Discover nature’s theme park this summer on the Route of the Hiawatha! Forget the roller coasters—this is a ride you’ll actually remember. Coast gently downhill through 15 miles of jaw-dropping scenery in the Bitterroot Mountains, crossing 7 sky-high trestles, and pedaling through 10 dark, historic tunnels, including the legendary 1.66-mile Taft Tunnel.

The Route of the Hiawatha delivers pure adventure—no loops, no drops, just the exhilaration of wide-open mountain views, cool tunnel breezes, and the excitement of riding one of America’s most scenic rail trails. Interpretive signs along the way share the fascinating history of this “Hall of Fame” trail, once a vital railroad route, now a family-friendly adventure.

Start your journey at Lookout Pass Ski Area, just off I-90 at the Idaho-Montana state line. Trail passes, shuttle tickets and mountain bike rentals (with lights and helmets) are available on-site. After driving to the start of the trail, enjoy the gentle downhill ride and get a lift back to the top on one of the Lookout Pass shuttle busses—so you can focus on the fun, not the climb.

Whether you’re seeking a family outing, a memorable date or a unique day trip from Spokane, the Route of the Hiawatha is your ticket to nature’s ultimate ride. Plan your trip today at www.RideTheHiawatha.com.

(Sponsored Article)

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Our trek to Howse Pass in Banff National Park was born from a Spokane Community College senior-oriented ACT-2 seminar course. Inspired by David Thompson’s life, who was one of the greatest explorers and cartographers for the Canadian Prairies and the Inland Northwest, several class members shared an ambition to retrace Thompson’s crossing of the continental divide. Five of us, ages 64 to 79, planned a four-day backcountry trip in September of 2023 to do just that, enlisting a guide who would give us insight during the trek. 

First, a bit about Thompson. Apprenticed to the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC), David Thompson landed at the York factory on the Hudson Bay as a fourteen-year-old clerk in 1784. He rose through the fur trade business ranks, establishing trading houses on rivers throughout the Canadian prairie and applying his cartography skills by mapping the region. By 1801, Thompson was poised to cross the Rocky Mountains. After several failed attempts, the natives pointed him to an ancient trail over the Rockies. In 1807, he set out to Howse Pass from Rocky Mountain House following the Saskatchewan River to gain entry to the Inland Northwest area drained by the Columbia River. 

Rivers were the highways in Thompson’s era. Our highway was the Ice Field Parkway in Banff National Park, with the jumping off point to Howse Pass just south of The Saskatchewan River Crossing at Mistaya Canyon. We engaged a horse pack outfitter as our backcountry guide. The original Thompson trail has been neglected and quickly became a downfall-clogged path, forcing diversion to the adjacent braided Howse River flood plain. The route wound through a pristine wilderness, flanked by snow-dusted peaks. We established camp at the source of Howse River prior to ascending to Howse Pass.    

Wanting to immerse ourselves into Thompson’s culture, we asked Shaun Deller (shaundeller.com), to serve as our fur trade era cultural guide. Shaun has an extensive background in the era history as well as a myriad of practical skills common to the traders. He is a period artisan. He has participated in numerous mountain man reenactments and provided consultation for fur trade era documentaries. In 2022, he completed fur trade era interpretative murals on the Spokane House visitor center.  

While our group utilized Gore-Tex, polyester, and down, Shaun was outfitted in woolens and buckskin, with a buffalo hide for sleeping. He demonstrated the everyday skills of a fur trapper. Campfire discussions ensued to enlighten the transport of trade goods and furs between Fort William on Lake Superior and the Inland Northwest trading houses.  

By 1810, Thompson had established four trading houses: Kootanae House, near Invermere, BC; Kullyspell House on Lake Pend Oreille; Salish House near Thompson Falls, Montana; and Spokane House on the Little Spokane River. Subsequent economics resulted in the closure of three houses, with only the Spokane House remaining active until 1826 when the HBC moved trade to Fort Colville near Kettle Falls as part of the Columbia River trade network linked to Fort Vancouver. Archeological remnants remain only for the Spokane and Kootanae Houses. 

Our group’s adventure through Banff with a cultural guide provided a visual and environmental immersion that furthered our admiration for the Thompson-era outdoors explorers. The Inland Northwest has seen over two hundred years of European exploration, but Indigenous people had inhabited and traveled the area for thousands of years prior to European presence. Awareness of this history provides perspective and generational knowledge, which will enhance the current day explorer’s experience.   

Four days in the backcountry and a 40-mile round trip on horseback begged the question, who signed us up for this? Discretion became the better part of valor for a day of rest around the campfire to spin yarns. En route, visits to Rocky Mountain House, the Kootenae House site, and Canal Flats, which Thompson traversed from the Columbia River headwaters to the Kootenai River, were a highlight and amplified our understanding of Thompsons’ travels.  

Mark Longmeier has been a resident of Spokane for the last 48 years. Educated in engineering sciences and business administration, his secondary interest has been history.  

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When John D. Linder set out to build a new lodge on Mount Spokane, he was inspired by the recent opening of the world’s first double chairlift, the Riblet Tramway that began operating on the mountain in 1947. Over the course of the next five years, Linder and his family oversaw construction of “Linder’s Lodge” alongside the mountain road. When it opened in 1952, the lodge was another architectural and engineering marvel of its day, the widest span wood structure west of the Mississippi.

The lodge included a restaurant, hotel rooms and dormitories that catered to the skiers who flocked to the mountain during the winter months. Linder even opened his own ski hill on 25 acres behind the lodge. He installed a rope tow to serve the terrain and, eventually, lights that allowed for night skiing.

Linder and his wife, Dorothy, operated the lodge until the late 1970s. Following John Linder’s death in 1984, the family sold the property to Gordon and Linda Kirk. The new owners rebranded the building as “Kirk’s Lodge,” refurbished the facilities, and added a snow tubing hill across the mountain road from the lodge.

In 1996, the Kirks passed the lodge to new owners. Over the next six years, the building changed hands four times as a series of owners struggled to find the right business model. It was briefly known as “The Resort at Mt. Spokane,” then “Falk’s Lodge,” and finally “Bear Creek Lodge.”

Sam Deal purchased the lodge in 2002, and for more than 20 years, he and his family operated Bear Creek Lodge as a 15-room hotel, event venue, restaurant and snow tubing hill. Then, last September, a note appeared on the Bear Creek Lodge website announcing Deal’s retirement and that the lodge had been sold to Washington State Parks. The $3.1 million purchase included the lodge and 110 acres of surrounding land, including the snow tubing hill. 

State parks did not offer many details on their plans for the lodge at the time, but Lara Gricar, Inland Northwest region manager for Washington State Parks said in an email, “One of our main motivations for purchasing the properties was to protect and maintain Mount Spokane State Park’s trail network. Many of the trails on the property already weave into the state park’s trail system. Additionally, the property provides much needed parking and a potential opportunity to develop a transit hub for shuttle service up the mountain.”

During the 2024 legislative session, which concluded in March, the state received funding to begin the assessment process for Bear Creek Lodge. According to an email from Rex Schultz, Washington State Parks community engagement manager, “The results of those assessments will provide insights into potential costs to repair, run, maintain and staff the lodge in the future.”

Shultz noted that the state parks department has also begun a master planning process for Mount Spokane State Park, which will include planning for the future use of Bear Creek Lodge and the surrounding property. The department plans to solicit public input during that master planning process.

As the historic lodge nears its 75th anniversary, it continues to serve the mountain community. Its latest owners, Washington State Parks, hope to continue that legacy.

Chris Maccini is a writer and audio producer based in Spokane. This summer, you can find him hiking the trails and sailing the waters of the Northwest.

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From 1900 through 1924, Liberty Lake featured several dancehalls, hotels, and resorts. The new electric trainline delivered scores of people from Spokane and Cheney. In 1940, Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW) introduced large mouth bass and carp. Soon after, WDFW introduced perch, two species of sunfish, small mouth bass, crappie and bullhead. But these non-native fish, alongside several underground septic issues, sent Liberty Lake into a tailspin. Those elements combined proved to be the first of many epic failures.

Admittedly, hindsight is 20/20. There are over a dozen reasons why we shouldn’t judge the past based on modern knowledge. But it’s worth mentioning that WDFW poisoned the lake with toxaphene in 1965 to overcome some fish problems. When this treatment failed, the lake was poisoned several more times to combat the algae blooms and decaying aquatic weeds. Rotenone poisoning was the popular choice in the early 1970s. Unfortunately, each solution introduced a new problem.

Thankfully, the Liberty Lake Sewer District formed in 1973 by a vote of the residents. Three commissioners were elected: Dennis Ashlock, Art Toreson, and Bill Lancaster. The same year, Washington State University participated in a water quality study of the lake and the creek. Along with a pending sewage collection system, these three events were pivotal in saving Liberty Lake. By 1982, with a wastewater treatment plant completed, the lake showed major signs of improvement. By 1984, the locals reported they could finally see the bottom of the lake again.

Saving Liberty Lake required thousands of other people working together with a common goal. This doesn’t mean it was a seamless process throughout the 1980s. However, reviving the lake did show that it was possible to tackle other major regional projects. For example, Dennis Ashlock was also a charter member of the Centennial Trail Steering Committee, and he labored tirelessly to make the Centennial Trail possible. Ashlock passed away in 1998 at the age of 59, but he will always be honored for his efforts to save Liberty Lake and build the Centennial Trail thanks to the bridge that bears his name at the Islands Trailhead near Plante’s Ferry. Thank you Denny! //

A quick search on the Out There Venture website brings up over 100 articles written by Jon Jonckers. He’s been a constant contributor since 2006, and he still enjoys sharing his love for the region with anyone willing to listen.

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A surprising number of intriguing and entertaining small-town museums stand along the routes to the Inland Northwest’s hiking, biking and boating destinations. These museums offer the outdoor enthusiast a new perspective on the natural areas to which they travel.

The region’s human history dates back thousands of years and is inextricably tied to the natural world. Our forests, waterways, fish and wildlife have supported indigenous communities, settlers, adventurers, towns, and industries.

As a matter of fact, it would be surprising to visit anywhere in the region that does not already have a human story attached to it. Those stories, when known, add depth, meaning, and greater connection to our favorite places.

The museums listed below are all worth a stop. Displays are arranged chronologically and in categories (think arrow heads, baskets, typewriters, household implements, and farm tools). Dioramas are packed with artifacts – sometimes to overflowing.

In addition, on the grounds of the museums below you’ll find cabins, a one-room schoolhouse, fire lookouts, sawmills, a chapel, and a full-sized 1910 house filled with original furnishings and décor.

Keep in mind that these facilities are largely operated on a shoestring budget and managed by volunteers. Small town museums typically begin with family collections and grow largely by happenstance and generosity. Exhibits and labels are crafted over decades, often by local old timers or volunteers, and reflect their own unique perspectives, interests, outlooks, and sensitivities.

Visitors may choose to view exhibits as a starting point for understanding timelines, themes, and historical figures of our region’s history, then take a deeper dive by reading some of the many well-written and researched articles and books out there.

Pend Oreille County Museum Historical Society (Newport, Wash.)

On the way from Spokane to Schweitzer, Sandpoint, Priest Lake, and Lake Pend Oreille, this museum is operated by the Pend Oreille County Historical Society.

It includes artifacts and antiques representing the region’s lifestyles and industry including needlework, household implements, typewriters, cash registers, musical instruments, tools, machinery, and vehicles. There is also an impressive and comprehensive collection of tools used for cutting and managing ice.

Don’t miss the mockups of a sawmill, cabin, fire lookout tower, schoolhouse, and chapel, all of which are walk-in and hands-on.

The museum is located in the historic I. & W.N. Depot Building at 402 S. Washington Ave. in Newport, Wash. Admission is $5 per adult (children free), and hours are Monday-Saturday 10 a.m.-4 p.m.; Sunday 1-4 p.m., and it’s open May 28 through September 5. More info at Pochsmuseum.org.

Wallace District Mining Museum (Wallace, Idaho)

This is a great stop on trips to Lookout Pass, the Route of the Hiawatha, Silver Mountain Bike Park, Fourth of July Pass, or adventures in Montana. The museum at 509 Bank Street is operated by the Wallace District Mining Museum.

Learn about mining history of the Coeur d’Alene Mining District (particularly the large silver mines), geology, methods used for mining over the past century, women and Black miners’ contributions, and the 1910 Big Burn. Cool artifacts include a mine “bicycle.”

Admission is $5 adults with discounts for families, and the museum is open daily from 9 a.m.-6 p.m. More info at Wallaceminingmuseum.com.

Spokane Valley Heritage Museum (Spokane Valley, Wash.)

Visit this museum in the Opportunity Township Hall building at E. 12114 Sprague Ave. as part of a day-trip to the Dishman Hills, Iller Creek, Saltese Uplands, or Antoine Peak trailheads.

Learn about namesakes of some of the area’s popular hiking destinations and natural areas; Hearts of Gold Cantaloupe; the pioneer towns of Opportunity and Spokane Bridge that were razed to make way for I-90; military, and telecommunications, railroads, and early-1900’s school- and home-life.

Don’t miss the 1899 mud shoes fabricated by Peter Morrison for his horses to wear to keep them from sinking into the mud while dredging canals that drained Saltese Lake.

Admission is $6 for adults (discounts for military, seniors, and children), and hours run Wednesday-Saturday from 11 a.m.-4 p.m. year-round. More info: Spokanevalleymuseum.com.

Keller Heritage Center (Colville, Wash.)

Take a tour of this museum operated by the Stevens County Historical Society on your next trip to the Colville National Forest, upper Columbia River, or Canada.

Highlights include pre-inundation Kettle Falls and the first bridge crossing the falls; clothing, tools, and implements crafted and used by early indigenous people including regalia, baskets, and arrow heads; the Hudson’s Bay Company and its trapping history; military history including the early U.S. Army installation of Fort Colville; U.S. Border Patrol; regional agricultural, mining, and timber development; Colville’s early 1900’s civic, home, and town life.

Especially cool artifacts include a photo of eels hauled out on rocks of the pre-inundation Kettle Falls, a sturgeon-nosed canoe, and a Nez Perce woven corn husk bottle.

Located at 700 N. Wynne St. in Colville, Wash., admission is $5 for adults with discounts for seniors, people with disabilities, children, and groups. Hours run daily May and September from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. and June through August from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday–Thursday and 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. Friday–Sunday. More info at Stevenscountyhistoricalsociety.org.

Lincoln County Historical Museum (Davenport, Wash.)

On the way to Lake Roosevelt and the Channeled Scablands trailheads, Davenport’s small-town museum is operated by the Lincoln County Historical Society.

It includes early Native tools and implements, mammoth fossils, Pioneer Bottling Works, the story of outlaw Harry Tracy, grain farming then and now, Fort Spokane history and early 1900’s domestic life history, and railroad and bridge building. An especially cool artifact is the humongous horse-drawn thresher used to harvest crops.

Located at 600 7^th Street in Davenport, Wash., suggested admission is $4 for adults and hours run June 7 for the summer from 10 a.m.-4 p.m. Tuesday-Saturday and Sundays by appointment. More info: Lincolncountymuseums.org.

Originally published as “Exploring the History of the Places Where We Play” in the July-August 2022 print issue.

Tabitha Gregory is a former director of a local history museum and has written about local history topics for Out There. She’s the author of the non-fiction book “Valdez Rises: One Town’s Struggle for Survival After the Great Alaska Earthquake.”

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Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in the December 1979 issue of the now-defunct, Renton, Washington-based “Off Belay” magazine.

Who says it can’t happen to you? Mount Hood, May, 1977, but it could be May 1979 or 1980 [or 2022!]. Up, up, up we go, the three of us, almost two hours in this couloir and still climbing. We are in the narrowest section. 50 to 75 feet wide, 50°. I am leading, staying to the far right, under the safety of overhanging ledges, several hundred feet above. A thin shower of snow cascades into our couloir from a cliff above and to the left. I thought, “What a picture this would have made if only my camera was handy!” The snow shower lasted no more than several seconds and I thought no more about it.

I started to ascend, but only for a moment, for directly ahead I could see the start of a small avalanche. If it was like the other surface avalanches seen today, we would be in no danger. I turned to Mike Burr and Pete Lambach, telling them what was on the way and to move as far right as they could. When I turned to look upslope, I was stunned to see not a small shifting of snow but a tremendous cloud approaching with a deafening roar.

I turned to warn Mike and Pete, to have them unclip from our climbing rope and dump their packs. But it was too late. Before a sound came from my mouth, I was knocked from my position. I do not know whether it was the air blast or the avalanche itself that bowled me over, but it was an impact not to be forgotten.

I immediately tried to do all the right (??) things. Swimming motions were almost impossible. There was no time to release my pack or ice axe. I do not recall when my ice axe came away from my wrist loop, or when my sunglasses and prescription glasses were torn from my face. I do not recall when my balaclava was removed from my head or my mittens departed from my hands.

I do recall trying swimming motions, which seemed so very futile. I remember my body being pressured frontways, sideways, from the top, from the bottom. Periods, probably minute seconds, of brightness, darkness, then light again alternated. With the last motions I was able to make before coming to a complete stop, I cleared a breathing space in front of my face with one hand. And then . . .

Such an odd feeling, being buried alive, wondering how the others are. Did they survive? How long will it be before all the air is used in this much fought for air space? So many, many thoughts, unlived life, unsaid words.

Then back to reality. What can I do? Trying desperately to remain calm, I find I can do nothing. One leg is bent back, the other up, as though I were kicking a football. My right arm is pinned at my side, the left near my face. I can move my fingers and that is all! Such a way to end. I hope Mike and Pete are not buried and waiting for help from me.

My eyes and nose are free of snow, but my mouth is half full. But it quickly melts and I swallow it. I close my eyes and try to slow down my breathing to conserve air. Time and thoughts seem to go on forever. I wish my heartbeat would slow or unconsciousness come, but neither is to happen.

Then a slight nudge where I am tied into the climbing rope. Imagination? Then another tug. The pressure is being relieved. Suddenly, the air pocket collapses, and I can’t breathe. But only for an instant, then my face is clear and I feel fresh air!

Mike and Pete are uncovering me; my hands and arms are free. I try to use my legs, but to no avail. They must be dug out. Their appearance surprises me. Both have been digging with their bare hands. They are roped. Pete is bleeding profusely at the neck from an ice axe puncture, and Mike has a knee injury. But at least we are alive.

First aid, then the search for lost gear. All is found except for Mike’s sunglasses and mine, and an ice axe. We put Mike in the middle of our rope, the safest place without an axe, and head upwards towards Illumination Rock. I lead, going very slow, gasping for breath with three crushed ribs. Mike hobbles along on his injured knee. Pete trudges behind with a bent and demolished backpack. I am wondering if we will make it . . .

Then Pete says, “If you guys are up to it, we can still make the top from here and be down by morning.”

Bob Degroot was 43 years old when he and his partners were caught in an avalanche climbing Mount Hood in 1977. He currently lives in Spokane Valley, Wash.

Learn more about Mt. Hood’s avalanche history in this 1999 publication by the National Forest Service.

Find more stories about avalanches or climbing in the OTO archives.

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Abercrombie Mountain stands amid the mountains just shy of the Canadian border in northeast Washington. A popular trail to the summit switchbacks through dense forest and ascends through fields of wildflowers punctuated by silver snags. The mountain’s trail, natural beauty, and high elevation make it an appealing destination for hikers and mountain bikers, and its namesake’s history creates an intriguing web of connection with other Northwest landmarks.

William Abercrombie, for whom the mountain is named, was raised in New York. In 1877, at the age of 19, he joined the Army and was assigned to Fort Colville, located near the present town of Colville, Wash. While there, he surveyed and mapped swaths of wildlands surrounding the Pend Oreille River, Priest River, Columbia River, Montana, and north to the 49th parallel—including the Abercrombie Mountain area.

Abercrombie’s experience exploring the Inland Northwest made him a strong candidate for more distant expeditions. So, in 1884, as Lieutenant Colonel, Abercrombie began leading missions to Alaska. He explored the massive Copper River three times, crossed the rugged Valdez Glacier, and established order in the chaotic gold rush-tent-city of Valdez.

One of his most notable Alaska projects was to locate, engineer, and construct an overland route to the interior gold fields through the Chugach Range. Today, this route is known as the Richardson Highway. In Alaska, there is an Abercrombie Peak, an Abercrombie Creek, and an Abercrombie State Park—all named for him.

Abercrombie returned intermittently to eastern Washington while serving in Alaska and eventually was promoted to Commander of Spokane’s Fort George Wright, which still stands today on the grounds of Spokane Falls Community College. Towering ponderosa pines rise along the grassy parade grounds, and pristine red brick buildings line the lanes. The Fort’s construction began in 1898, well after the so-called “Indian Wars,” but the namesake—George Wright—has become a modern-day symbol of the atrocities committed by the U.S. military against indigenous people. As a matter of fact, in the spring of 2021, Wright’s name was removed from the bordering roadway.

In 1910, Abercrombie retired and moved from the stately Post Commander’s House to a mansion on Spokane’s South Hill. His retirement house still stands today on a quiet street in the Cannon Addition, a plaque identifying it as the “Abercrombie House.” The home is grand with west-facing windows and a green lawn and landscaping. The original basalt rockwork of the foundation is still visible.

Each place that today bears Abercrombie’s name, in Alaska and in Washington, is beautiful and interesting in its own right. And the Abercrombie connection allows visitors to see some of the ways in which the region’s geography, geology, and history are drawn together.

Matt Kinney and Tabitha Gregory live in Spokane where they explore the Inland Northwest’s trails by foot, bike, and ski. Matt is author of “Alaska Backcountry Skiing: Valdez and Thompson Pass” and Tabitha is former director of the Valdez Museum and author of “Valdez Rises: One Town’s Struggle for Survival After the Great Alaska Earthquake.”

For more Flashback stories about places, people, and recreation in the Northwest, visit the OTO archives.

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The picture accompanying this story is my grandmother, then Amanda Algaier, not yet Bleck. She is canoeing on Priest Lake, circa 1917. Or it could be Loon Lake, and probably is. Which lake is less important than my grandparents starting a family tradition of spending summers at Priest Lake and Hill’s Resort, beginning in the year of my birth, 1958. Each summer brought the Seattle Blecks and Tacoma Johnsons together. For all of us, it was always The Lake, a definite article and proper noun that needed no explaining.  

Unlike E. B. White, from whom I stole the title, watching my son Tobias at The Lake, whether in my mind’s eye or on the beach, my groin feels no chills of death. Rather, Priest Lake stories breathe their own life. He listens rapt as his uncle Rob and I tell of taking a boat with our cousin Marty, not even in our teens, to camp on Papoose Island, unsupervised.  

He is struck by the stories of feral children, now his aunts and uncles, rabidly chasing a sow and her cub through the resort, his grandmother chasing with a broom, swinging it wildly, perhaps thinking she might sweep some sense into us. He is wistful about being the youngest by too many years, never having slept on the beach with his cousins, never waking to the sound of breeze-blown waves lapping against the shore in the otherwise still dawn, taking the sounds, as I did, for footsteps—bear of course. He never ate pancakes loaded with huckleberries picked by his grandmother from along the shore trail on an early morning walk.  

Tobias never had a chance to creep into any of the many abandoned mines that were still exposed around the lake during our childhood, although we never went far when we did. He never made trips to the dump to watch the bears scavenge as dusk fell. We longed for them to rummage through the trash behind the cabin, the closer the better, the thrill immeasurable. No one said a fed bear is a dead bear. Our stories brought this and more alive for him and kept it alive for us. 

In 2008, we celebrated our 50th anniversary at The Lake with the whole family.  Everyone. A few years later my aunt passed and her ashes were scattered in Luby Bay, becoming one with The Lake. In 2017, following the death of my father, our visit occurred shortly after his funeral when we were still raw with the loss. Despite the beaches, the bay, the lake, and the extended family, those extended trips began to seem no longer worth it.  

Two weeks in the 1960s became a week in the 1970s became a few days for some, a long weekend for others, and finally a day trip from Spokane for me. One sister bought a cabin near Coolin. Another found a vacation rental. My siblings and cousins are the last direct links to that woman in the canoe. After five generations, will there be a sixth?

Bradley Bleck last wrote about keeping backyard chickens last summer for Out There. He’s longing for Phase 3 when he can join his Badlands Cycling Club mates out on the road again.  

The post Once More to The Lake appeared first on Out There Venture.

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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