FROM TOM ANGELL ARCHIVES: When I was 12 years old, I decided to become a ski jumper. I would take a fifty-gallon barrel and a few boards over to the steep, but short hill right next to our property fence line on the east side of the ranch and rig up a ski jump.
I would walk to the top of the hill, put my skis on, and using some ski poles I would ski down off the short hill, hit the jump, and sail out into the pasture below about ten feet, give or take a few, depending on the condition of the snow, wet and sticky or hard and froze.
I was pretty proud of myself and would try little things to make my jumps longer. I spent a lot of time practicing my jumping. I could even talk my little brother Jerry, who was six years younger than me, into bringing a horse to the jump area and pulling me back to the top after each jump. That really made things fun. I’d get a lot of jumping in that way.
Finally, I decided I was getting good, and was ready for the big challenge, Bear Gulch! I gathered my skis and poles and had Mom take me into the Star Dust Cafe, to catch and ride the ski bus to Bear Gulch.
The bus finally showed up, I was about thirty minutes early, and I cautiously climbed aboard. The bus was nearly full of skiers from down the line. I’m not sure how far south the bus ran, but it was nearly full by the time it got to St. Anthony, and by the time it left Ashton, there was standing room only.
As I moved back towards the back of the bus, I noticed a kid about my age, with a pretty good-looking cowboy hat on; I decided to sit beside him. After a short introduction to each other, I found out his name was Benny Stoddard, and he was from Rexburg. Somehow the conversation got to our skiing ability. I was very sure of myself, after all the practice on my hill on the east side of the ranch. I proceeded to inform Benny just how good I was. During this same time, this smart-alecky kid from Rexburg bragged about his skiing ability. He informed me that he had been coming to Bear Gulch every Saturday for the past two years. He kept telling me what he could do. I could see that he possibly had more experience than me, but that I could probably outski him, especially when it came to jumping.
As we traveled on toward Bear Gulch, each of us discovered that the other was from a ranch, and each of us planned on being professional cowboys. Every time Benny would brag about one of his rodeo accomplishments, I would come back with one of mine. Soon I started running out of accomplishments, so I started inventing a few. Before long, I had ridden saddle broncs, won calf ridings, and bulldogged steers. (smaller ones of course) Benny had won bull ridings, rode bareback horses, and was the toughest calf roper in Madison County. We were both telling lies, but neither of us realized the other one was also telling lies. I was 12 years old, and Benny was 13.
Finally, the bus arrived, and we proceeded to put our ski clothes on. I slowly started to realize that I was probably the most under-dressed skier up there. Everyone had fancy skintight ski pants. I had on my Wranglers. Everyone had fancy ski gloves. I had my yellow chore gloves, but they were brand new and quite soft. Everyone had fancy skis; they were all painted fancy colors with names written all over them. I had an old pair of skis with holes bored in the tips. They were made of unpainted wood, and one of the narrow steel strips located on the bottom side of one of the skis was missing. Everyone had fancy ski boots. I had my packs on, but I had cleaned the manure off. Everyone had a fancy stocking ski cap, with a fibrous ball at the top. I had on my old chore cap, with earflaps. I was starting to see the writing on the wall; I wasn’t quite as prepared as I thought I was. In fact, I was really embarrassed by the way I was dressed and equipped.
As I paid for my ticket, out of the huge glass window on the south side of the lodge, I could see skiers flying off the Bear Cat Run zig-zagging all the way down; I was amazed! Finally, I ventured out and started to put on my skis. My bindings were what were referred to as “bear trap” bindings. They had a spring-loaded clamp that went around the heel and held your feet in place. They were really tight; they never fell off no matter how hard you fell.
All of a sudden, I was really humbled. Here came Benny Stoddard flying down the steep “Bear Cat” run, taking jumps, turning in the air, throwing powder everywhere. I wanted to hide. I could never let him see me ski, not after I had told him how good I was. He immediately headed back down a gulch towards the “T” bar, a device used to pull skiers to the top.
I went the other way, towards the rope-tow; I only fell down ten or twenty times on the way down to where one caught the rope to pull himself back to the top of the hill. By the time I reached the bottom, my gloves were soaked, as were my Wranglers. In fact, by looking for all of the blue spots left by my wet Wranglers each time I went down, you could almost track my progress down the run,
I got in the big line, mostly kids, waiting to grasp the rope. I noticed that they would reach in front of them and grab the big rope with their right hand, and they would put their left hand behind their back, hammer lock style, and grasp the rope. The hand behind the back carried most of the weight of the skier.
My turn came, I reached for the rope but was unsuccessful in getting hold with my right hand behind my back. I missed my turn and went to the back of the line. By this time, my hands were getting cold in those wet, fuzzy yellow chore gloves, my legs were getting cold in my wet Wranglers, and I was starting to wonder if I really wanted to be a skier.
Before long, I again made it back to the rope, and this time I was successful in getting hold of everything and I headed, triumphantly up the slope. At the top of the rope tow, there was a huge wheel that served as a pulley for the rope to wrap around as it went up and down the hill. There was a somewhat flat area where the skiers would let go, grab their ski poles, and head back down the mountain.
Just as I was approaching the dismount area, I came to the realization that both of my wet, yellow gloves were frozen solid to the rope!
I was frantic! I could see the big wheel in front of me. I could picture myself being pulled through that huge pulley. I knew I was dead. I screamed and jerked back with all my might but with no success. All I did was fall down and really tighten the hammerlock I had on myself. My skis didn’t fall off; I was dragging up closer to the big killer wheel and a ways before I reached the wheel, the rope quickly rose up to the same height as the revolving wheel, which was about ten feet above the snow level that a person skied up while holding onto the rope.
I was hanging in the air, my skis dangling from my feet, and my right arm in a tight hammerlock. All of a sudden, my hands managed to slip out of my gloves, and I dropped to the snow below. Several other skiers came over to check on me, and I lay there so thankful, as I watched my frozen gloves make the turn around the wheel and head back down the mountain. I was so thankful that I still wasn’t wearing them.
