The Ski Locker: Downhill straight

The Ski Locker column returns for a series of stories celebrating the history of skiing in Whitefish, published in coordination with the Whitefish Ski Heritage Center and Ski Musuem.

First up in the series is an undated Whitefish Pilot clipping of a story by Skip Schloss talking with Rollie Smith. The exact date is unknown.  

DOWNHILL straight: Remembering where it all began  

He leans back in his chair and his eyes and mind focus on the past.  

There was no road to the ski area then. There was no ski area, just the mountain. Mom would drive us up the Forest Service road as far as she could, then we’d walk from there. We carried our ski gear and food for the weekend in backpacks.  

During the summer we’d build a cabin back behind what is now Chair 3. That’s where we spent the nights. In the morning, we’d walk up the mountain, sometimes in boots, sometimes in snowshoes. Saturday morning we’d hike on up, then we’d ski down. Sunday morning we did the same thing. One run a day. Then Sunday night, we’d meet Mom and she’d take us on home, and then there’d be school Monday.  

You have to understand, there was no grooming. There were just piles of untracked, unskied snow. If there were trees in the way, we’d stop and chop ‘em. I guess that’s not legal now, but then no one cared. That’s how we cleared our runs.  

The gear? Wood skis with metal edges screwed in, and cable bindings. Some folks called ‘em beartrap bindings, and that’s about right. But in ungroomed snow, you were better off keeping your skis on. You’d get hurt less that way.

I WALKED into a ski shop a few years back. I hadn’t skied for a long time, and I saw all the new equipment. I figure I could go to the moon on that flashy new gear.  

Same thing with chairlifts. Why, people complain these days about having to stand in a lift line. At least they don’t have to walk up the mountain. They ski more in a day than we got in a winter.  

Our teacher was Muldown. Lloyd Muldown. I don’t know where he found out how to ski. I guess he traveled in Europe. But he was our schoolteacher and our ski teacher and we owe a lot to him. Whitefish owes a lot to him. He was the coach of the Whitefish Ski Club. He motivated me, my brother and all the rest of the kids who learned to ski back then.  

SOME GIRLS got interested in skiing. The way we handled it was, the boys had the loft on the left, and they climbed up a ladder. Then they tossed the ladder across the cabin so the girls could climb into their loft on the right. And the girls kept the ladder, to make sure there was no monkey business.  

Finally, we built a rope tow. One of the railroad mechanics helped us. We hauled up the parts on our backs, a car motor and some wheels and rope and all. That was the first rope tow on Big Mountain. I’m not sure where that machine ended up.  

And the cabin? It’s gone. The Forest Service said it was a fire hazard. So they burned it down. What they did, is they burned down history.  

HOW GOOD would we be now if we’d had chairlifts and modern equipment and training and coaching? Who can say? I know my brother was the best there in Montana back then, and I’m pretty sure he’d be the best now.  

I do know one thing: We’re going to keep it going. My brother and I and Muldown and Carl Hinderman and some others were the beginnings of skiing here in Whitefish, and I’m going to do everything I can to see to it that the kids have what they need to keep it going. And even though the Doc tells me not to, I’m going back up that mountain. Soon.  

WITH THOSE WORDS, Rollie Smith’s eyes and mind shift back from the past to the future. He glances at the lavish trophies he is providing for the Doug Smith Memorial Downhill ski race. Then the years slip away, and it is easy to see that, perhaps because of his spirit, perhaps because of skiing, this man will always be young.