I was scared. Standing at the base of Howelsen Hill, having just stepped into my pin bindings affixed to my skinny XCD skis, I felt terrified. I hadn’t ridden the poma since I was a kid, and all I could remember was that it was no picnic. Flashbacks came to mind of getting dragged up the steep slope by pole and disk, losing my balance, falling, and being forced to abandon ship and start all over in front of my buddies. It was hard then, but there was no way I could stomach that kind of embarrassment now. Something about your mid-thirties makes you prideful – and risk averse. I peered across the base area, at the new double chairlift that carried skiers up the hill in the most mellow of fashions, and wondered about taking the easy way up. But I knew I couldn’t. I redoubled my resolve, pushed away three-decades of childhood anxiety, and skated toward the old surface lift.
As I made my way over, I noticed a few other free-heel skiers getting in line for the lift. Across the valley at Steamboat Resort, where I usually skied, telemarkers were not unheard of, but we certainly weren’t numerous. That’s pretty cool, I thought, seeing a few folks on well loved T2s. Now in line, slowly shuffling to my fate, I looked over my shoulder toward the headwall. Broad and steep, it flowed to the hundred-year-old log buildings at the base. To my delight I saw two people deep in lunge, making strong, low telemark turns. I had never seen so many free-heel skiers in one place. In a 15 foot radius there may have been 10 – my goodness! Then, suddenly, I was up – looking back over my other shoulder for the poma, heart racing. I took a deep breath, grabbed the pole, and put the disk snuggly under my rump. And I was yanked up the hill.
Small town, big jumps: Howelsen Hill circa 1937. Provided courtesy Tread of Pioneers Museum, Steamboat Springs, CO
Whether lengthy or brief, any history of this area is incomplete without mention of the original inhabitants . The environs that would become Howelsen Hill and Steamboat Springs were first inhabited by the Yamparika Ute peoples. For countless generations, these bands hunted deer, elk, and other game in the verdant Yampa River valley, especially in the summer. Over time, intrusions into their homeland by people of European lineage mounted. By 1876, James Harvey Crawford - a former Union soldier and adventurer from Missouri - and his family became the first permanent white settlers in the area. In 1879, after years of rising tensions and mistreatment of the native peoples at the hands of US government managers, violence erupted.
Nathan Meeker, the Indian agent for the reservation in Western Colorado, had pressured the Utes to abandon their traditional ways of hunting and instead farm the land. After an argument with Canavish, a local Ute leader, resulted in the assault of Meeker, troops were called in. By September, these forces from Wyoming had reached the reservation boundary at Milk Creek, where on the 29th a battle ensued, resulting in five days of fighting and a brief Ute victory. Word of the battle spread to angered Utes near the local agency headquarters, who viewed the movement of the government troops as an intrusion of their sovereignty. They set fire to several buildings and killed Meeker and 10 others - an episode now known as the Meeker Massacre (or Meeker Incident). The resulting panic led the Colorado legislature to pass a bill to remove all Utes from the area.
The new town of Steamboat Springs grew as time marched on. With the long-time locals now forcibly absent, the steep, wooded hill across the Yampa River became a small elk refuge until a Norwegian immigrant arrived in town in 1913.
Howelsen Hill , circa 1910, prior to its evolution into a ski hill. Provided courtesy Tread of Pioneers Museum, Steamboat Springs, CO
Howelsen Hill was founded in 1914 by a Norwegian Nordic combined champion named Karl Hovelsen, who had come to Colorado by way of Ringling Bros. where he performed as an itinerant ‘ski sailor,’ flinging himself through the air to the novel glee of the patrons. The man became known as Carl Howelsen. After tiring of circus life, he spent time in the Midwest, helping organize the Norge Ski Club in Chicago. Longing for real ski country, Howelsen then split for the Colorado mountains. He found his way to Steamboat Springs, and then got to work. He built ski jumps on the hill across from town, started showing the townsfolk how to jump in the Nordic tradition, and helped found the Winter Carnival and the Steamboat Springs Winter Sports Club, both of which are important parts of the community to this day.
After winning a national ski jumping championship in 1921, Howelsen returned to Norway the following year to see his aging parents, never again setting foot in the Colorado town he did so much for. Howelsen married and lived out his life in his native country, ski jumping until 1948, and passing away in1955 at the age of 78. Howelsen Hill remains the oldest and longest running ski area in the country. And the mark Karl Hovelson left on Steamboat Springs is undeniable.
Carl Howelsen in 1915. Provided courtesy Tread of Pioneers Museum, Steamboat Springs, CO
Knuckles white and body strained, close calls overcome, (and realization made that the poma really isn't that scary) I arrived at the summit of the little mountain. I made my way over to the top of the headwall, where perfect corn stuck to the steep slope. Moving down the mountain, I made bouncing jump turns on the soft snow, making for exciting skiing. As the pitch lessened in steepness I made long arcing turns toward the base where my wife was rocking Teddy, our two-month old, under a brilliant spring sun.
There I found an infectious vibe. Pretention and ostentatiousness had no place here. People sipped market-priced beers in the sun by the steadfastly old base lodge as snow sliders of all modes and walks of life lined up to try their luck on the poma and ski the headwall. Kids of all ages abounded, some, like ours, small and bundled, were traded every twenty minutes or so while parents made quick laps. People smiled at each other as they went about their day. It was a friendliness that felt small-town and almost old-fashioned – you couldn’t help but feel full from it and reciprocate.
This was another of Howelsen Hill’s free ski Sundays. Instituted in 2018 to try to get more traffic at the hill. It had blossomed into the consummate local’s scene. And nearly half the skiers seemed to be on telemark.
I took my shift at the base with the little one to let my wife take a few turns of her own on her new telemark setup. Always braver than me, she went right to the poma without a second thought. As I rocked the little guy, I watched people take their own quick laps, some beginners, some experts, all flying by on the short and sweet headwall.
Several strong skiers caught my eye with their aggressive and low genuflection. It was fun to see so many free-heel skiers, and more than a few really good ones. All at this fun little mountain, unpresumptuous in all ways. It was admittedly one of the more refreshing experiences I had had skiing in a long time.
We collected our things after my wife finished her laps, and, baby in tow, made our way to the car. The walk was a short three minutes, to a traffic-less car ride back home. It was impossible to not look forward to the next time we’d be down at Howelsen Hill. It was the little telemark skier’s paradise - one with a deeper and more complicated history than meets the eye - that had everything you might need for a great day of skiing – and nothing you didn’t.
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