Located three miles from the Crystal Springs Snopark, Meany is only accessible via a 1960s Bom-bardier, private snowmobile or a long, flat walk. Photo: Cirque Gammelin Words KADE KRICHKO “WHEN Chuck Wilder’s words rattle around my brain as I struggle to grip the frozen cord. The rope tow hadn’t looked like much from afar—an electric motor-propelled pulley system crescendo-ing up into an idyllic pine forest. Frankly, the warning had felt a little dramatic, even for a storyteller like Wilder. Plus, I’d already watched a group of five-year-olds make it look easy. Piece of cake. My shoulders are the first to rebuff my ignorance, muscle and tendon straining to keep appendages in their proper sockets. The hands follow. Wrapped in gloves and an outer pair of shredded leather mittens to prevent rope burn, my fingers cramp while clawing for something, anything to keep me on the line. Nicknamed a “nutcracker,” the metal rope gripper attached to my harness—a prerequisite to board this carnival ride—swings menacingly between my legs. A foreign twinge of panic lodges in my stomach as the track steepens. My arms are just too torqued to lock the gripping mechanism into place. Near defeat, I lean forward and squeeze. Earlier that morning, Wilder had touted this rope tow, dubbed “Mach,” as the fastest certified tow in North it gets going, it can rip your arms off.” America. It is also one of the oldest continually operating lifts in the nation, a cornerstone of a ski area stuck in time. Cut into the heart of the Cascades, Meany Lodge echoes a bygone era just 60 miles east of the Bezos-juiced modernity of Seattle, WA. It’s an anomaly not lost on its constituents, a patchwork of skiers and snowboarders that stumbled upon this antidote to corporate ski culture and never left. Some have made the pilgrimage for a few seasons, others link grandparents to Meany’s club-based beginnings. There aren’t many skiers here, but there are even fewer strangers, a tight-knit mountain community operating since 1928 that defies the contemporary currents of our sport. As other feeder areas fizzle out, younger skiers continue to cut their teeth at Meany. One by one, the five-year-old human rubber bands that tricked me into this fiendish rollercoaster shoot down through the woods alongside us. I dig into energy reserves not meant for a first run and summon the grip strength for a final, 38-degree push. Like the group that has dedicated their lives to preserving the century-long history of this hand cut hill, my mission is singular: Just hold on. Meany Lodge 057
The Ski Journal Volume 17, Issue 3: Page 57
