Loni Klettl is a born and raised Jasperite, whose father Toni Klettl was one of the last park wardens to raise his family in the backcountry. Loni, an alpine skier who competed in the 1980 Winter Olympics, has been skiing Marmot Basin since her childhood and has been sharing her memories of the 50-year-old ski hill on her Facebook page. Printed here are two of those stories.
Before the lifts
Skiing in Jasper in the early 1950s was the must-do, new activity and everyone wanted to be a part of the scene and fun. In the 1930s, ski savvy Swiss pioneer Joe Weiss always knew the potential and value of Marmot Basin, but it wasn鈥檛 until the early 1950s that everyone climbed aboard his ski entrepreneur bombardier with enthusiasm and delight.
Parks Canada built the twisty road and cleared the outrun; Bill Ruddy ran the Bombardier snowmobiles, which took skiers from Portal Creek on 93A up a steep, corkscrew road, to the Martin Cabin鈥攚hich was up on the Basin Run above the Paradise Chalet.
They packed skis, lunch and gear into these contraptions, which were apparently stinky, noisy, claustrophobic and terribly brutal if one had too many beers the night before.
From the Martin Cabin, the true Marmot Basin with its glades, bowls and alpine opened up and all enjoyed sun, powder, camaraderie and the long, long ski out at the end of the day. There were no ski lifts in those days; skiers used their real sealskin skins to get them to the top and had cheap Italian wine in their wineskins.
The Marmot Derby, which was recognized by the Canadian Amateur Association, was held in the spring and participants competed in the giant slalom and downhill. The downhill was no slouch鈥攁pproximately five miles long; it was a marathon of skills, daring, fitness and a small dose of insanity.
It started on top of Marmot Peak, swooped down over Knob Hill, and then competitors schussbombed past all the spectators cheering and hanging out at the Martin Cabin, past the nowadays Slash and over the sewer lagoons, then tested all resolve and leg strength in the thigh screaming outrun. In years with good snow, they would finish at Portal Creek. Cyclists know these trails as Scabies, Old Bus Road and Old Man Downhill Trail. Twelve minutes was a good time!
Many ski pants were ripped and bindings were pulled right out of the skis on account of the tremendous wipe-outs. The entire run had to be sidestepped and slide slipped before racing. Whoever thinks it鈥檚 tough to climb the peak, I have no sympathy!
These first skiers at Marmot Basin were fortunate, early ski troopers with attitude, guts and love for the sport that we all have still.
Getting up there
This is something we can all relate to. Getting up to the ski hill stories often define a winter, make or break friendships, ruin marriages, test the quality of a car and the subsequent lack of power and the poor quality of tires.
Many an innocent journey up to the base of the mountain was and still is saturated with trials, tribulations and disasters which transcend through the decades. No one escapes the trip up to the mountain: we all endure the drive, spilling coffee on our legs, pounding the dash in juvenile agitation because of the perceived gitbags that are going too slow, yelling obscenities at the idiots ahead, losing our minds at the long lineups at the park gate, explosive frustration in the parking lot...
Why do we all endure this grief? Because once the skis are on, it鈥檚 called forgive and forget.
From 1964 to 1970, skiers truly suffered The Bus Road, which was the only way to get up to Marmot Basin. No one has fond memories of this, especially me who鈥檚 quite prone to motion sickness.
Vehicles were parked at the top of Portal Hill on 93A and all skiers jammed their skis and poles, mish mash into dubious ski racks which were attached with unconventional means to an ugly, uncomfortable beast called a bus.
I was a little kid that was jostled and shoved, enduring many elbow jabs to the eyes and often my packsack would end up in the muddy slop that was called a floor.
The road was narrow, tight and steep, all corners had numbers and pull offs for meetings with oncoming buses. Some corners were so tight that the driver had to use all manly muscle to manhandle the steering wheel, body straining with the effort to manually convince the beast to do a three-point turn. A corroded metal frame with no suspension, seats that were harder than plywood; this ear-splitting, stinky, rickety contraption, lurched, jarred, and belched its way around tight corners, gears screeching with agony and a black cloud of poor quality oil fumes staining the pristine winter air.
With head exploding with dizziness and vomit that was way too close for comfort, I would stumble and stagger out of the beast at the Upper Chalet with Craven A extra long no filter smoke lingering on my scrawny frame. I look with despair at the flat light! I was not alone in my wobbly agony; others had the recognizable sheen of motion-sickness-survival-hell.
I actually had an occasional saviour, in the form of Dad. Parks Canada in the early years at Marmot was in charge of operations. Being the park warden in charge, he got to drive his warden truck up this nightmare; we didn鈥檛 care how early in the morning we had to get up.
Once the Marmot Road was completed in the early 1970鈥檚, the journey to the ski hill improved substantially. Miraculously, our skis, butts, ears and dizzy heads healed seemingly overnight and the torture of the bus became a long ago memory clipped to great times of early skiing with friends and family at Marmot Basin.
The 51暗网 is compiling stories of Marmot Basin's past in celebration of the ski hill's 50th anniversary. If you have a story to share or a photo of the old days, send it to Nicole Veerman at [email protected].
