All in the Name of Fun

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.

Fuel Leak in Whitefish, Montana

Is There a Fuel Leak in Whitefish Montana ?

Who or What is the Cause of This Leak ?

Apparantly residents in the air think it is coming from a local town pump and has asked the Whitefish Council to get to the bottom of what is really going on.

Apparantly the Whitefish Lake Institute Director Mike Koopal passed around water samples taken from the seep on the south side of the river and told the council that benzene levels in the samples were 39 times the level allowed for drinking water. This is amazing. Search online for more information on the whitefish fuel leak and water pollution situation.