Growing up in Portland, Oregon in the 1950s, I had no knowledge of the sport of skiing nor did I know anyone who did. 

Then in 1962 or 1963 a friend asked me if I wanted to go to Mt. Hood and go skiing. He said he would show me what to do and I’m not sure why, but I said sure. By then I had probably seen skiing in the Olympics on television and must have thought how hard can that be.

On the appointed day he picked me up in his Triumph. It was a nice spring day so he had the top off so his long skis could nestle between us and protrude out the back.

When we got to Timberline Lodge, he took me into the rental shop and I was fitted with leather boots and skis that were taller than me. We then went outside and he pointed me toward the rope tow on the learning hill and said he would see me later. That was the extent of his showing me what to do.

Being undaunted (or was it stupid?), I walked to the base of the ski hill, managed to put my skis and leather work gloves on, and watched others grasp the rope and slide up the slope. 

Somehow I got into position and awkwardly grabbed hold of the rope with both hands, lurched forward, managed to stay on my feet, and away I went with terror in my heart and wobbly legs. 

“What the hell do I do when I get to the top?”

I’m not sure how, but I did let go of the rope and got out of the way without falling down—though I am certain I was some entertainment for the tow operator and others around the top. Thank goodness Warren Miller wasn’t around that day.

“Holy crap!”

Now I had to face downhill and try to get to the bottom of what looked like a sudden-death plunge. Then I thought how hard can this be? Well, I found out, but with a few falls and perseverance I made it to the bottom and without much hesitation I grabbed the rope and made it to the top again. 

After a few trips and some rather less than expert advice from the tow operator I was making it down without falling. This was actually becoming fun. Then I got the bright idea to try to turn. Not having a clue how to make the skis go where I wanted them to, I again ended going straight down only faster than before and I totally forgot how to stop. When I got to the bottom of the hill I kept going up over a berm, down a small slope into the parking lot, across the parking lot, and ended up with my skis imbedded into the snow bank on the other side. Was I embarrassed or what?

For whatever reason, however, I got myself together and went back to the rope tow and after a few trials and errors I slowly began to make little turns and was able to stop at the bottom.

As you can imagine by the end of the day my Levi’s and coat were soaking wet from falling and perspiration, and my work gloves were worn through from the rope tow. But somehow, I thought I had a good time. Unfortunately, I didn’t follow through with more skiing until 10 or 11 years later, when I decided to sign up the family for ski lessons at 49 Degrees North, and the rest is history.

Ken Kaiyala
2-26-2023