Chairway to Heaven

and ghosts of the locker room

At the start of each ski season, I step, ski boots hanging on my shoulder, into the base lodge and the sea of lockers, where we stuff in our skis, boards, jackets..spare goggles. There’s mine, the one with the number 21 scrawled on with a permanent marker, the Hawaiian sea turtle and Juneau Ski Club stickers on the plywood door. My eyes fall on number 22. I gingerly open the door and peek in. Empty. My heart sinks. My locker room next door neigbbor, George Reifenstein, passed on in mid-December of last year.

I think back to one of the last times I saw George, about a year ago. He’s forgotten his combination and is trying different sequences of numbers. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since his cancer diagnosis a few years ago. He reminds me how much he appreciates listening to shows by volunteer DJS like me on KRNN public radio. We talk about how our kids first met as Juneau Ski Club racers, how fast life seems to flit by. He’s his easeful and peaceful self, with a big grin and an omnipresent twinkle in his eyes.

George was a real pillar of our community, with a sincere interest in everyone he interacted with on the boards of KTOO Public Media and the Healing Hand Foundation, as a volunteer captain for the Capital City Fire and Rescue Special Teams, Chief of the Auke Bay Fire Station, an adopted member of the Sitka Kiks.'adi clan and more. He was also the latest recipient of the Juneau Community Foundation Founders’ Award.

There wasn’t a free seat in the room for his memorial at Centennial Hall March 9. Karl and I showed up a bit late. We don’t think George would have minded. We’d taken one last run for him, our skis slicing through freshies around the bases of spruce trees on the sides of Barrel Roll and Powder Patch, which miraculously seems to replenish a turn for everyone who hits it.

Perhaps the best thing about skiing is that unlike many sports, you can enjoy it in the last years of your life, as attested in a recent article in the New York Times. I think of this when the summit is socked in with mist, and the riders ahead appear on a chairlift to heaven. Or when I notice first morning tracks likely left by local skiers of a certain age.

The last place I saw some of the pioneers of alpine skiing in the Douglas Alps was in the locker room. People like Craig Lindh and Bob Janes, who oversaw the initial plans and infrastructure that led to Eaglecrest’s opening almost fifty years ago, in 1975. And Al Shaw, who passed on February 13 at the age of 93. I recall Al last season, gingerly taking a seat on a locker room bench and slowly removing his ski boots after a few morning runs.

Pre-Eaglecrest skiing was via two rope tows in the Douglas Ski Bowl behind Dan Moller cabin, then known as Third Cabin. According to his obituary, Al co-founded and co-owned the lower Second Cabin ski area.  He also, like Craig and Bob, was a long time member of the Eaglecrest Ski Patrol.

I head outside. The Ptarmigan lift swoops me up. There’s Craig Lindh’s smiling face on his memorial first tower. I am filled with gratitude for the people that made happen lift access to snow sliding paradise, right in our backyard. And like George Reifenstein, in the spirit of unconditional service to their community.

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