

found it as a Surprise, having Never Been to the Jewel Basin.
Better Clean up, shredding of debri and more.
"Just Because you Do Not Believe it, Does not Mean that it is Not True."



Big Mountain and I go way back. I no longer make it up to the now Whitefish Mountain Resort but we do share a vivid history compiled of embarrassments and confessions. Paging through the Stumptown Historical Society's latest publication, the memories come flooding back.
In 1974 I acquired my first set of skis. I was far from the cutting edge in ski technology, donning me wood skis and poles and psychedelic flower print parka, which may have been bright enough to be identified through the pea soup of the mountain's fog. I never did ski on Little Mountain, which the Stumptown Paper described as a sort of initiation slope for beginning skiers located by the old roller rink on the south edge of town. I can recollect thinking I was better than that. Until I twisted a chunk of my long hair into the rope of the rope tow, was dragged up the slope twenty feet and dropped to the ground without the chunk of hair attached to my scalp. After that I stayed away from the rope tow. Five year olds are at least ready for the T-bar, even if they are too chicken to ski off the top of the mountain in a virtual white out.
By first grade, my parents enrolled me in my first season of professional lessons. At the end of the season we raced, showing off all our fresh talent to relatives, friends and instructors. I was sure that I had made it down the course the quickest. If it weren’t for the fact that I missed four gates, I am sure my time would have been near the top. That was the beginning and the end of my racing career. Free skiing was more fun anyways. By the time I was in junior high school, I was launching myself off of chair one. At the top of what is now called bad medicine, I was busy being bad: the chair lift lulled along with an average sixteen minute ride to the top. Sometimes me and my buddies would just jump off. When it was real cold, we would go into the Alpin-snack and start fires with the flammable non-dairy creamer: open and throw contents of pack into mid air while buddy throws match.
By high school, I was skiing out of bounds. Those days saw the longest run of my life, from the top of the mountain down to the head of Whitefish Lake where the road meets Hell Roaring Creek. It would be inaccurate to say it hadn’t been done before and it would be inaccurate to say it was planned. I ended up leaving my skis a mile or two up the creek in different locations. Thankfully a co-worker of my mom’s offered to search the area the next day and thankfully they were retrieved before the next snowfall.
Whitefish has grown up and so have I. The both of us have seen some folly associated with our growth. Some of the folly has been admitted and other folly is still in the making or gets swept under the rug. And thank goodness historical sites like the Hell Roaring lodge still stand: the dozing a tragedy narrowly averted. If it weren’t for the lodge I would get vertigo even on a sunny day: everything looks so much different up there! Other buildings have structural difficulties. I find it odd that after all these years that the Alpinglow’s precarious design would get called on. And I remember working in the old Mogul’s restaurant one unwelcome Christmas break of storms, wind and of course fog. The roof collapsed near happy hour. Luckily nobody was hurt. The same vacation, the road was closed due to vehicle pile ups. With the road now much improved and the architecture becoming smarter, the mountain is really growing up. I just wish the Kalispell Cost-Co would offer the same ticket prices as the Canadian Cost-Co. I don’t consider this very smart marketing, unless the dollar does take the plunge this winter, making it obvious that locals can’t afford a day or two on the hill.
Stumptown Old Timer really sums up the archaic Whitefish experience. In the process of becoming history, Whitefish and I have both made mistakes, broken rules, built on dreams, changed our names, improved our image and have learned that having fun is high priority. With Whitefish Winter Carnival around the corner, locals also get a chance to laugh at themselves. In the midst of the political soup of the day- the mumbo gumbo aka the Muhlfield conspiracy, Whitefish carnival participants poke fun and create a skit performed at the Great Northern Bar highlighting a town’s folly. This year, I hope to lighten up a bit and get in on some of the fun. Especially since I no longer fear the Yetis- even if at first glance through the fog they do look an awful lot like mangy moose that hang out in Canyon Creek. Carnival events are going on now. The “big day” (parade) is the first Saturday in February.
I first noticed the Beacon back in December 2007. Being familiar with Missoula’s Independent, I found myself constantly comparing and contrasting the two. First impression told me the Beacon was smart, the image I was seeing was sporty and sleek, like a celebrity. It wasn’t until later that I discovered the paper was owned by celebrities Maury Pauvich and Connie Chung, who own a home in the Flathead. The Independent, on the other hand, has been criticized by many as advertising sleaze. However you classify dirt, it looks like it takes dirt to grow a grass roots style newspaper.
But I like that the Beacon is clean and doesn’t advertise sleaze- no cigarette ads no matter how “organic” the tobacco and no dating services. And the size of the Beacon is slightly smaller to flip from front to back. And what looks like the quality of paper they print on (recycled or non-recycled) has that subtle glossy feel to it. Part of staying in the newspaper print game these days does take a tactile edge in the market place. Even if your paper is free. Internet news doesn’t hold the memories I associate of print newspaper: waking up at 6:00a.m. at my mother’s house in Whitefish, stoking the fire and reading the Daily Interlake that has already been delivered to her front door. You get the picture. The Interlake holds fond memories, even if I don’t agree with the editor on the topic of global warming. I am a connoisseur of news, no matter what the medium. I appreciate all the media in our area, even if I don’t agree with the many viewpoints that are shared or exposed.
I just don’t think Bucky Walford should have his mall, for instance. This is more than just a stoplight issue, it is an environmental issue. And I don’t think that the Whitefish city council is petty. Any small victory gained by Whitefish civil servants for the good of many should be applauded. For the most part, I like what Whitefish has grown into in the last thirty eight years (which being my age is about how long I have watched Whitefish grow). And if bureaucracy slows things down, maybe this could be viewed in terms of a speed limit on growth. After all, haste makes waste. All this was stirred in me the second day of the year, with my new Beacon issue as I sat with my feet kicked back watching the snow fall and contemplating the editor’s advice for the various towns in Flathead County. I liked the roust for local government, but the words were like a jagged little pill for this little local girl.
All this rousting going on, all this **it being stirred- and for what reason? The Interlake had a headline a few weeks back- something about Muhlfield- the Whitefish city council fellow who was guilty of sleeping at his girlfriend’s house- that made him sound like a criminal. When mountains are made out of molehills, one wonders what the intent is. Last week’s Pilot quoted Tim Gratten, an area developer in on the mountain-making (and mountain making in more ways than one if you know the Gratten family) as, “just wanting to stir things up.” Jeesh. Is it really worth the effort? This sounds like the escapades of a little boy on the playground. And it has the whole valley in a tizzy.
The Beacon will have its place at the news stand. It has the money to do so. I no longer compare it to the Independent, which has returned to- in my mind- its rightful position as the only independent newspaper. Meanwhile, the media players are kicking up the dust on the playground. Let just hope that our emotions stirred won’t cloud the view.
-Kris Neckermann