Kitsumkalum
My folks recently sent me a video about the place that I learned to ski on in the 1980s, a place buried within my subconscious mind.
The video provided a nice historical account of Kitsumkalum Mountain (although it was clear that the speaker had never skied there during its operating years) (1). Located near Terrace, Canada, the mountain was open from 1973 to 1986, during which time new runs were progressively added as the facility expanded. There were only a handful of beginner and intermediate runs, with the majority of the mountain devoted to expert skiers. As the video recounted each of the various routes, I was drawn to my own memories of well-known names such as Caterpillar, The Cliff, and A.O. Tea Kettle (use your imagination as to what the acronym means). Given that I had traversed all of these runs many times over, this was a somewhat nostalgic experience.
I learned how to ski at Kitsumkalum Mountain during the latter half of its existence, when I was 5 to 10 years of age. These are extremely formative years of brain development, which no doubt explains why I have an inordinate number of memories relating to this mountain. I recall learning how to ski (and fall) on the mini-ropetow, for example, which was situated beneath the main lodge. I also remember many of the early 80s tunes that constantly emanated from the speakers outside the lodge while I grappled with my planks, the two most memorable of which were Africa, by Toto, and Allentown, by Billy Joel. |
View of Kitsumkalum Mountain, with most of its runs visible (1). |
Once I had mastered that small slope, I moved along to the sunnyside ropetow (also known as the Bunny Hill, though I have no idea why we called it that), which was much longer and speedier than the mini-ropetow. Sometimes it burned my hands a little when I grabbed it, even through my gloves. From the bunny hill, I had good views of the much larger runs on the chairlift, which at that time I could only stare at in awe, wondering what lay beyond its highest visible point.
I also recall the T-bar lift, particularly the ski-racing and night skiing. Our coaches would set up slalom and giant slalom racing courses along the main run, Show Off, so we could practice our zigs and zags. One time, I mis-timed one of the zigs (or was it a zag?), which led to me smashing my shin into one of the poles. A massive grapefruit of a bruise formed, which I never told anyone about; my leg healed up, but there remains some slight damage to this day. Perhaps my favourite memories of the T-bar relate to the night skiing. I fondly recall the anticipation of the descending darkness, even as the lights kept the blackness away. |
Looking up from the bottom of the chairlift (1). |
However, it was the mighty chairlift that gave me most of my memories of Kitsumkalum Mountain. My favourite route was probably Caterpillar, which was also the longest run on the mountain. This run had lots of moguls and seemed to go on forever. Moreover, I do not recall seeing many other people on it, which made for a solitary, zen-like experience much of the time. However, although Caterpillar was my favourite run, it is not the run on Kitsumkalum that I remember the most vividly.
The Cliff
I distinctly recall the day I made my first attempt at the hardest run on the mountain, The Cliff. I must have been 8 or 9 years old when I decided to set out for it on my own. Although I was aware that The Cliff was deemed the hardest run on Kitsumkalum Mountain, at the time I did not fully appreciate just how much harder it was than the next-hardest run, which I reckon was probably Pipeline. Since I had successfully descended the latter, I figured The Cliff would go down fairly easily.
I distinctly recount my feeling of supreme confidence as I got off the chairlift and bolted down Kalum Kut before heading down a side route to The Cliff. I travelled this easier run alongside an older friend, but he decided to continue down Kalum Kut when I diverted; in retrospect, he was wise. The initial section of The Cliff had a few bumps but it was a relatively gentle slope, which propelled my bravado even more. Although I knew the run had to get hard at some point, I sped onwards with my confidence intact, in sunshine and in shadow. |
Looking down from the middle of the chairlift (1). |
Soon, my nightmare of The Cliff began. I came to point where, looking ahead, it appeared that the run simply...vanished. There was nothing ahead but the tops of the snow-covered trees and overarching blue sky. I stopped at the edge of a veritable precipice, and peered down. My heart skipped several beats and then sank in my chest, as I stared down the true crux of The Cliff. To my fledgling brain, the word "steep" did not adequately describe this section of the run...it appeared to be almost vertical. Impossible, as though gravity would not permit a descent. I recall pausing, wondering how on earth I could accomplish the task set before me (interestingly, even as I write this, I can recall that the act of walking back never crossed my mind). Steeling myself, I attempted to ski down The Cliff.
I failed. After a couple of turns I wiped out, losing both my skis and poles on the precipice of The Cliff. It took some time to collect them. I tried again, wiped out again. Repeated this a couple of more times. After making it halfway down through a series of wipeouts, I stopped and peered down. Unbelievably, the latter half of The Cliff seemed even steeper than the initial half. I can remember the wave of utter despair that rolled over me. I could not do it, The Cliff was too much for me. As I sat on the edge, trying to figure out my next move, I decided that sliding down the steepest bit on my backside was the only to do it, and I did that. |
The top of Exhibition, near the top of the chairlift...a challenging run, but nothing compared to The Cliff (1). |
Eventually, I made it to the bottom of The Cliff. I strapped on my skis and poles, and looked up at the sheer drop of the thing. It did not look like a ski run, it looked like...well, a cliff. I did not feel like I had defeated The Cliff, rather, that it had defeated me. But now I realize that it was both, a sort of integrated experience. I skied down the last and easiest part of the run to Exhibition, another route that I knew well, and returned to the lodge for a well-deserved hamburger.
Beyond
That memory of The Cliff undoubtedly sculpted my brain after a certain fashion, which probably remains pertinent today. Yet my most revisited memories of Kitsumkalum Mountain were not so much the runs themselves, but the experience of dismounting at the top of the chairlift, turning around, and casting my eyes out across the mountain and, past it, the horizon beyond.
From the top, I could see several runs at once. Would I go for an easy jaunt down Sleeping Beauty, or mix it up with a diversion down Double Trouble? Perhaps head down Milky Way before braving Pipeline? So many options. And no matter which way I chose, there would always be those sweeping views in the distance, of a small logging town enveloped by clouds, with peaks and sky beyond. No matter where I happened to be, no matter which run I was on, there was always the promise of something more at the end of it. Something not readily definable...something beyond the horizon. |
Nice view of the lodge (1). |