely skied up to the slow-moving rope and grabbed hold. I assumed one did the same with the tow grip. How wrongly I assumed. I very quickly found that this does vile and violent things to one’s body. One moment I was happily standing beside the tow rope, all in one piece; the next moment, my arms, gloves and tow grip were inching their way up the hill…without me.
Argh-h-h. How does one describe such pain? My armpits were paralyzed. I couldn’t move them up or down. The flabby, fleshy part under my arms screamed in agony, but, with paralyzed armpits, I couldn’t move to offer them any solace. My mouth formed a silent scream…silent because I was not about to inform the whole slope full of skiers of my stupidity, and I was too paralyzed in my armpits to shove my jaw up to shut my mouth. There I stood, fire shooting up under my arms and frost forming on my teeth.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled my arms close to my body. If I held them very tightly there, it wasn’t so bad. But I wasn’t messing anymore with that tow grip. I didn’t ski much that day.
However, I had lessons the next day. I dreaded that rope, but I’d paid my money, by gollee, and I was going to be out there, by gollee. Fortunately, a member of the class was a gentle giant named Bob. He solved my rope tow problem by standing behind me, encircling me with his arms, and together we went up the rope.
Going back to work Mondays always took a supreme effort. After the tow grip incident, I was barely able to get in and out of a coat. It wasn’t until Wednesday that I discovered the full extent of my injury. When my elbow touched anything, it hurt. I looked at it. It was all black. So was the other one. Based on previous experiences, I recognized the problem…I was bleeding into my elbows! Back to my doctor, the skier. He informed me that I had torn some blood vessels when the tow grip jerked my arms SO violently, but, not to worry. I should give it plenty of exercise to clear it up. Skiing would be good for it.
By the next weekend, the arms were better; still sore, but better. And, now, I knew one did not attach the tow grip to the rope until one was going at the same speed as the rope. To do this, the rope was gripped tightly with one hand and, as momentum picked up sufficiently, the other hand grabbed the rope with the grip. I finished that weekend relatively unscathed.
Pains and Gains II
Nancy, a four-year adult beginning skier, and I were on the beginner slope trying to learn to switch from snowplow to parallel skiing, without much progress being noted. To get me into faster turns, which can’t be done in the snowplow position, Nancy stood at the bottom of the Bunny Hill, telling me when to turn, calling “Turn! Turn! Turn!” at a faster pace than I, still in my outhouse crouch, could handle. I think my tips crossed. Suddenly I was catapulting head over heels, more or less. The heels didn’t follow through, perhaps, due to the angle that my head and right shoulder plowed into the snow. Three rapid pops from the shoulder echoed in my ears, no small feat, considering that the right ear was solidly packed with snow. I had no doubt whatever that I had broken a clavicle.
Cautiously, ever…ever so cautiously, I sat up. First I cleared the snow from my ear because I was in no hurry to confirm my collarbone fracture. Gingerly, I began to probe for the tenderness and swelling that are supposed to accompany a fracture. Neither was evident! I couldn’t believe it. No tenderness anywhere. I moved my arm. No problem. I whirled it in a circular motion. No pain. I was puzzled but relieved. I pulled the rest of the snow out of my ear, got back to my feet, and glided back to the tow rope to go up again. Everything was just super-rosy…until I grabbed the rope. OH-MY-GAWD-OOOH and OUCH! Wow! Did that hurt! I let go, and I was just fine again. Not being too bright, or I would never have gotten into skiing in the first place, I grabbed the moving rope again. Again the pain. I tried to go up gripping with my left hand only, but I wasn’t strong enough. Reluctantly, I chose to call it a day.
I still wasn’t concerned. As long as I wasn’t hanging on to the rope, I was OK. Back at the lodge, I packed and carried my gear down the two flights of stairs to the basement. My shoulder hurt just a little. I did have trouble getting into my pack straps, but my friend Nancy helped. By this time I was getting to be a cocky ‘old hand’ at skiing down the driveway, ‘skating’ alongside the railroad tracks for about a quarter of a mile, then screaming down the nearly three-quarters of a mile of twisting, rapidly descending road to reach the level spot where the snowcat would soon come by with towing ropes trailing. Downward I went, balancing a fully loaded pack as I negotiated the curves with my snowplow and outhouse crouch, arriving at the pick-up area with exhausted, burning thighs but arriving triumphantly. With the weight of the pack resting entirely on my hips, I did just fine, even when the snowcat moved forward. As the rope passed along, with skiers in turn grabbing one of the loops, our long line of skiers slowly began to move forward along the road. Two colorful rows of heavily laden people, about forty on each side of the road, happily joked, used ski poles to scoop up snow to throw at each other, hurled good-natured insults back and forth, and finally reached the highway, nearly three miles distant. I held on to my loop with my left hand, thoroughly enjoying the spring late afternoon and the companionship of this happy band of folk. Everything was fine…until I got into my car with my two nephews and my step-niece.
I could not put the key into the ignition. I couldn’t reach that far. Nor could I shift gears. Everything had to be done left-handed. I was a little disturbed by all this but not too concerned. Hunger dominated our thoughts. Dinner in North Bend was our top priority. By time we were served, I could not lift the fork to my mouth. I was beginning to think I might be in trouble.
Shifting gears with my left hand, I did manage to get the kids home to Lake Stevens and myself back to Snohomish. Undressing for bed took much effort. I could not pull a shirt over my head. It hurt too much to raise my arm. I couldn’t raise it at all by now. Somehow I struggled free of that shirt, but it left me exhausted and a little nauseated.
The next day was certainly no better. First I called the school for a sub, then I called the doctor. An x-ray showed no fracture; what I had was a torn ligament. This wasn’t my usual doctor; he was recovering from a hip injured while skiing. He, of course, would have advised me to give it plenty of exercise; skiing would be good for it.. His partner, though, was more the cautious type. I found myself relegated to using an armsling for a week. Button-up blouses were a must, as I could not raise my arm. I reported to work that afternoon where an aide used bright green ink to print ‘Ski Klutz’ on the white surface of the sling. The students loved it.
I still had some equipment to bring out of the lodge before it closed for the season. Since I would be spending the entire weekend there, I took along my skis. I had some fear to overcome and was determined to get at it. I knew I wasn’t showing the greatest wisdom, attempting that same maneuver of parallel skiing, this time with my arm in a sling, but I lay no great claim to superior intelligence. Any good sense that may struggle to the surface is quickly suppressed by intense stubbornness and a large dose of sheer stupidity. After three or four runs, amazingly enough, I was satisfied and content to quit while I was still ahead…totally out of character for me.
Even with my arm in a sling, I could carry a big pack since the weight, via the waist belt, sat on my hips. The straps merely held the pack upright. It was a lovely warm spring afternoon, short-sleeve weather. The lovely warm weather, though, had melted too much snow from the road, and we could not tow out behind the snowcat. I strapped the heavy ski boots to my pack and prepared to hike the three miles out with my friends, Nancy and Betty.
Betty was not a backpacker. She was carrying only a small daypack, which is not attached to a frame with a waist belt. All the weight hangs directly from the shoulder straps. She couldn’t grasp the idea that, even with my heavier load, the frame and waist belt left me in complete comfort. She nattered and nattered that we should exchange packs, leaving me with the smaller pack to carry. To make her happy, we made the swap, but that didn’t last long. Her pack was too painful for me to deal with. I insisted on getting mine back so I could shift the weight back to my hips.
By summer, my arm was fine, and I introduced Betty to the subtleties of backpacking in the greater comfort of using a pack with a frame. Summer and fall work parties to prepare the lodge for a second winter of my ski lessons also helped fill the time until enough snow once again fell and I once again began a season of lessons…and, of course, more pain.
Pains and Gains III
My second season of skiing was mostly less painful, but, of course, not entirely so. I tried to begin where I had left off before tearing the ligament in my shoulder. Although I could feel improvement, I didn’t feel I quite had it. Friends were a big help, most of the time. One would try to correct my outhouse crouch. Another would give me tips on hand positions and body movement. It all helped and was much appreciated, but I needed to learn more, so I signed up for more lessons. It was time to learn about ski poles.
I was assigned to a class with an eleven-year-old and an eight-year-old, both veteran pole users. They could ski circles around me. Sweetly concemed about my morale, they kept telling me how great I was doing as I constantly fell, slid, skidded, and cartwheeled.
Practice does help. We had four weekends of splendid weather, and I skied and skied. Each Sunday, just as I thought I was catching on to the last lesson, but not really sure, the instructor would force me on to something more difficult.
Friends also egged me on. One Saturday they took a notion that I had been on the Bunny Hill long enough. I was to Go To The Top, using the nineteen mph Mach Tow that goes up a 43% incline. It is quite a ride, if one can survive it. Just to approach the rope took almost more courage than I could summon. If only there were a way to sneak up on it.
By now I had learned to let the rope slide through one hand, gloved in heavy-duty leather. As smoke rose from the glove, slowly I tightened my grip until my skis and I began to move. As the rope and I matched speed, with my other hand I clamped the tow grip to the rope, desperately clutching it shut and praying not to lose my grip as I shot up the slope, ski poles tucked under an armpit so both hands would be free to hang on.
The rope whipped along the path, shaded by tall fir trees, then, quite abruptly, the top appeared. The rope passes through a safety gate at the end. The skier is not supposed to. Doing so breaks the connecting power plug, stopping rope movement right then and there, leaving a string of dismayed skiers on a steep slope, desperately clinging to tow grips to avoid a backward plunge down that steep path into other skiers who also are desperately hanging on. Until the embarrassed culprit can maneuver around the gate to reconnect the plug into the outlet, the rope cannot move again.
If all goes well, a foot or two before reaching the gate, the skier lets loose of the tow grip, which is attached to the skier with a cord tied to a belt, counting on having enough upward and forward momentum to swing past and not through the gate. Timing is everything. Letting go too soon leaves the skier teetering just below the top, scrambling to get out of the way of those behind on the rope before gravity dictates a premature descent down our steepest slope. And letting go too late means crashing the gate or being flung awkwardly toward the trees at the top. Even letting go at the perfect moment leaves one briefly airborne, flying at those trees, but perhaps with more options about where or how to land.
Getting to the top is unnerving enough. From there, the beginner sees nothing possible to ski down. Legs quiver and quake. Breathing is done in gasps, whether in reaction to the ride up or to the prospects of getting down is hard to say. Assurances of easier routes down gull me into following my so-called friends to my next thrill. We are going to South Slobovia.
To reach South Slobovia, one must traverse and side-slip a very steep, very narrow little path which arcs from one side of a ravine, called Phogbound Gulch, to the other. The other side slopes sharply downward, all the while curving toward to a steep, short little upward pitch which ends on top of South Slobovia. Enough momentum must be gained on the downward pitch to ascend the upward pitch successfully, at the top of which an abrupt stop must be made, then a scramble to get out of the way of the person following. There is no time to kneel to give a prayer of thanks. I think I just fell out of the way. The crossing was done with much tension on my part, causing my legs to quiver and quake some more. I have been using the term ‘friends’ advisedly, because real friends would not be doing this to me. I learn what real betrayal is when it is time to descend South Slobovia. It is definitely not suited for novice skiers who have not yet discovered what poles are for and who really do not do turns at all well. It was a great place to practice side-slipping, which I did the whole way down. At the bottom of this lovely run, one reaches the bottom of the above-mentioned Phogbound Gulch, which must be crossed again by just going for it, doing nothing to check speed, just gaining enough momentum on the downward swoop to swoop up the opposite side.
Lessons the next day were comfortable in the morning, but the afternoon was so pretty that the instructor thought we should visit North Slobovia, which, I was assured, was much easier than South Slobovia. At least I would not have to do that terrifying traverse around the top of the ravine, but I did once again have to face the terrors of the Mach Tow.
Smoke rose from my gloves. I leaned back. I shot forward and upward, my desperation mounting steadily as ski poles tried to escape from under my armpits and my hands gave every indication of losing their grip. This time, I straddled the gate, teetering. Helpful hands grabbed me before my backward descent into upward-rushing skiers behind me began.
I did not do much right on this descent. In fact, much of the descent was done on my back, collecting quantities of snow under my shirt and pants, or, more often, I was plowing furrows with my nose. Then the instructor thought we should do South Slobovia, traversing once more the scene of my earlier terror. The old adage about familiarity breeding contempt was very slow to develop in me. In this case, familiarity made me all too aware of all the pitfalls that traverse possesses. Once again I somehow made it across safely, as terrified as the first time, but at least this time I began to descend South Stobovia more on my skis than on body parts, still in my outhouse crouch, but more or less upright.
For the season’s final lesson, the instructor had what at first seemed good news: no trips to either North or South Slobovia; no need to sweat that traverse again. Instead, he said, ever so sweetly, we will just go to the top of the Mach Tow, turn around right there, and ski down. That is the steepest slope on the property!! From the top, one can look down and not even see the side! Terror almost undid me, but, bit by quaking bit, with only two slips doing dire things to my hip joints, I did get down without having to resort to sideslipping. I did not go back up. Some things are best saved for other times…or even other people.
New Year’s Eve at Meany Ski Hut
Paul and Gail rented a nice little place over in Port Townsend. They were wintering down here rather than in Alaska while a new 53’ sailing vessel rigged for trolling was being built, and we were looking forward to getting together on occasion. One such occasion, we decided, would be New Year’s Eve 1978. It fell on a Sunday that year. The plan was that they would ferry across Saturday evening and spend the night at my place in Snohomish. We would ski all day Sunday at the Meany Ski Hut, then head back to my place to see the New Year in. I said I would have supper ready for them on Saturday when they arrived.
This was just one of many things on my agenda for that particular vacation period. I had worked myself to a frazzle painting the bedroom, living room, and kitchen those first three days. Then I was off to Aberdeen for the Christmas doings, which, contrary to popular myth, does not have to wait for low tide. Back to Snohomish, then, to pick up my two nephews and their step-sister. A wearing afternoon was spent trying to track down skis and boots for them and to get them packed for an overnight stay at Meany. I fell into bed absolutely exhausted.
We left early the next morning to catch the ‘cat’ to Meany by 9. It was so cold…19 degrees. The children, who were 10 and 9 at the time, had never been on downhill skis before. There was much slipping, falling, bumping into each other, snapping at each other, and, in Steven’s case, much bawling. Maybe they had fun. I didn’t. I became very weary of the tears and the crabbiness. Fortunately, it was just a one-night stand. We had to hurry to all be ready and on the 8:30 ‘cat’ back to the parking lot the next morning. I had another Alaskan friend arriving at SeaTac to meet. Naturally, things turned up missing, and, periodically, so did one kid then another. None of this is good for my mental tranquility. At last, with the thermometer showing 8 degrees, we all settled on the ‘cat’ and arrived at the parking lot three miles away nearly frozen. Steven once again was in tears. He had insisted on sitting at the front of the ‘cat’ and was lucky not to be frostbitten. Once I got the kids home, I still had the skis to return.
At 4 pm, I was at SeaTac to meet my friend, Ingrid. She had an eight-hour layover on her way from Alaska to South Africa, where she had been born and raised. We dined in Mukilteo, then whiled away the remaining time just visiting until she had to board her plane.
The next day would wisely have been a day of rest, but wisdom is not one of my strong points. A friend called to ask me to join her in a cross-country ski outing. Still in 8 degree weather, we met at Silverton on the Mt Loop Hwy and cross-country skied some distance on the closed road alongside the Stillaguamish River. One of my toes apparently froze. After the trip, it hurt, turned dark, and eventually lost a nail.
Again, resting the following day would have made the utmost sense, but I had a reservation to spend the night again at Meany, and off I went again, to catch the early ‘cat.’ The frigid temperature likely had frozen what few active brain cells still left to me. I was still very much a novice downhill skier, still using only the Worm Tow to be dragged almost half-way up the slope at 2 mph. Such a maddeningly slow speed! It was time for me to bite the bullet and learn to use the Mach Tow. Trepidation had my heart pounding wildly as I gingerly sidled up alongside the fast-moving rope. I touched. I grasped. I gasped. Smoke rose from my leather-protected gloves. I tightened my grip. Suddenly I was on my way, flying faster than a speeding bullet, unable to leap tall buildings or anything at all…just desperately hanging on. My face disappeared as my eyes widened to the size of dessert plates. Would I be able to let go in time? Could I? Not to do so meant flying ever upward at 19 mph at an impossibly steep angle to an area no beginning skier should ever be near. What a TRIP! I did let go in time. I did survive. Then it became fun, more or less, although it sure chewed the hell out of my gloves.
I enjoyed myself hugely that day, probably the more so after successfully staring death in the face. I was really looking forward to bringing my Alaskan friends wintering in Pt Townsend to enjoy a day at Meany. They were due that night. Leaving my skis at the lodge, I hopped the 4:45 ‘cat’ back to the parking lot, then made the eighty-mile trip home to finish dinner preparations. I had already cooked beans for chili. Since my friends were not due until 7:30, there was plenty of time to have it ready for them when they walked through the door.
At 7:30, the chili was burbling merrily on the stove. I had a fire in the fireplace, and all was ready for my guests. At 7:30, the phone rang. It was Gail. They were still in Pt Townsend. The prospect of facing drunk drivers on New Year’s Eve had unnerved Paul. They decided not to come. They were sorry.
I didn’t know whether to be crushed or furious. I had so looked forward to this weekend. Now here I was with a full pot of chili and no appetite. All the food I had purchased for New Year’s Eve the next day that I normally don’t eat filled my refrigerator. And, altho Meany would be open for another couple of days, I hadn’t made overnight reservations; we were going to ski only that day then return to my place. I was angry and depressed. What’s more, my skis were still at Meany. I had to drive the eighty miles back to get them.
The next day I was on the 9:30 ‘cat.’ It was 8 degrees again. I made the most of the day, visiting with friends, skiing, snacking. Several cancellations due to the intensely cold weather meant there was room for me to stay, but now my sleeping bag was at home. A cold sleeper who always brings an extra bag offered to loan it to me; he would use blankets around the lodge to make his own bag snug. I wound up seeing the New Year in at Meany, so the weekend wasn’t a total loss. Live music kept dancers warm despite the fierce cold. Little individual pizzas were made according to each person’s taste. At 11:30 we gathered around the roaring bonfire at the foot of the slope nearest the lodge or rode the Mach Tow to the top of the Lane, our steepest slope. Once again, I braved the Mach Tow. Once again terror gripped me as I flew up the hill, quite convinced I had just made the mistake of my life and would not live to see 1979. My safe departure in one piece from the tow brought no relief, for I found myself–me, a dubious skier at best–midway up a steep, icy slope. Above me, young lads were involved in a wild game of tube hockey, hurtling in my direction. Caught between two terrors…descending that icy slope or standing in the path of the approaching insanity of a tube hockey game…legs and body rigid with fear, heart pounding, I went into my first turn. Made it! I worked up courage for the next, all the while vowing that if I somehow ever got down in one piece, I would head straight for the safety of the lodge and never try anything so foolish again. By now it was 11:45.
At 11:48 I was back on the Mach Tow, as terrified as ever, wondering once again what possessed me and vowing once again that if I survived both the Mach Tow and the descent, I’d head straight for the safety of the lodge. And once again I found myself on that terrifying icy slope, as inept as ever. And once again I overcame my terror and made that first turn. Somehow I made it safely down one more time.
Fireworks indicated the arrival of the New Year. At that moment, of course, I was once again flying up the slope, hanging on for dear life, and vowing, this time for sure, that if I survived, I’d head straight for the safety of the lodge. If only I could get down that slope again. The same insane hockey game had begun above me again. I kept an eye on those stumbling, flailing, sliding bodies as I worked up the courage to do something besides just stand there. I was beginning to suspect that I had pushed my luck about as far as it could possibly go and considered that the humility of sitting down and sliding to safety might be my smartest move. But, no, once again I found myself going into that first turn, snow plowing for all I was worth. Made it. Up on the rope again. And again. At last I was down near the bonfire again just as a rescue party headed up the slope to fetch an experienced skier who had taken a nasty fall, badly scraping skin off his forehead and seeing the New Year in-with a slight concussion. The bitter cold soon drove us all inside. I went home early on New Year’s Day: It had tured out to be an interesting New Year’s Eve after all.
Meany New Year Follow-up
I didn’t make reservations to be at Meany for the weekend after New Year’s Eve, because once again Paul and Gail were due. They would come Friday night and we would ski Meany on Saturday. I purchased food for the visit, but once again came the last-minute phone call. One of the children was sick; they hadn’t better come. I could understand that. I was tired anyway and could use a peaceful night at home. They would be over the next weekend, for sure.
I went ahead and made reservations to be at Meany, knowing I could cancel if Paul and Gail actually showed up, but I was beginning to learn. That Friday I bought extra food, but not for my maybe guests…I had learned there, too. This food was for other friends, Nancy and her teenaged daughter Gretchen, who were coming for dinner. Gail called to get directions about meeting the snowcat. I told Nancy I was giving Gail two hours to think it over, call back and cancel. Two hours to the minute the phone rang. Gail and Paul didn’t want to fuss at having to be at a certain place at a certain time. Perhaps I could meet them at Snoqualmie Pass for a day of skiing there. I had a vision of standing hour after hour wondering where they were. I declined the invitation and headed for Meany without them the next morning.
I must say we were persistent; not successful, but persistent. We made arrangements once again to get together on a weekend. Our friends, the Troutners, might join us on Saturday, too. I had a class in south Seattle that morning. En route, a couple of snowflakes fell. I predicted to my passenger that Paul and Gail had a new excuse for not coming. Sure enough, Nina Troutner called about seven that night, saying Paul and Gail wouldn’t come as the idea of driving in snow made them nervous. Troutners decided that they wouldn’t come, either. Even though I had predicted it, I was pretty disappointed. I felt sorry for Gail. I knew the decisions were Paul’s, but she was the one who had to do the calling and apologizing. I’m afraid I wasn’t very friendly on the phone. We never did get together to ski that winter…or ever, for that matter.
All ski areas think a spring carnival is necessary to attract skiers whose interests are turning more to gardening, biking, hiking, sailing and other such non-skiing activities. It never works. It is rarely advertised, for one thing, but in spring, people just are not interested in snow activities except for the die-hard skiers, who are not at all interested in the carnival nonsense. In commercial ski areas, a spring carnival usually means employees are to dress in silly costumes to show what a crazy, fun-loving bunch they are. A steel drum band or rock and roll group is hired to play outdoors, weather permitting. Snow sculptures are created by employees who are happy to get off work and still get pald basically for playing in the snow. Quite often a sleigh ride on a straw-covered sledge drawn by horses or a snowmobile is offered, along with pie-eating contests, dummy races (actual dummies created by the employees, not the employees themselves), and contests of daring, such as gaining enough momentum coming downhill on skis or a snowboard to skim safely and drily to the other side of a pool of water created by digging a depression in the snow, covering it with a tarp and filling it with water. Meany Ski Hut liked to set up obstacle courses. The idea was to get through them in the shortest amount of time on skis without spilling a spoonful of popcorn kernels or while flipping and catching a pancake with a spatula and not losing it. Kids were encouraged to wear costumes, and sometimes an adult would join in wearing one. There were slalom races through gates: which were not always made of bamboo poles; sometimes skiers were lined up as ‘gates,’ the idea there not to knock someone down.
Food prep was a major activity for this weekend. The gal who ran the whole show would have a large crew making little roses out of radishes, or curling carrot peelings just so, making very attractive displays of food. No woman was exempt from a kitchen task. Creating beautiful veggie and fruit trays can be satisfying, I suppose, but not at the expense of missing a day of skiing, which is the real reason for being there. I found it an extremely tedious way to spend a day, and I went to great lengths to be elsewhere. In the early 80’s, I and many-others were madly pursuing a variety of classes to earn credits in order to advance on our salary scales. It was the perfect excuse to duck out, I had a spring ecology class to attend that Saturday. I certainly did not mind missing the carnival preparations, or even the carnival itself, but a special group of musicians were going to perform that night, and I did mind missing that. One of the Meany people, knowing how much I enjoyed that group, called to tell me of a special trip to be made by the snowcat coming out at nine that night. She had called another friend to tell her to be sure it waited for me. What could I do but go? At least all that folderol of food prep would be done and out of the way.
Hail and snow greeted me as I neared the summit of Snoqualmie. It continued to snow all night. I arrived early and had plenty of time to dress warmly for the snowcat, but it wasn’t the snowcat that came…it was the Thiokol, the vehicle used to groom ski slopes and pack the snow down. It had an enclosed cab and an over-efficient heater in a very small space. The layers of clothing meant to shelter me from the cold ride in the open snowcat quickly were peeled off.
It was 10 pm when we finally reached the lodge. The music was still playing, but most people had gone to bed. There were no empty bunks in the dorm, so I plopped my gear in the dungeon, an area in the basement behind the big furnace, surrounded by hanging, drying clothing, but equipped with a sofa…of sorts. The basement also holds the wood supply, the bathrooms, the washbasins, and the ski racks. Benches are available to use while struggling into or out of boots. It is also the area where the teenagers hung out before a special rec room was built for them. Tired as I was, I stayed up until the last of the dancers quit at 11 and the musicians put away their instruments. By time all had finished their bedtime preparations downstairs in the basement, it was 11:30 and I could finally lie down. Of course, I hadn’t counted on the teenagers. They were not at all ready to call it a night, and here I was, in what they considered their area, wanting to sleep. They were not happy, but they knew a crabby schoolteacher when they saw one and hastily headed back to the dining area.
Tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I could still hear the giggling from the dining area, and so could the people in the dorms above. About 12:15, someone chased the kids to bed. Another hour passed before I drifted off, only to hear the furnace door clang as the fire was stoked. Then the bladder parade began, a steady patronization of the johns about 10-12’ from me. It was a short night of sleep. At 6:30 I gave up and went up to the dining room to help set up for breakfast. The skiing was good that day, the food was wonderful, and the music was outstanding, well worth all the hassles of getting there late and losing a fair amount of sleep. At home that evening I was in bed very early, for I had more teenagers to face the next morning at school.
Follow-up to the Meany New Year Follow-up
Meany was a bit of heaven for children. If not in ski lessons or already experienced little skiers, there was still all that snow to play in…to roll in…to dig in. Children had no end of opportunity to become as wet and exhausted as their hearts desired. Nor was there a noise limit outdoors. Plenty of adult traffic to and from the lodge and on the slopes assured sufficient supervision against lack of judgement, but, by and large, kids could be kids.
Indoors, life was slightly more limiting…noise had to be held down. There, the older folk tolerated only so much. Any child exceeding acceptable limits was stopped by almost any nearby adult. The occasional parent who would object to somebody else meting out warnings to their children to calm down or behave would be invited to take their child or children home. Most parents seemed to appreciate the extra help. There is nothing like a roomful of disapproving adults to make a child think that being outside or down in the dungeon to be more preferable.
There was plenty to do indoors to entertain children. Board games and card games abounded. There were two ping-pong tables. Occasionally a creative activity was provided. Often, in the evening after dinner, there was an ice cream crank to take turns at or pizzas to invent or cookies to decorate. During the days of live music and folkdancing, youngsters were encouraged to participate.
Except for toddlers, each child was expected to pitch in with clean-up at the end of the weekend. Nor were children exempt from washing their own dishes after a meal. A chair was provided for small ones to be able to reach the sink. Parents who wished to spare their children these little inconveniences of life soon decided it was better to follow lodge rules than be nattered at by the regulars who could not abide pampered children.
Sometimes parents were simply oblivious to their children’s actions. Two young girls, pre-teen or just barely into their teens, had a tough time adjusting to Meany expectations. They had led a privileged life of servants performing every little chore as their father was a math teacher at a school in Saudi Arabia. There, servants were an accepted part of life, likely barely noticed. The girls had no idea what it was to look after themselves. At Meany, they continued to think menial chores were for others to do, not for them. After a meal, at first they’d just get up and leave the table. Angry yells brought them back to pick up their dishes, which were then just dumped off at the sink for some one else to wash. That didn’t go over very well, either. Resentfully, they would stomp back to do the minimum washing and drying expected of everybody. A trail of their belongings made it obvious where they had been. And their rather haughty air of importance endeared them to no age group. Their appearance each weekend was not greeted with joy. I’m sure that being there was not of their choice, either.
I never did know what happened to their mother or how long they had been motherless. Their dad, Pete, was on vacation from his Saudi Arabian job, using his time to find a replacement for their mother.
It was Pete who had the extra sleeping bag to loan me that New Year’s Eve I had come back just to fetch my skis. He was a pleasant fellow, average in looks, not tall. Tne New Year Day after I’d used his sleeping bag, we chatted a long while, until it became clear to me that he was finding me an acceptable candidate to become step-mother to those two horrid youngsters. I thanked him for the loan of the sleeping bag one final time and quickly excused myself.
Pete was persistent, though. He telephoned me several times during the following week to ask me out to dinner or to a movie. I declined every offer. He finally demanded to know why I kept turning him down, and I bluntly told him I knew his goals and had no intention ever of uprooting my life and moving to Saudi Arabia to be his daughters’ step-mother. He was startled to be spoken to so frankly but admitted that was his goal and tried to sell me on the finer points of living like royalty in Saudi Arabia. Again he was told I had no interest.
Time was running out for Pete. He thanked me for my honesty and turned his attention to other eligible women at the lodge. Most of us regarded him as rather pathetic and he became somewhat of a joke among us. We couldn’t imagine any one accepting him or, more especially, his daughters. He was almost becoming regarded as a pest.
One of the more proficient skiers at the lodge was Barbara, a divorcee with two children, a boy and a girl. They were delightful youngsters who modeled their mother’s skiing skill and good manners. Barb had been on skis since before she even entered kindergarten. Small, barely 5’ tall, she was a sight to behold on the slopes. Nothing was too difficult for her to ski. On the rare occasions that deep powder was present, it was pure joy to watch her soar down the slopes, barely visible behind flying powder. No one else could match her elan and joy in skiing powder.
At the end of the day, while waiting for dinner to be served or for dance music to start, Barb was also a delightful conversationalist. Her interests ranged through many areas. Needless to say, she also shone on the dance floor. Because she was the sole support for her two children, she couldn’t always afford to come up, but they all added much delight when they could come.
Her absences were not much wondered about when they occurred. We all knew that she lived on a tight budget. After an unusually long absence, she and her children were warmly welcomed back, but…those two spoiled girls of Pete’s were with her! We finally got the whole story. Pete had pursued her ardently. He offered financial security for her and her two youngsters, and being the adventurous sort anyway, she married him and off to Saudi Arabia they all went. Her children were less than thrilled to become step-siblings to the two girls, and friction arose as Barb’s children had been raised to be responsible and to do their share in life. They regarded their new step-sisters as hopelessly spoiled brats. They probably didn’t mind Pete as a step-dad. He was pleasant and rather innocuous. And maybe the idea of living in an exotic land held some appeal.
Here Barbara was, back in our midst at the lodge, with a new last name. We were astounded to learn that she had married Pete. He, by then, was totally regarded as a joke by most who knew him. Where, we asked, was Pete? We were shocked even further to learn that Pete had gone out to sail solo one afternoon in the Arabian Gulf and had somehow fallen overboard and drowned. The two girls were now orphans. Pete’s insurance left them comfortably provided for. The girls were a challenge, changing them from their pampered ways to life as most of us know it, but no better person than Barb could successfully produce the two eventually likeable, charming young women they eventually became.
Meany Couples
The family always sat together at social functions: the father, the mother, and the six stair-step daughters, yellow braids wrapped tightly around heads, all wearing identical wire-rimmed glasses, mother and daughters all knitting furiously. Nancy, the eldest, became the only one I ever met. She and her husband Ed were Meany Lodge regulars. Ed was a tall, lanky, good-natured fellow with a Lincoln-like beard, she was short, squat, and always with yellow braids tightly wrapped around her head…very definitely individualists. They dressed according to their own needs and tastes, styles be hanged. And they ate according to their own tastes and beliefs. They were very much in love, and it was a beautiful thing to behold. When together, hands were held or laps were filled or arms were tightly wrapped around each other. If parted for a few moments, their reunions would challenge any following lengthy separations.
Both loved to dance, and they danced very well. And both seemed to hate being separated if the dance called for a change of partners. A kiss always reunited them. The intricate pattern of some of the dances always invited another kiss when again face to face.
Of the two, Ed was the superior skier. He always went up to the more difficult slopes on the fast- moving Mach Tow. Nancy stuck to the Worm Tow and to the less challenging slopes. As Ed would shoot by on the Mach Tow, he would always yodel to her, and she would answer with a happy, “Cuckoo!”
Lunch and other meals were always brought in a multitude of tupperware containers. It was not unusual to see one offering the other a dainty morsel on the tip of a fork, with love. Theirs is a love sure to endure.
Occasionally Nancy’s parents would come to the lodge, also bringing their own food supply. One day they arrived too late to catch the snow cat ride in and decided to walk the three miles to the lodge through rather deep snow. They left before noon, quite heavily burdened. The snowcat driver saw them near the turn-off from Stampede Pass Road to the lodge, about four hours later, as he came out for the evening run. They weren’t making very fast progress. When he returned to the lodge some time later, the couple still had not arrived, and the driver had not seen them on the road. Quickly a search party was formed, and the couple was soon found. They had tried to take a shortcut through the woods and had become bogged down in the deep snow. Had the snowcat driver not seen them earlier, no one would have known they were out there.
The search party put the couple’s gear aboard the snowcat, then set about the job of getting the wife unstuck from hip-high snow. This was no small job; she was not tall, but she was quite rotund. Then came the task of getting her aboard the snowcat; she was too exhausted to offer much help. One person pushed from behind and another inside the snowcat pulled mightily. Success at last, and, long overdue, the weary couple were brought to the warm welcome of Meany Ski Lodge.
Yet another couple, Dick and Georgine, likely met at Meany. The romance certainly bloomed at Meany. It was therefore fitting that they were wed at Meany. The ceremony was held in the trees above what is called the Kitchen Jump, a steep chute leading to a snow-covered ramp which lands jumpers very near the kitchen at lunchtime. Georgine wore a long dress over her wool army pants and ski boots. After the ceremony, they skied, rather cautiously, over the Kitchen Jump, then over to the tow rope to make a couple of runs before returning to the lodge for the wedding party. Upstairs, the Meany kids had enclosed a bunk with curtains made of pink and white sheets and festooned with red and white hearts hanging from pink ribbons. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was hung. Breakfast was served to them in bed the next morning by some of the youngsters.
Marriage has united a good many of the couples who met at Meany–but, so far, only Dick and Georgine have gone so far as to have the ceremony performed at the Lodge.
Walter
All Mountaineer groups produce characters, and Meany is certainly no exception. Our most beloved character, hands down, was Walter B Little, a veteran of the 10th Mountain Division, a civil engineer who helped design the layout of the Crystal Mt ski resort, a member of the Ancient Skiers, and the self-proclaimed president of the RABCSA (Retro Active Birth Control Society of America). Walt was also one of The Great Teller of Tales.
As president of the RABCSA, Walt took it upon himself to challenge the teen-aged members of the lodge to keep up with him. As already noted, skiing Meany is no simple task to begin with. Keeping up with Walter, even in his 70’s, was something few of our young hot doggers could do. He’d start with something simple, such as playing ‘Gates,’ where the boys lined in a row downhill, maybe 6 feet apart, taking on the role of human bamboo poles posing as gates for slalom skiing. The boy at the top of the line began the slalom, then became the bottom gate. This went on until it was Walter’s turn. My, he could be clumsy! Seems he would hit every single boy as he went by, declaring himself the winner since he was the only skier still standing.
Then he would lead them across Phogbound Gulch, over Bullmoose Ridge, and off to a flying leap from Iggle’s Nest. Survivors of this then got to face The Psycho Path, hurtle down Slobovia, then back to begin all over again. Walter was always disappointed if anyone could still return to the rope, a grave failure for the president of the RABCSA.
He did actually lose a fellow once, although this was not a teenager. I don’t know that Walter was all that fussy. As he happily skidded to a halt at the bottom of a run and turned to see how his partner was doing, he found himself alone, supposedly his goal, but Walter was worried. This was a good skier he had just lost. Where was he? There was no sign of the fellow at all. Walter removed his skis and began the tedious job of postholing back up the slope. He saw a hole in the snow where a pair of ski tracks ended. Suddenly, a red face popped to the surface, huffing and puffing from exertion.
What had happened was that the fellow had traveled across a stump which was covered with insufficient snow to carry the skis across. In fact, the lack of snow caused the skis to come to an abrupt halt, catapulting the young man head first into a snowbridge that had developed over a creek. For some reason, his boots did not come out of the bindings. Only his skis kept him from pitching headfirst into the creek. There he hung, upside down in an eerie, snowy world as the creek gurgled past his head.
Luckily, his skis and bindings held, and, luckily, he was a wiry fellow. He twisted about, knocking snow out of his way, until he could reach his ski and release one binding. Somehow, he hung onto that ski with one hand until he could release the second binding. Both hands gripped the skis, keeping him out of the water below. He found enough strength still, strength of desperation, to be sure, to use the skis to pull himself back to the surface of the snow just as Walter arrived.
Walter also loved to tell of a wartime experience. The 10th Mountain Division was training at Mt Alyeska in Alaska. Troopships bearing young soldiers from Alabama and Georgia were heading for the Aleutians when a case of mumps or measles temporarily halted the convoy. The troops were off-loaded and settled in Quonset huts until further danger of contagion had passed. The young men were very bored, and fights began to erupt among them. Officers put their heads together and decided fun and recreation would set things right. The 10th Mountain Division had a warehouse full of big wooden skis with boots attached. Just the ticket!
The young GI’s from the South were marched to the warehouse, asked their shoe size, and handed a pair of skis. Excitement ran high as they gleefully slipped into ski boots and laced them tight. At an order, they all snapped to attention, or tried to. Getting into marching formation inside a warehouse with skis attached to every pair of feet was not a workable idea.
The clattering alone made orders impossible to hear. Finally came the order to remove and shoulder skis.
No chairlifts or rope tows greeted these fellows. They had to hike to the top. No matter. They were having the time of their lives. At the bottom of the slope, lined up in front of the Quonset huts and feeling very pleased with themselves for so cleverly solving a problem, stood their officers, in blissful ignorance of what was about to happen.
Skis were donned once again, and the order to descend was given. The smiling officers soon realized that not all was going according to plan. These boys had never skied before. They had no idea how to turn or to stop, and they were rapidly approaching the officers at an alarming rate of speed. Officers began fleeing for their lives. Screaming soldiers smacked into the Quonset huts and each other. Many a bone was broken. Those that survived unhurt shouldered their skis to hike back up and do it again. The 10th Mountain Division thought it would never stop laughing.
Another of his stories involves The Ancient Skiers. They’d met for a couple days of fun at Sun Valley, retiring each evening to a favorite bar to drink the evening away. This bar had a heated outdoor swimming pool, surrounded by a glass barrier, usually opaque with steam from the pool. After a sufficient number of drinks, it was decided a dip in the deserted pool was in order. None had swimming trunks, but, no matter. The steamy windows provided privacy. The steamy windows also shielded them from view at closing time. They found themselves locked outside on a cold, frosty night. The water of the pool kept them warm all night, but it also enervated them. When they were discovered the next morning, they were too weak to leave under their own power. A highly amused staff helped these wrinkled and puckered old men back into their clothes and got them off to a local hospital to be checked.
Walter himself is a story. His ski outfit was a flourescent orange snowmobile suit…and an orange helmet. He admitted that at his age, accidents could happen, and he wanted to be spotted quickly in case of an accident. The accident finally did happen. He fell and broke a hip while skiing up at Whistler, BC. The ski patrol promptly came to his assistance, made him secure and comfortable, and asked the usual questions: name, age, address. The ‘age’ left them all agog. When he said, “87,” they couldn’t believe anyone of that age would still be skiing. But Walter was indeed 87, one of the more ancient of the Ancient Skiers.
After a year of physical therapy and working out, Walter once again returned to Whistler. He was ready to hit those slopes! As he stepped out of his little camper, he slipped on ice…and broke the other hip. One more year of physical therapy and working out.
Just before his hip problems, I had a fun day of skiing with Walter at Mt Bachelor, where he easily skied me into the ground. I asked him how long ago he had learned to ski…it was the year I was born. At the end of the day, it was such a relief to get back to the day lodge to sit and rest. I was sure Walter was relieved, too. We had skied hard all afternoon. Just as we sat, Ancient Skiers who hadn’t known he was on the mountain, too, walked by. Glorious reunion! They were just going up for a few runs. Want to come? Walter immediately accepted. I declined, with thanks. Guess I just wasn’t ancient enough yet.
Toward the end of 2000, for some reason, I felt I should start looking at Seattle obituaries for Walters name. I had not heard of any reason to do so, other than Walter was at least 92. Nothing appeared. The New Year came and I kept watching. Still nothing. Then I got a phone call. Walter had taken his life toward the end of February. He had been on his usual Ancient Skier trip to Sun Valley and had spent the entire three weeks sick in bed. When he finally was able to, he drove himself back to Seattle. Apparently he felt there was no more skiing in his future. Such a future held no appeal to him. He had requested nothing to be put in newspapers at his passing.
Snowcat or Tomcat?
The Snowcat and its modes of getting people to and from the lodge have already been somewhat described elsewhere…its appearance, its less-than-comfy ride inside, the procedure for being towed on ropes to some extent. Less mention has been made of Tomcat, the main driver for many, many years. Tom Van Devanter was also part of the experience of traveling in or behind the ‘cat.
Blessed with a gap-toothed grin, slightly lopsided, and a razor-sharp tongue, Tom’s greetings as people arrived to catch the ‘cat were dreaded by those who didn’t know him well and looked forward to by those who could hardly wait for the verbal sparring that addressing Tom for any reason always seemed to produce. Tom generally climbed into his cockpit when time to go fairly satisfied that he had come out on top.
Any excuse to give someone a bad time made Tom’s day…be it arriving just moments late to watch the ‘cat recede into distance or being not quite ready when Tom was or losing one’s balance and falling…all produced That Grin. He kept a tight schedule with that ‘cat, showing little mercy to late-comers. Nor was he about to let anyone walk in without a pack…no free luggage rides there. He also took no pity on stuck snowmobilers. And any pickup truck or 4-wheel drive vehicle stuck on the road was simply driven around.
Mechanically talented, he spent many an hour working to keep that vehicle running. After dinner, no matter what the weather, he would disappear into the Cathouse (choose your own definition here…Tom insisted that it was so called because that is where the ‘cat repairs were made). It was admirable the amount of time he spent there evenings. Others would drift out to check on him…once it became known what ‘Tea Time’ meant.
It would take a serious interview to cover all the adventures Tom has had driving that vehicle. One he may not mention involves pink ribbons. Tom seemed not to care for pink ribbons. For some reason, it was decided by some to put this claim to a test. A pink ribbon was woven into his hat, which he had carelessly left tossed onto a bench when he entered the hut. More likely it was simply a crime of opportunity. Pink ribbons were there; the hat was there; it was Tom’s. What more could be asked? Tom’s biggest mistake was to let it be known that he did not think this was funny. To assure it wouldn’t happen again, he left the hat in the cockpit of the ‘cat. Heck, that was no problem. Once again a pink ribbon found its way into his hat. In the dark, Tom did not discover it immediately, but it was clear that he was not amused when he did.
Not much more was ever said about this. One summer, tho, Tom was volunteered by his wife Wanda to fix a tv antenna for their friend Linda in Snohomish, a memorable visit which resulted in extra repairs to the plumbing that Tom kicked apart as he struggled to crawl through the tight crawl space to get under the house. He had arrived wearing a baseball cap. Not wanting to get it dirty, he left it in the house, and forgot it upon completion of the job. It was returned to him by mail…with a pink ribbon tied on top.
One pretty but cold morning the parking area was really humming. Car after car, even busloads of people pulled up, disgorging skiers, snowshoers, and snowmobilers. The Boy Scouts were doing their winter campout. The intersection was a-swarm with humanity. It was good to board the ‘cat to get away. On board were several new faces, mostly ruddy: blonds with suitcases.
The ‘cat had traction difficulty that day. It didn’t get very far up the hill when Tom said we would have to walk. As we got out into the deep snow, a lady with a six-year-old boy asked, “How much further?” I answered, “About one-half mile.” She remarked that she didn’t remember Trollhaugen being that far in. “Trollhaugen? This isn’t Trollhaugen. It’s the Mountaineer Lodge.” Trollhaugen was about one and a half miles back toward the highway. They had gotten on the wrong ‘cat.
Burdened with luggage, they wondered if Tom would bring it and them to Troilhaugen. I assured them that Tom would not. When he stopped for us to remove gear because he was still losing traction, she asked him anyway, with the predicted result. With all of their luggage stacked in a snowbank, they trudged on up the hill with us to the lodge to call their lodge. Although only a mile and a half away, that is when we learned it took a long distance call to reach it. For some reason, the Norwegian lodge was in the eastern Washington calling code. Soon the Norwegian snowcat came chugging up the hill and everything was taken care of.
Neil Hunt
I first met Neil Hunt on a backpack trip that I led up Thunder Creek. We were scheduled to stay at Middle Cabin but found the area closed for restoration. The ranger gave me a permit to stay at McAlister Camp, a bit further up the trail.
Neil was lean, tan, grizzled—an elementary school p.e. teacher. Obviously he was in top condition. As we arrived at the parking lot, Neil had his pack on and was jogging in place while I waited for an overweight woman to struggle out of her car. I could see it was going to be an interesting trip.
I asked Neil to lead the way, after explaining our new destination. I felt I should stay and shepherd the slower hikers, much to the disgust of the heavy lady. My friend, Jeri Shevlin, was in the slower group but easily able to outdistance the portly one. I was walking along, deep in thought, when I came upon Jeri, sitting beside the trail with a bloody head. She had walked into a broken branch which gouged her right at the hairline. A bandaid soon fixed her up.
At last we caught up with Neil and the rest of the group. They were at Middle Camp and were so ready to stop for the day that several already had tents up. They were quite unhappy when I informed them that we had to go a bit further. I would not change my mind as I believe in and support the restoraton projects. We pushed on and soon came to McAlister Camp, an attractive new campground with an unattractive supply of voracious mosquitoes. We managed to have a fun and funny evening together, listening to Karen’s Deep Texas accent and to Jeri’s DownEast accent, but the mosquitoes were getting the upper hand; we had to go to bed to escape them.
The next morning, at 6:20 to be exact, my tent began shaking. It was Neil, pack on his back, ready to go. He just couldn’t take the mosquitoes any longer. By 9:30, we were all on our way out, ceding the campground to the bugs.
I encountered Neil and his wife several times after that at Meany Lodge, once when we had fresh powder to ski. I had never skied fresh powder before and spend the entire morning trying to leam how to do it. I loved it, but it wore me out.
Neil was, at that time, taking an Alpine Scramble Class, and he had his map and compass assignment with him. He said he needed help, and I needed the rest, so we spent about an hour after lunch working on the problems. When we finished, Neil suggested we go ski Railroad Meadows. I declined, with thanks, of course. He insisted that I would do just fine. I insisted that I would not. I reminded him that I was a beginner and a chicken to boot. No sweat, said Neil. There would be no problem at all. “With all this powder,” said he, “it is a fine time to ski Railroad Meadows. It is so pretty.”
Well, what the heck, thought I. Just how rough could meadows be anyway? I agreed to go along.
My first indication that maybe I had made the mistake of my life was when I saw the sign posted at the top of the tow: “Do not travel this trail alone!” I pointed it out to Neil. “Pooh pooh,” said Neil. “Just follow me. No trouble.” Stupidly, I chose to believe him.
I should have known better, of course, having done much ridge climbing, but too often when I think of meadows, the mental image generally is one of horizontal real estate. Railroad Meadows is not horizontal real estate. It comes under the heading of “vertical.” I yelped to Neil when I looked straight down its slopes. “Don’t worry,” said he, “it’ll be just fine.” Yeah. Right.
He told me just to traverse, kick turn, traverse, kick turn…I was not good at much beyond traversing. To kick turn, one must first stop. How does one stop in deep powder? Only the Double Bun Self-arrest Method worked for me…i.e., simply sitting down. This does eliminate the need of doing a true kick turn. I’d just roll to face the proper direction, struggle back to my feet, traverse a ways, and sit down again to reverse my direction.
I wasn’t too far along in this when I spotted The Canyon. I could see no reason why I was not about to plunge down into it. “No sweat,” said Neil. “See, there are ropes strung between the trees down there to catch you if you fall.” Well, that certainly was reassuring. And he further assured me that I would not fall. I did not feel assured. Just the fact that I was in a place where it was necessary to string ropes up between trees to catch falling skiers was enough to convince me that I definitely was in the wrong place. I personally felt no assurance that I would not fall. Nor did I find any comfort in looking at those ropes. They did not look to be close enough together to catch anything.
Tensely, I repeated the Double Bum Arrest, the struggle back to my feet, all the while putting a smarting cramp in my right thigh muscle and gasping for breath. Suddenly, my horror heightened, if that were possible. The way Neil was going led straight to a skinny little path skirting the edge of a cliff. It was the infamous Psychopath! What was Neil doing to me? Why was he doing this to me? The snow was too soft for crawling along on hands and knees, which was all I could think of doing.
“Just get up some momentum and you’ll have no trouble,” soothed Neil.
Momentum? Surely he jested. If I couldn’t creep on hands and knees, I’d have to creep on skis. Or on ski, as occasionally became necessary when sloughing snow left no room for two skis. At one point, a tree competed for space on the trail. I wrapped both arms around it and hung on. Neil thoughtfully pointed out where someone had fallen.
Rigid by now, I inched forward. At last the trail widened, and I could actually put two skis on it. Soon I was safely back on terrain more within my ability. Relief should have flooded my body, but all that flooded my body was the muscle cramp that had settled in my thigh muscle earlier. I gave Neil a very dubious and less-than-heartfelt ‘thank you’ and went back to my bunny hill. I should have beaten him senseless with a ski.
After an hour or so had passed, Neil came by the bunny hill and suggested we go in for tea. That was his first smart suggestion all afternoon. After tea, as we walked back to the tow, he said that Railroad Meadows should be no problem for me this time. This time? No way, I said. I was still a beginner, still a chicken, and I now knew that meadows aren’t always horizontal, but he was right. It was easier the second time.
When temperatures drop really low, the ‘cat driver usually hangs around long enough to be sure that our cars will start. Just getting the frozen doors open can be a problem. If the car wouldn’t start, Tom would put a tow rope on it and pull the car until it got going.
During one unusually cold spell, many cars would not start. Neil’s car presented the most stubborn problem. Tom towed it out of the lot, across the overpass, around and back. The car just would not start. Round and round they went. They were almost set to give up on it when Neil sheepishly asked for one more turn around. The car started immediately. Neil had equipped his car with an anti-burglary switch. He had forgotten to switch it off.
Nancy
Nancy claimed to be in her fourth year of beginning skiing. As the first class of this fourth year began, Nancy cautiously edged out onto the slope, grimly clutching a ski pole in each hand as her only link to safety. Told that she would have to part with them for the ski lessons, she blanched and swore, “Never!” Those ski poles were her security blanket. Summer, spring, fall, winter…they were her constant companions, even on hiking trails. She was not about to abandon them now, not on a ski slope.
Bit by bit, Instructor Dave coaxed her away from them. The parting was traumatic, but Nancy learned it wasn’t fatal…yet. Soon she was out on the bunny hill, arms outstretched to be an ‘airplane’, and snowplowing with the rest of us, all also pole-less.
Nancy became the Worm Tow Resident-of-the-Year. She was even more loath to part from the Worm Tow than she had been from her poles. Long after the rest of the class braved the speed of the 19-mph Mach Tow, Nancy was still on the 2-mph Worm Tow, slowly, ever so slowly, inching her way up to the top of the Bunny Hill. Once at the top, she’d assume her classic outhouse crouch, point her uphill shoulder the wrong way, and snowplow back down. She was actually getting into a pretty fair stem turn when we began to go to work on her to try the Mach Tow.
That day will go down in Meany annals. Saying that Nancy approached the Mach Tow with Great Trepidation doesn’t even begin to touch it. She knew that the Mach Tow was a malevolent creature which was saving its special malevolence just for her. She approached by closing her eyes tightly and groping out like a blind person while cringing in fear of actually touching it and being killed on the spot. Each time she heard and felt the buzz of the rope on her glove, she’d shudder and gasp in terror, drawing back her hand as from a hot stove.
After many cringing attempts, Nancy actually grabbed the rope and shot forward. Her cry of fear resounded from hill to hill, not stopping from the moment she shot uphill until the moment she let loose. She got off safely, but, in her astonishment at still being alive, she promptly pitched face down into the snow. Nor did familiarity breed contempt. Nancy’s approach to the rope and ride up never varied: terrified cringing followed by terrified screaming. Bob Bentler, of course, caught the visual aspect of all this on camera, making it the highlight of spring carnival movies. Unfortunately, the sound is left to memory and imagination.
Woes seemed to follow Nancy like a lost, hungry puppy. Having missed the snowcat one morning, she put on cross-country skis and her pack to hike up to the lodge. Her children, Gretchen and Leonard, traveled on downhill skis, a greater challenge, yet the youngsters arrived some time ahead of her. Nancy had her downhill skis in her car. She was hoping Tom would let her ride down in the 5:30 ‘cat to get them and bring her back up. Getting Tom to go along with this was no small accomplishment, but somehow she did it.
She had left her car parked on the road rather than on the parking lot, facing in rather than out, confident that with studded tires she would have no problem. Tom shook his head, obviously thinking that only a woman would do such a dumb thing. He just laughed when she asserted that she would have no trouble getting her car out. Smugly, he sat waiting as she got into her car to turn it around to drive it into the parking lot. Sure engugh, she soon was stuck as she tried to turn. Still smiling smugly, Tom attached a cable to the car to pull it out. Nancy, feeling a little foolish, glumly gripped the steering wheel as Tom put the ‘cat into motion. As the car whipped around, so did the steering wheel, breaking Nancy’s thumb. It just wouldn’t have happened to anyone else.
Close Calls
It was the end of the weekend. Everybody had packs on and the group was beginning to ski down the driveway toward the railroad tracks. The really good skiers went across the tracks and straight down an area called The Ice Fall to ski through the woods down to where the snowcat would eventually come to pick us up. The rest of us trudged alongside the tracks, some using a skating glide to make progress easier, but we beginners trudged, even on skis. My skill was suited only to trudging, which went quite well as long as I was following the railroad tracks, but, alas, all do-able things seem to come to an end all too soon.
The logging road leading down to the pick-up site awaits. For a brief distance, the road follows a straight line, which abruptly ends in a hairpin turn. I had already experienced several falls just getting to the railroad tracks. The hairpin turn guaranteed one more. Once again I got to face the joy of struggling upright again on skis I had no idea how to control, burdened by the weight of an overnight pack and sleeping bag tipping always the wrong way.
Finally I had negotiated all those scary turns without further mishap other than dealing with thighs burning from exhaustion brought about by rigidly trying to hold a snowplow the whole distance. I almost had reached the point where it was possible to exhale. Suddenly my peripheral vision caught sight of a form bursting through the trees well below the Ice Fall with the aim of landing on the very piece of road that I happened to be occupying. I looked up to see the bottom of two skis coming right at me. I knew I had no chance. In that split second, images of my broken body spread about that road flashed through my mind. To my amazement and to my very, very immense relief, those ski bottoms righted themselves and plopped right beside me onto the snow. Tommy Dunston, with not the slightest idea of the scare he had just given me, gave me a cheery ‘hello’ and was gone.
It was evident that I was not the most apt pupil on the Meany slopes. I was slower than most to catch on to the mechanics of balance and posture and all the good stuff that goes into making skiing possible. It took all the courage I could muster to be seen in public on skis…and it took even more courage to go clear to the top…of the Bunny Hill. I did this bravely, of course, with few skiers about to witness this act of derring-do. That is one of the joys of skiing at Meany. It is not unusual to have few skiers about. One can make a fool of oneself basically in private.
Safely off the rope, still upright, I paused to adjust gloves and poles in preparation for a fantastic run back to the bottom when a voice asked, “Can you give me a hand?”
I was really startled. No one was even on the same slope I was on. I looked around and saw absolutely no one…not above me; not below me. No one. For some reason, though, after a long pause, I said, “Huh?”
Once again the same request was made. I asked the voice what the problem was…and where? “I’m down here,” said the voice.
‘Down here’ turned out to be a tree well, and in the tree well was one of our little six-year-olds. He had slid in backwards after getting off the rope tow, landing unhurt on his back. Only the tips of his skis barely poked above the lip of the hole. Like a turtle, he was helpless to get back up and out. I suggested he take off his skis. He thought that was a great idea. One by one he handed them to me, then extended his hand so I could pull him out. He loved it when I told him how glad I was to find him in the hole instead of a talking tree. For a moment, though, I wasn’t entirely sure.
Meany Scatterings
Any skier needing a rest had better go to the lodge to get it. It isn’t even safe to lie panting too long on a slope after a fall. Any prone body that doesn’t show obvious signs of injury is guaranteed a dose of “Meany First Aid.” A huge shower of snow is sprayed over the victim by gleeful ‘first aiders’ coming to a screeching halt just inches away. The victim’s neck and back and ears are generously showered and the victim had jolly well get perpendicular to the snow in a hurry because ‘first aiders’ seem to appear from the woodwork, so to speak, to line up for a turn.
There is some satisfaction if the ‘first aiders’ err in their judgement and the victim actually is injured. Chagrin can make the injured skier feel better right away. Or, the victim can simply play possum, lying extremely still until the anxiety level and guilt reaches a peak, then laughingly ski away. That, of course, poses its own dangers.
Family Weekend was aimed at families primarily with very small children. It filled the lodge with toddlers, crying four-year-olds, and not always happy slightly older childgren. Parents were absolutely determined that their kid was going to have fun in the snow. Kids find that being cold is not especially fun, and toddlers have enough trouble with balance without that darned slippery white stuff to deal with. A lot of crying occurred. Regulars didn’t find it much fun, either.
Children of the regulars fared better. They knew what to expect, and they knew how to have fun…for the most part. One young fellow, however, who had a temper problem to begin with, found that learning to ski was fraught with many frustrations. He’d struggle to stand, and a ski would shoot out in the wrong direction. Again the effort to gain his balance and to remain upright. Again disaster. This went on for awhile until in frustration, he removed his skis, stomped to the bottom of the slope to the trees, and threw his skis into the woods as far as he could. Crying bitterly, he stomped back to the lodge until his rage subsided, then back to the slope he trudged, into the trees, and back out with his skis to begin the whole routine again. At the end of his day, he was skiing down the drive leading from the slopes to the lodge when once again his skis did not cooperate with his intentions. Rage took over. Off came the skis, one by one. And one by one each ski found itself sailing once more through the air, headed for the trees.
Teeny boppers in the women’s dorm regarded weekends at the lodge in the same light as a slumber party. Bunks were selected so all could be close together. Snacks were stashed in convenient locations. Bedtime was looked forward to in anticipation of excited chatter about this and that and of all that good stuff to eat. Overlooked was the fact that the dorm was also peopled with grumpy adults who looked forward to a decent night’s sleep. These adults lacked the good-natured tolerance they might find at their slumber parties at home. Giggling and snacking generally stopped abruptly after a few suggestions. that they do so.
The lodge is definitely not soundproof. Footsteps and voices carry easily. Bedsprings groan and squeak. Usually, everyone is tired enough to sleep through most things. One sound that brings us all upright is the unmistakable thump of a sleeping-bag encased body hitting the floor from the top bunk. One night the girl next to me hit the floor with a thud. I jumped up. She was sitting upright, making funny little sounds, unable to answer my questions. I didn’t know if she had hit her head and was having convulsions or what. I talked to her and checked her for broken bones.
What a relief when she began to answer me lucidly. It was merely a case of the wind being knocked out of her.
At least once a year the Mountaineer Pac-Rat Players come to Meany to give a performance. It is almost always something farcical and fun. Two groups came up one year. One put on a farce, the other a pantomime of Aesop-type fables and fairy tales. The children were simply enchanted. It was almost more fun to watch their faces than to watch the performers.
Right in the front row, thoroughly enjoying the whole thing, was four-year-old Nicholas, blond and rosy-cheeked. He was completely entranced. Eyes glowing, he watched as the story about a simpleton with a golden goose developed. A maid tried to steal a feather and found herself stuck fast. Her sister tried to pull her free and also became stuck. The simpleton, seemingly unaware of the two stuck maidens, picked up his goose and trooped off, with them in tow. The parson noted their plight and tried to pull them free. He, too, became stuck. Merrily trooping about the ‘stage,’ seemingly stuck to one another, the foursome swooped past Nicholas and snatched him off the bench. Unaware that he was meant to be part of the play and terribly frightened from the suddenness of it all, a pucker began to develop, and a quivering chin, and then a great big bawl. Perplexed, one of the actors asked if there were any other ‘volunteers.’
‘Ma - maaa,’ bawled Nicholas.
So much for audience participation.
Sunday Departure
Being towed in is much more strenuous than being towed out but not nearly as colorful. Going in mostly puts a great deal of strain on arms and shoulders, especially at the final curve just before the railroad tracks. The uphill load usually lightens here as people can no longer keep a grip and fall. Again, no mercy is shown. Fallen skiers must reach the lodge on their own from there.
The tow out after a crowded weekend is a sight to behold. Non-skiers are jammed into the ‘cat. Ropes let out on either side behind the ‘cat can accommodate about forty skiers each. When this many people fill the ropes, the person perched at the back of the ‘cat with the horn to sound should any one fall cannot see the entire group, especially when curves are being negotiated. Radio-equipped people are stationed in the middle and at the end to keep the driver informed.
For a beginning skier, that first trip down on skis to meet the snowcat is a pretty frightening affair. In fact, I wouldn’t ski down for quite awhile. I would carry my skis and walk down. The big day finally came when I decided to give it a whirl. More than likely, I was talked into it. I had some mighty ‘talky’ friends at that place. Maybe my attitude was too pessimistic, but I just had a hunch that all would not go well.
I soon proved myself right…almost immediately. Just getting down the driveway to the railroad tracks made me very aware how curvy it was. I was only sort of sure of my snowplowing skills and not at all sure of negotiating curves. And I didn’t. I went straight into the soft snow at the edge of the drive. Upright? Not at all. There I lay, pinned down by my pack, directly in the path of other unsure skiers. Next came the struggle to right myself, which involved positioning the skis so they would not scoot out prematurely, then positioning the pack so it wouldn’t tip, and then positioning the poles. None of it works. After much struggle and a great deal of profanity, the obvious dawns on me: take off the pack. That, too, is a royai pain in the butt, but…it works.
Once back on skis and ready to go, there was the joy of the next curve, which is a little faster and which blocks the view of other skiers and, hence, adds a whole new aspect to this venture. And I was still only on the driveway. People in the way became another major problem. If a skier had fallen or was simply snowplowing too effectively, well, for one who has no skill at control…it’s the pits.
The only flat, straight stretch is along the tracks. The ‘cat, being loaded with passengers, of which I should have been one, was passed as I began the long struggle to cross-country ski in rigid downhill boots on rigid downhill skis. By now, I was having no doubts about how big a mistake I was making in doing this. I should have stuck to walking.
At long last, or maybe altogether too soon, the road leading down to the flats where the ‘cat was to be met was reached. Right away a sharp hairpin curve greets the unsteady skier, balancing precariously under that loaded pack…creating another opportunity to figure out how to get back into an upright position while on skis under all that weight, as others zip by effortlessly. Usually, this was the last fall. The rest of the road holds no nasty curves, just gentle ones approached at one hell of a speed if one dosn’t snowplow on occasion.
For me, there was to be no such thing as snowplowing ‘on occasion.’ I was taking no chances. I snowplowed all the way down. Experienced skiers kept me in terror by catching up with me and informing me which side they’d be passing me on, as if I were in any position or condition to give them any side to pass me on. Snowplowing takes up a lot of road. It also takes up a lot of energy. Three-quarters of the way down, my poor thighs began to quake with exhaustion, but I didn’t dare let up. My pack made me feel like a human cannonball hurtling down that road, and I was constantly in that snowplow. By the time I reached the flats, I could barely stand. And I still had to herring-bone up to the line-up and get up onto a snowbank.
And those are interesting snowbanks awaiting the weary skier at the end of such a harrowing ride. The left bank is very high and one perches on it about a foot off the road. The right bank falls away. One stands atop it, if one is careful. If one is not, one gently skis backwards into soft snow with the struggle to get back up in time for the arrival of the ‘cat as a reward. I’m sure there is no doubt about which bank I chose and what the outcome was.
Even towing behind the ‘cat holds its own special terrors for the novice. There is the obvious fear of falling and being skied over by dozens of people following behind. There is the fear of falling and making a major fool of oneself. There is the fear of falling and falling and just plain being a nuisance. Add to that the worry of being unable to stop in time if the person ahead falls.
Reinforcing these fears were the frequent scenes of disaster. One spring, thawing had created several minor lakes on the road. One poor soul fell after we had made a stop for another fallen skier…plop! Right into a huge puddle. He was pulled back to his feet to the same still icy place and plopped again. And again. Somehow, I managed to keep my balance, even down the part of the road that required us all to snowplow. It helped to have a taut rope to hang onto.
Of course, there was the time when scant snow covered the road and just finding enough to continue a safe glide behind the ‘cat kept one alert. I am not one who is always alert. I ran out of snow. Gravel brought my skis to a complete halt but the ‘cat kept my body moving forward until I lost my grip and pitched headfirst into brush just below the road. At times like this, it is not a good idea to let anyone know you are really ok, just stuck. Groveling becomes necessary to get someone to stop laughing long enough to help remove the pack that is pushing one’s head forward down into the brush and mud.
On really good days, there would be enough snow to be towed clear across the highway overpass to the parking lot. Usually, though, it was necessary to stop, remove skis and shoulder them along with the already too heavy pack to trudge across in boots not designed for hiking comfort. Nevertheless, plans were already being laid to repeat this whole ridiculous activity the coming weekend.