Still not over the hill by John Norton

THIS JOVIAL UPHILLER DIDN’T INTEND TO LAUNCH A TRADITION WHEN HE INVITED SOME BUDDIES FOR A DAWN SKIN UP THE MOUNTAIN 20 WINTERS AGO.

By John Norton

OVER THE HILL still not

In the 1990s and the first two years of this century, a stray skier or two skinned up the ski mountain in the early morning. Norm Bardeen comes to mind. But it wasn’t until the 2002-2003 winter that skinning slowly became a thing (skiers strap or adhere “skins” to the bottom of their skis so they can go uphill without sliding backwards), and it took at least a decade before the crowds skiing UP the mountain resembled the scene today.

It started simply enough. I had moved back to town from Aspen to become CEO for the ski area, and I invited some friends to join me on skins in the early mornings. The original crew was Jim Gebhart, Ed Chase, David Baxter, David McCay and my wife Robin. We picked the un-holy start time of 6:45 a.m. because that gave some of us time to start our workdays at 8 a.m. And we picked Monday, Wednesday and Friday as the skin days because, well, that seemed enough.

People still wrote letters in 2002, and in December I got one. It asked why our band of Merry Men (and Robin) could skin up the mountain when no one else was allowed. I walked down the hall of the Axtel Building and asked Mountain Manager Roark Kiklevich how the letter’s author could be so mistaken. Turns out he was not. “You can do whatever you want,” Roark explained, “but no one else is allowed to climb.” He and I, along with Mountain Operations VP Stewart Johnson, set about devising the first policy for morning uphillers. It was mercifully brief: “Climbers should avoid snowcats, snowmobiles and slopes being worked by a winch cat and cable. Climbers should be off the mountain by 9 a.m.” Easy enough.

The policy was practically unneeded. There were only the six of us plus Norm, who typically was on the hill before us. Gebhart brought his feisty little Tibetan terrier, Everest. Baxter had his two labs. Robin and I brought our rescue mutt, Page, who would run with the occasional coyotes we found on the hill. Our routes varied, with the exception of Warming House Hill. Someone would say “Let’s do X or Y,” and we’d follow along. We’d climb Upper Keystone or, more often, Upper Ruby Chief. Baxter would quit on lower Upper Ruby Chief, at a place we began calling “Baxter Flats.” He was complaining of imagined infirmities even back in the day.

We used to laugh that we could feel the sun returning in the mornings after the Winter Solstice. But then we realized we were wrong. This coming season, January 5 (well after the solstice in December) will be the shortest morning of the year. It’s a full week later that we gain one minute of

Norton’s uphillers. Front row: The three remaining originals, Robin Norton, John Norton and David Baxter. Standing: Former Rookies Mark Reaman, Tom Filchner, Bill Ronai, Jeff Hermanson, Ian Billick, Chris Kopf, Francene Kopf, Rick Kopf, Kurt Giesselman and Dan Papadatos.

morning sun. All the while the afternoons are gaining more sun – faster. Tom Filchner tried to explain to me once why mornings stalled and afternoons zoomed along – it has to do with earth wobble – but I was unable to grasp the concept.

On Friday, March 9, of this coming season, the sun will rise at 6:00 a.m., and we will be in Upper Paradise and skiing down with the sun on our faces. A time to celebrate. On Monday, March 12, because of the joke of Daylight Savings Time, sunrise will be 6:57 a.m. We’ll be back to the shortest morning of the year. (January 5 sunrise is also 6:57 a.m.)

Oh well.

As our little group began to grow, we decided to celebrate the season with what we call the Rookie Party. Someone who joined us the season prior is saddled with the responsibility of throwing a dinner party for the rest of the group. David Baxter found a Loving Cup, a small version of the Stanley Cup, to commemorate all the Rookies. Inscribed on the cup are: Mark Reaman, Tom Filchner, Ian Billick, Bill Ronai, Jeff Hermanson, Chris Kopf, Francene Kopf and Kurt Giesselman.

There is also a Rookie Trophy, a plaster with “Dick Montrose, ‘81” pressed onto its base. It’s a PG-13 trophy that was passed between Eric Roemer, David Leinsdorf, Bill Crank and Thom Cox for years, a sculpture none of them wanted to keep. I ended up with it at a going-away party for Thom. It’s been traveling among the Rookies since Thom moved to Kansas. I’ve never seen it on a mantelpiece but know that Jeff Hermanson kept it in his sock drawer during his rookie year.

Our group has had some sadness. Jim Gebhart died and is buried in our community’s cemetery. Ed Chase died, his ashes up on the old NASTAR course on the mountain. Both Robin and David Baxter have taken to sleeping in on our winter mornings. David McCay no longer spends much time here in the winter. Of the originals, I’m the only one going – and not going like I used to. My former 60 minutes to the top of Paradise has turned into 70-minutes-plus over the past 20 years.

We now sometimes get lapped on our way up. The skimo (ski mountaineering) racers, the ones I refer to as the “skinny little fast guys,” now have their way with us. Recognition dawned years ago that the difference in speed is not due to racers having their ultralight equipment and we our older, heavier backcountry setups.

Bill Ronai, reviewing this piece for accuracy, complained about the lack of funny stories herein. I can think of three, and all involve David Baxter. Each contains adolescent humor, which we continue to enjoy even as we masquerade as full-grown adults. David put his pack down in the base area one morning, and two dogs proceeded to piss on it. David howled. Another: the steep lip at Upper Park can be difficult to navigate, especially in March during the freeze and thaw cycle. One March day David slipped and slid all the way down to the flats, 200 or 300 yards, at one point catching decent air. He howled again. Finally: it had long been understood, in the rare instances when a dog or a climber couldn’t hold it, that the way to clean a slope of poop was on the way down, when said leavings had frozen. One morning one of our party couldn’t hold it, and Baxter’s precious purebred labs consumed his refuse before he could pull his pants back up. David howled again, and claimed it didn’t happen. But the rest of us saw.

We share laughs about the dozens and dozens of people who’ve asked if they could join us, because “it sounds fun.” Very rarely do we find a newbie at the base of the Red Lady at 6:45 a.m. “Fun” is not the word. “Anchor?” That’s closer to the purpose to me. Over the years the whitewater waves get bigger, our river bottoms more awkward to wade, and the bike trail on Deer Creek just a little longer, although all of it is still uphill. And while the mountain gets steeper, I’m not ready to let go just yet. Nor is the rest of our group, for now. b