Generation after generation, finding community at Eaglecrest Ski Area

We Alaskans, Anchorage Daily News: March 26, 2017

Hello Readers,

As our beloved community ski area marks a half century in operation, here’s a revised column I wrote for the Anchorage Daily News in 2017. It was inspired by the 40th anniversary of Eaglecrest and the generational impact of this local treasure in the “Douglas Alps.”

DOUGLAS — Tall, bald, wearing a semi-waterproof jacket from the 1980s and stretch wool ski pants from the 1960s, Pete Huberth’s bowlegged gait lurches down the Eaglecrest Ski Area parking lot, skis perched on a hunched shoulder. In his early 80’s, both knees, hips and shoulders replaced, our “bionic man” wouldn’t miss a day of skiing for anything. At day’s end, eyes gleaming under thick brows the color of fresh-fallen snow, his wide smile won’t go away.

In early December 2016, on the first day of the ski season, Pete took a freak fall and broke his neck. Two months later, he passed on to the great ski run in the sky. A friend quoted Pete on his Facebook page: “When I ski, I want to ski deep, soft, powdery snow. It is as if you would ski in the sky amongst the clouds transported by the wind.”

Pete was among a long line of Eaglecrest elders — people who cherished nothing more than the glee of letting gravity carry them down a snowy slope on slidey things attached to their feet. When I ski along the trees of a run called Inside Passage, I hear the stern voice of the late ski patroller Willette Janes, “I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I just want to have fun.” Poet and 10th Mountain Division veteran Sig Olson passed on a first day of winter, unable to squeeze in another season. He skied every day the hill was open in his last years.

40th Anniversary

People like this created Juneau’s city owned and subsidized snowsports area, which is marking 40 years in operation this ski season.

Eaglecrest was born at the behest of ski patrollers and Forest Service colleagues Bob Janes and Craig Lindh, the father of world champion and Olympic medalist Hilary Lindh. After some airplane reconnaissance, they chose Fish Creek Basin as the ideal spot due to accessibility, variety, and the potential for avalanche-free road access.

The terrain resembles a cross between coastal New Zealand and the Swiss Alps, with a vertical drop of about 1,400 feet. More than thirty trails branch out over 640 acres, including open cruisers, scary chutes, steep faces and bowls.

Our good friend Shaggy calls Eaglecrest a cherished “community value.” Special programs include free season passes for all fifth-graders, learn-to-ski lessons for low-income families and bringing people living with disabilities to the mountain for lessons and activities.

Eaglecrest is much more than a recreational outlet. It’s home to what we consider our extended family. We’ve seen snow-riding couples become snow-riding families. We’ve also lost people like Peter, the bighearted snowboard instructor who perished in a tragic kayak accident.

On Easter Sunday, kids on skis and snowboards chase a big purple bunny down trails of scattered chocolate eggs. On Christmas Eve, a ski school Santa Claus shows up at the lodge and hands out gifts.

Of course, in a close-knit community disconnected from the road system, we see the same people at the grocery store and Eaglecrest. But this place connects us differently.

“We so rarely get to see our friends engaged in what they are doing in such a dynamic and focused way,” observes my ski buddy Beth. “I can spot someone from the lift and it brings me real joy to see them experiencing the present moment so intensely.”

Thanks to climate change, we hadn’t seen a lot of our friends over the past two years of scant snow. But this year, the snowpack is back — and so are skiers and boarders.

There is no bar at Eaglecrest, so the walk back to your vehicle at the end of the day can be through a gauntlet of tailgates, where the ubiquitous beverage of choice is Rainier beer. Leaning back on the back of his truck, Freddy refers to the tall Rainier in his hand as, “Cropley Lake swill water,” for the frozen lake at the base of rocky chutes just outside the ski area boundary. Steve stokes up his portable propane grill and offers me a fresh-cooked brat. “I missed the family big time,” he laments. “It’s good to be back together.”

In 1992 we moved to the City and Borough of Juneau from California, where a day of skiing required waking in the middle of the night and making a four-hour drive. So we couldn’t quite grasp that in the dark of winter lay a snowy winter wonderland a mere 20 minutes away from our new home.

“If you can ski Eaglecrest, you can ski anywhere,” is a well-worn saying. On a recent ski trip to Colorado, a friend who grew up in New York City and learned to ski at Eaglecrest was incredulous at the relatively easy “intermediate” level runs.

Granted, this hometown winter recreation center maintains some of the slowest chairlifts in the country, as well as hit-and-miss snow conditions. Thanks to our coastal mountain weather, 38-degrees and raining at sea level could be a 28-degree powder day at Eaglecrest. Or a 33-degree mess.

A sticker on a ski area locker room door shouts, “A bad day of skiing is better than a good day of work.” Local diehards linger on the hill even on days when the temperatures rise and the snow is extra heavy or, in lean years, when there’s barely enough snow to cover the runs.

This spring the snow is deeper, the avalanche risk hovering on high alert. Beth and I were recently descending the lower traverse in the West Bowl on what appeared to be fresh powder snow. With the temps just over freezing, we almost got stuck in what’s known as Sierra Cement in California. Still, you can’t tell the ski conditions from town. You have to go up there.

Going “up there” is how my husband Karl and I and our two adult children, Kaitlyn and Kanaan, spend the better part of our winter weekends. I’m a part-time ski instructor, my husband’s a ski patroller and a Juneau Mountain Rescue volunteer. Our daughter grew up on the race team, and our son and his buddies made homemade ski and snowboard movies through high school. The decade our daughter put in with the ski team made her one of the smoothest and most efficient skiers on the hill.

My dad raced with ski clubs in Colorado in his post-college years. He taught me to ski in the Lake Tahoe area of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Our kids, four and six, had just learned to ski in California when we moved here.

On a sunny, cold Saturday, Karl and I boot packed up to the ridge overlooking Admiralty Island, Stephens Passage and endless islands and inlets. There, perched on a rock we found Kaitlyn, a nurse, and her friends Linda, a lawyer, and Marnita, a teacher. The girls reminisced about shared awkward moments in first grade. The Facebook caption on my snapped photo: “Twenty-five years of friendship.”

That long ago, Kanaan and his good buddy Chris met when they literally collided into each other on the hill at three and four years old. On a recent powder morning they took a break from their fishing and avalanche forecasting jobs and spent the morning together at Eaglecrest. Since middle school they’ve been part of a pack, one after the other heading downhill with speedy abandon, lining up at natural promontories to take turns launching themselves. “It’s the feral method of learning to ski,” remarked Sigrid, mother of Will, a mainstay of the posse.

In the years since, we've witnessed countless groups of young feral skiers bombing down the hill under the chairlift, fondly known as "little rippers.”

On March 10, North Douglas friends Pat and Jackie welcomed baby Oliver. Pat is on the ski patrol and also serves as the president of Juneau Mountain Rescue. Jackie is an active skier and JMR leader.

No doubt, Oliver is on his way to becoming a little ripper, with a shared love of community that finds a singular joy in sliding on snow.

Update: January 31, 2026

A decade later, we are the grandparents of two-and-a-half-year-old twin boys. Last weekend, they took their first ride up the beginner Porcupine chairlift. Friends and family helped Felix and Wally feel their way to guiding gravity, their mini-ski boots attached to slidey things riding the smooth, snowy surface.

The biggest smiles on their little faces.

Grandpa Karl and Felix, Photo by Chris Miller

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Peace and Love Always, Katie B.