Nearly 90 years ago the first rope tows were installed on slopes across the snowy places of the U.S. In 1937, the first rope tows in the West chugged into action at Snoqualmie Summit, Mount Rainier, and Mount Baker.  

The Seattle Times writers opined in the Feb. 28, 1937 edition, “Skiers are not made by climbing hills. Skiers develop proficiency by coming downhill.” The article noted that at Mount Rainier, skiers can potentially ski 4,000 feet of vertical in a day. Of course, today, some lifts exceed 4,000 feet vertical and adept riders might reach 50,000 vertical per day. The lift-accessed record is nearly 65,000 feet skied in one day.  

As ski clubs formed and ski hill managers built rope tows, farmers got into the action. Harold Termaat farmed near Kalispell, Mont., but in the winter, his fields were covered in snow, so from the late 1950s through 1968, he rigged the ropes.  

Termaat once told me that, “I had two tows and two John Deeres going at the same time.” The rope for his homemade lifts ran around the tractor wheel. “We got 50 cents [a day] for the small hill and a dollar for the big hill. Parents said it was the cheapest babysitting they could find.” 

Although not many are still rigged by tractors, a surprising number are still employed around the country. “We estimate that there are approximately 670 tow ropes in the U.S. today,” says Adrienne Saia Isaac, director of marketing and communications for the National Ski Areas Association. “As for historical tow ropes, we don’t have any exact record, but…the number was definitely in the thousands.” 

My earliest memory of rope-tow riding was at Mount Hood’s Multipor ski area, now called Mt. Hood Ski Bowl at Government Camp. The old tow wasn’t especially long, but it accessed a beginner slope full of other four and five year olds, outfitted in hand-me-down boots and skis, wool sweaters and long knit hats, which were dangerous—or so I found out. 

One wintery day as my older brothers dashed off to the t-bar, I skied the 100-foot slope with other little kids. I loved my long stocking hat, knit by my mother, green and white and pink with a white puff ball of yarn at the end of the three-foot-long pointy cap. As I neared the top of the rope tow, my hat was pulled off, wrapped around the tow rope, and sent through the greasy mechanism before dropping like a dead raccoon. The next Saturday, a sign at the tow read “No long stocking caps allowed on rope tow. Tuck in all hair.” 

On another snowy day at Multipor, my friends and I rode the rope tow once again. I had black leather mittens, which were neither waterproof nor warm, but we were having fun. Until, once again, the rope tow somehow snagged the metal hook on my left mitten. When I went to let go at the top of the tow track, I couldn’t. I was dangling from the moving rope by the mitten cuff and the metal hook. Luckily, the lift operator saw me, skis five feet in the air. He shut down the tow. My hand slipped from the mitten, and I crumpled in a pile. My dad thought it was time to learn to ride the t-bar, and that’s another story. 

I sometimes visit ski hills with rope tows. Still, no long-knit hats for this skier.

This story originally appeared in the March 2020 print issue entitled “The Rope Tow” in the On the Mountain special section’s artifacts column.

Jean Arthur has worn out numerous pairs of mittens riding rope tows, t-bars, poma lifts, trams, trains—and the latest at Big Sky Resort—the eight-seater Ramcharger chairlift, the first of its kind in North America. She skis and writes from Bozeman.  

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Off-Piste is a hybrid English-French word that means to deviate from what is conventional or expected. If you’re a skier, it most certainly means seeking out your own untracked lines. The word conjures up intrigue, adventure, and the beauty of skiing away from groomed slopes. Dave Waag, editor of the Hood River, Oregon-based magazine and website by the same name, has been covering the sport for the last 20 years since “Off-Piste Magazine’s” beginnings in 1999. 

The magazine has gone through many changes over the years. Off-Piste is no longer available in the classic and often collected black and white newsprint version, but during its run was issued four times a year. Yet the essential elements of the magazine remain on the website at Offpistemag.com, which hosts gear reviews, beta on where to ski, soulful narratives about winter backcountry travel, trailers for independent ski films, and avalanche safety resources.  

Though the website is a paired down version from the print issues of old, it remains an outlet, Waag says, for the “true user”— a skier who explores the backcountry for the pure love of being out in the winter wilds with little interest in the entanglements of industry-sponsored ski culture and marketing. 

Interest in and popularity of backcountry skiing have increased substantially since 1999. In the magazine’s early days, however, Waag says backcountry skiing wasn’t something many people did, and there weren’t many publications speaking into that world. “Most ski magazines weren’t representing the more adventurous spirit of ski touring,” he says. In Off-Piste, the style of skiing was much more backcountry exploration and free-heel oriented. “It was largely a telemark based crowd, especially here in the Northwest,” he says. 

When it comes to extremes in the sport, Waag says, “Off-Piste never strove to represent that. I left that to the glossy magazines and the big movies. I’ve always had a little bit of disdain for the representation that you can just clip on your skis and go jump off a cliff or climb the highest thing you can find and ski whatever line you’d like.” It was important to him to make sure that safety and the authentic spirit of backcountry winter travel were well represented—especially since it wasn’t well represented anywhere else.  

Notably, the magazine featured articles on avalanche safety when there were relatively few backcountry resources available. Today, a Google search for “backcountry skier” reveals a glut of images of skiers dangling off steep, exposed slopes in remote landscapes. While pushing boundaries is part of backcountry skiing and splitboarding for many riders, knowledge and experience are required to do it safely. “Off-Piste” continues to publish content that prioritizes backcountry safety and avalanche awareness as critical knowledge skiers need before venturing into the wilds. 

A few highlights of “Off-Piste” include their annual gear review issues, international ski trip reports, personal and often humorous narratives about winter backcountry touring, and a film called “Skiing in the Shadow of Genghis Khan.” The film, a project of Waag and Nils Larsen, a Northeast Washington skier and creator of ski/snowshoe hybrid backcountry gear company Altai Skis, it features a skiing culture from Central Asia that has depended on skis for mobility and hunting for a thousand years. 

One similarity between the print and online magazine is the popularity of gear reviews, and there’s a really good reason for this overlap. Waag explains, “In my estimation, gear innovation has opened the door to skiing untracked snow for all skiing levels. It used to be that to ski powdered snow, you had to have some pretty definitive skills, because we were skiing these fairly narrow skis with questionable bindings….as soon as skis got wider, the ability to float and turn and use your speed all came together for anybody from modest, intermediate and beyond.” 

What brings many skiers to the mountains continues to speak to Dave Waag and the direction of Off-Piste. “Untracked turns in the mountains,” he says, “that is the number one thing.” // 

Originally published as “Off-Piste Magazine” in the December 2019 issue.

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The art of ski jumping had recently caught on in Spokane, and construction on the Wandermere Ski Hill began in 1932. The pine-filled hillside above the golf course was cleared via the modern method of the day—a team of horses. The Ross family spared no energy with planning, bringing renowned engineer and president of the Northwest Ski Association Peter Hostmark in on the project. They cleared the hill, structured a 34-degree angle, and made plans to show it off: The 700-foot ski hill would be introduced to the world of competitive ski jumping on Jan. 15, 1933. It was anticipated to provide a max jump distance of 185 feet. 

The Wandermere Ski Hill, which had relatively low altitude, faced a lack of snow just before the scheduled competition. It was the sort of problem that didn’t intimidate a dreamer; to pack the slope, workers used a car and sled to pull snow from the shaded areas of the Wandermere Golf Course. They put straw on the hillside first to help the snow stick. Large piles of hay were also placed at the end of the hill to act as “brakes” for skiers, who were meant to dive into the hay for a safe stop. To the top skiers of the time, it must have looked like a whole lot of fun.

Skiers traveled in from across the Pacific Northwest and Canada for the big day. Despite being an event with entry fees held during the Great Depression, 22,000 people came to watch. Perhaps they’d heard the “brakes” were hay bales. The crowd caused the largest traffic jam that Spokane had seen to date.

Competitors were judged on both distance and form, but strong winds prevented skiers from making top distances. Still, it had to be entertaining to watch the skiers land, as they clocked speeds up to 100 miles per hour by the bottom of the hill. 

A competition was planned for the following year, with the goal of being bigger and better. The Wandermere hill was carved out that summer so it was even steeper, and scaffolding was added to extend the jump runway. Once again, however, there wasn’t enough snow by the competition. Snow was shipped in via train from the Cascade Mountains, which proved a pricey solution. The 1934 competition went on, but the snow was wet and slow. 

In the years that followed, the Wandermere Ski Club was formed, a ski lodge was built, and two smaller ski hills were built for recreational skiing and ski jumping. Another ski jump competition took place at Wandermere in 1938. Wandermere hoped to host the 1939 Olympic trials, but the 1940 Winter Olympics were cancelled due to World War II. The Wandermere ski jump event lost momentum after that, and they hosted only one more competition in the 1950s. Today, the Wandermere Ski Hill has been reclaimed by nature.

For more on the history of Wandermere, read Wandermere: Legacy on the Little Spokane River, written by local Ross-family-descendant Ty Brown. Historical information from this book was used for this article. 

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My back hurt just thinking about loading up the furniture. But on Saturday morning, I grabbed my truck and headed a couple of miles down the road. I located the owner and we loaded everything without any trouble. I noticed that there was a shop out behind the main house and wandered out to see if I could find some useful lawn equipment or anything else that might come in handy. Pickings were pretty slim, since most of the good stuff was likely snatched up the previous day.

As I turned to leave, I noticed what looked like a pair of very tall wooden skis shoved in a dark corner of the shop, covered with dust and partially hidden by other junk. Once freed from their hiding place, I figured they were about 7 feet tall with screwed-on edges. Not being as informed as I should be on the history of skis, I guessed they might be from the 1950s, but I really had no idea. Regardless of their age, I thought they were a cool piece of skiing history and would make a nice addition to some of the other decorations in our house.

One of the guys working the sale approached me and asked if I wanted them.  “Forty bucks,” he said. “I’ll give you $25,” I countered. “Deal.”

Once home, and with the furniture unloaded, I took a closer look at my find. The skis measured out to 6 and a half feet long and 3 inches wide. No manufacturer markings were visible, and it appeared they had been remounted at some point in their history. Each section of screwed-in metal edge was 9 inches long. A rubber pad was affixed where the heel of a boot would be. I conducted a detailed photo survey of both skis, noted the measurements, and decided to seek out an expert opinion.

I reached out to Dana Mathios, curator and director of collections at the Colorado Ski and Snowboard Museum, who provided an exceptionally thorough historical overview and assessment of the skis. She explained that the segmented steel edge was invented in 1926 in Austria and gave skis much better grip on hard snow while still allowing the wood to flex naturally. The first ski with a continuous, low-drag, integral steel edge was introduced in 1948 by Chris Hoerle. Hoerle made about 200 pairs, but the ski was never brought to market. This type of edge was quickly adopted by Howard Head and Head skis, and later evolved into the Head Standard ski. Its plywood core was glued under pressure and heated between top and bottom aluminum sheets with plastic sidewalls. The bottom sheet had a continuous full-length steel edge. The Head Standard was the most commercially successful early metal ski.

According to Mathios, steel edges are a great way to estimate an age range for skis. Since the skis I found have a segmented steel edge and a binding pad, Mathios dated them from the 1930s to the late 1940s, leaning more towards the 1930’s due to the binding pad. The use of binding pads started in the 1890’s and continued until the after the Second World War. But without any maker’s marks, it’s hard to say. Mathios did advise that this could mean that the skis were custom made, which typically indicates an older date.

Not a bad find for $25 and a sore back. //

Brad Northrup holds an MA and a BA in History and has an affinity for unique items from the past. He has been a contributing writer for Out There Venture since 2011.

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According to the magazine, the other emerging ski towns include Reno, Nevada; Santa Fe, New Mexico; and Waterbury, Vermont. Overall, the article cited median home prices, and miles from a chairlift. The magazine also evaluated the median income, and the population density of Spokane. In addition to the Washington and Idaho resorts, “Powder Magazine” also highlighted Spokane’s proximity to Nelson, B.C. and Whitewater; RED Mountain; and hut trips north of the border. “Powder” writer John Stifter also points out, “What Spokane lacks in a bucolic mountain town vibe and 500 inches of annual snowfall, it makes up for in bigger city options. Spokane has 20-plus wineries, 45-plus breweries and distilleries, and a quickly growing culinary scene.”

Most Spokane skiers and riders are happy to be included on this list but are undecided if they want the rest of the ski and snowboard world to know how good we have it. //

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Loulou Kneubuhler was born in St. Jean De Maurienne in the French Alps in 1943. Where he grew up, there were 80 ski resorts within 100 miles and many more outside that 100-mile radius.

A quarter century later and one hemisphere over, Loulou started the Mighty Mite program and coached at White Pass Ski Area. He also coached for the Spokane Ski Racing Association. As good weather fortune would have it, Loulou happened to come to Spokane during the 1968-69 winter, which was the best snow season on record. “I thought I’d died and gone to the heaven with the big snow flakes,” Loulou says.

Loulou opened Loulou’s Sports Shop in 1973, and in 1978 he installed “Magic Mountain,” a moving carpet that allowed indoor instruction. Skiing greats like Phil and Steve Mahre, Tamara McKinney, and Craig Kelly honed skills on Magic Mountain. Allison Cowles (of the family that owns The Spokesman Review) spent time on Magic Mountain, and it was there that Mt. Spokane 2000 was conceived to revive a fledgling ski hill. Loulou became a board member for the Mt. Spokane 2000 project. In 1996, Loulou sold the business to Mike King, who operated the ski shop for several years.

Now the building houses a tennis pro shop and Loulou’s Ski Museum. I was blown away with the selection of equipment from long ago. He starts his tour with the “Evolution of Skis” from the old days. I mean really old days. The oldest ski was found in Glacier (before it was a national park). Loulou believes that one of his ski artifacts was used by a trapper. Other skis in a place of honor are a 1960 first steel edge ski that won a race at Squaw Valley, a red Head ski designed by racing great Jean Claude Killy, and a white Kniesl ski designed by Karl Schranz from the early 60s.

In the 1970s, Loulou teamed up with the Crescent Department Store and hosted ski clothing style shows at the Ridpath Hotel. But the museum houses far more than skis. The ski boots, both leather and plastic, cover a wide variety of types and styles, and the ski bindings will amaze you that they were ever used. This collection shows the evolution from crude straps to early state of the art. It surprises me that us old timers on skis survived. The vintage clothing takes you back not only to the old days, but also through the evolution of winter wear. A lady gave Loulou a fancy wool ski jacket and pants set that would now be the star attraction at a retro day on the mountain.

Loulou’s Ski Museum is a non-profit operation. Donations from people all over the region, nation and beyond contribute to the museum collection. If you own an ancient piece of alpine (downhill) ski gear, Loulou would gladly accept it for his collection.

Loulou’s Ski Museum is located at 428 E. Pacific Avenue in Spokane. Admission is free, but visits are by appointment only, so call ahead: 509-599-0625 or email loulou@skionline.com for other inquiries.

Written by Chic Burge.

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