My dad shared his love of skiing with his eight kids by telling us if we got ourselves to Whitefish, he’d rent a condo on the Big Mountain and buy our lift tickets. For a few of those trips, I was in Missoula for graduate school. It was an easy road trip to join my folks and a couple of my more hearty siblings, who’d flown in from Missouri.

We’d stay in one of the ski-in, ski-out units near Chair 3 and, nearly every day, my brother-in-law would wipe out trying to ski-in. He accomplished this feat with such regularity, we would look forward to seeing it each day. Luckily, he would often carry a bulky, mid-80s video camera so we have the crashes recorded for posterity.

Those trips to the Big Mountain had several constants: racing up the condo’s five flights of stairs despite ski-sore quads and bragging about the runs we’d taken while utilizing the latest ski lingo like shred the gnar, yard sale and big air. 

We would also watch Steller's jays, (we called them “Elvis” birds) swoop onto our balcony railing, looking for crumbs in the late afternoon.

Another consistent part of those trips was Wild Bill, the lift operator who would enhance our already epic days on the mountain with his upbeat presence and unforgettable catchphrase. Say it with me: “You’re on! You’re gone!”

It was on those chairlifts I realized how great life could be. Worries fell away as the chair scooped me up and lifted my body above the ground and my spirits out of any school-related or boyfriend-induced cloudy funk.

Wild Bill was right. When you’re on the chairlift, your troubles are gone.

Back then, I would ride with my sister and her daughter. We would make shapes and try to form words with the shadows of our skis. We’d often talk about how my 9-year-old niece was so much better than we were, blaming it on our longer skis. Our imaginations turned mittens into whales on the chairlift rides.

Now, I most often ride the chairlift alone although, sometimes, on busier days, I’ll sit down with strangers. 

Sometimes, people are endearing, like the little girl riding Chair 6 on an exceptionally cold day who proudly announced, “I’m wearing three pants!”

“That’s right,” her mother said. “Since it’s Christmas we let you wear your elk pants.”

“And my new pants,” the toddler added.

I asked what color her new pants were and she replied, “All colors.”

Far less charming was an Australian woman who rode Chair 1 with me in 2018. She talked at length about her slopeside condo and her extensive world travels, then turned to me with a cough and said, in a thick Aussie accent, “Oy moyt be gittin’ sick!”

The Whitefish Pilot is giving me the opportunity to write about happenings on the chairlift. I’ll collect and share the comments and conversations I hear (and overhear) with the hope that you might have a laugh and enjoy the buoyant mood of a chairlift ride.

Julie Engler is a reporter for the Whitefish Pilot.