1
THRILLING AT 8,000 FEET By Christian Benjamin Seaborn © 2024 Christian Benjamin Seaborn

I discovered a love for skiing when I was ten-years-old. I was in the fourth grade at St. Helens Hall, an Episcopal Church School in my hometown of Portland, Oregon. (Now known as Oregon Episcopal School or OES.)

I don’t really remember now what sparked this interest. None of my friends skied. None of my family skied. I suppose it had something to do with my short size. Most of my ten-year-old boy friends at St. Helens Hall were averaging between 4’2” and 4’9” in size. My brother, Charles, just two years and eight months older than me, was, at 13-years-old, around 5’6” and, as they say, growing like a weed.

At 3’6” tall, I was not growing. Not very much and not very fast anyways.

I was yearning for some kind of sporting thing to be doing that might not have my over protective mother in a panic about my getting hurt.

When I suggested to her that I wanted to try skiing I think internally her reaction was “Ok. How much harm can come to him falling down in the snow?”

My parents were not rich. I don’t know how much skis, boots and poles for a boy cost in 1966. I remember an all-day lift ticket at Timberline Lodge on Oregon’s Mt. Hood cost $4.00. Whatever the overall cost was, my parents dd it for me. 

In fact, the very first time my mother actually made a big like Christmas vacation out of it at Timberline Lodge. She did not like run out and buy me the equipment. That first time it would be rentals. Of course, since I wanted to do this then suddenly my brother (having never previously expressed an interest in skiing) also wanted to do it.

So that year I was turning ten (my birthday was (still is, obviously) on Christmas Eve), in 1966, we headed off to Timberline Lodge.

Rising to an elevation of 11,240 feet, Oregon’s majestic Mt. Hood can be seen from nearly anywhere in the greater Portland area. Thus Mt. Hood, as a thing, was not exactly a stranger to me. But going there to some place called Timberline Lodge to go skiing could not have been more exciting for this little (pun intended) kid.

Built between 1936 and 1938 on the south side of Mt. Hood, Timberline Lodge is at the 6,000-foot level. Fourteen years after I started skiing and was introduced to the historic Timberline, the lodge would become even a better-known international entity when it was featured (at least the outside of it) in Jack Nicholson’s thriller, The Shining.

There was, however, nothing scary about the lodge when we arrived the day after Christmas in 1966. It was a brightly lit, cozy environment complete with two overly friendly Saint Bernards roaming and greeting guests. (Including one who unexpectedly came into our room at six in the morning and began licking my dad’s face as he was still asleep. It was very friendly. He just wanted to welcome my dad who, at best, was caught off guard.)

​

2
Mom, who was now fifty-years-old, decided that she would join my brother and me in our first skiing lesson. In spite of how she had not been on skis in over thirty-years, she had convinced herself that it was going to be just like riding a bike.
Of course, she suggested to my dad that he join us.

“I’ll pass,” dad said. Opting to watch our budding endeavors from the safety and warmth of the big picture windows of Timberline and the glowing fire in the large fireplace in the main room.

Fitted with our rented skis, boots and poles, mom, Charles and I embarked on the initial bunny slope with the young woman Swedish instructor and half-a-dozen other skier wannabees.

“Now you boys pay attention to what the instructor says,” mom said. “I am paying good money for this. And just remember, Chris, when in doubt, fall down.”

When in doubt fall down? What kind of advice was that?

“Welcome to the Timberline Lodge Ski School,” the gung-ho woman instructor said in her deep Swedish accent. “Is this all your first-time skiing?”

Everyone in the group said it was.

“Well, good. Then we will start you off here on what we call the bunny slope with the very basic snow plough position.”
I am sure our mother was thinking that the more basic the better.

The snow plough is like putting your skis facing down the slope in a V-shaped position.

“The further you spread out the back of your skis,” she explained, “the slower you will go. The closer you bring your skis together, the faster you will go. Let’s give it a try. Ok?”

In a line, our group of eight got on top of the hill. If you could call it a hill. It was a slant about three feet high. Patiently, she had us go one-by-one. A couple of people found their skis crossing and they were falling down. One woman (who surprisingly was not my mother, thank God) screamed: “I’m going too fast. I’m going too fast.

Charles and I, a bit amazingly, mastered the snow plough position rather quickly.

Mom was doing ok, more or less, until our Swedish instructor – who was, at best, in her mid-20s - said (after the first fifteen minutes) that it was time to try the rope-tow.

“You boys go ahead,” mom said, dubious after our young Swedish leader had explained how easy it was to hold the rope with one hand in front and one hand in back. “I’d better go in and see how your dad is doing.”

3
(All the while dad had been just fine. Looking at us from the window. Waving. Giving a thumbs up while sitting by the warm fire, his customary pipe in his mouth. (This was the mid-1960s when smoking inside was still an okay thing to do.) Drinking a hot cup of black coffee.

Charles and I might have only been 10 and 12-years-old but neither of us were buying the concept that she had to go in and look in on dad. Now, 57-years later, I look back on her with a different point-of-view. One of admiration that, as an older parent of two preteenagers, she had tried to rise to the occasion of joining her sons.)

The bunny slope with its, at best, 10-foot-long tow rope, Charles and I both also quickly mastered.
The hour-long instruction went by fast. And it was over.

We snow ploughed back over to the large picture window of the lodge where dad, now joined by mom, had been watching us.

Charles and I pointed to the chairlift about forty feet away. Using hand signals, we were “saying” we were going on it. Now.
Mom was on her feet. Motioning a no. Pointing that we should stay with the ten-foot bunny slope rope.

“We’ll be fine,” Charles and I both mouthed. “Bye.”

The last thing I remember was dad pulling mom back down into the chair next to him. She wanted to come out and stop us. And likely would have if she had not gone inside in the first place,

I have to admit, the first time on the chairlift kind of scared me.

“Just let it come and sit down,” my older brother knowingly said. As if he had done it a hundred times. When, like me, he had never done it before either.

“It’s not the getting on that bothers me,” I confided. “It’s the getting off. Besides, what if it breaks down and we get stuck? Like way up in the air?”

“I’m sure they have a way to get people down,” Charles said. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Well that was enough to send me into doing it. Baby indeed.

For the next two hours, Charles and I had the time of our lives. We fell down but just got right back up.

“How was it, boys?” mom asked. Grateful to see that neither of her sons had come back in on stretchers courtesy of the Mt. Hood Ski Patrol.

“It was great!” I exclaimed. “It was better than great. I want some hot chocolate and then go out again.”

“No,” mom said. “I think that’s enough for one day. Your first day. The mountain and the snow will still be here tomorrow.”

4
Reluctantly, Charles and I agreed. Can’t fight mom.

We were staying for two nights. While mom had had enough, Charles and I were eager and ready to go the next morning. Dad was grateful that the dog, as friendly as he was, had not made a repeat unannounced visit to our room.

Over the next two years skiing became a regular thing for me. For Christmas of 1967 mom had bought me my own equipment. By then Charles had taken an interest in scuba diving. So, while I was getting skis, poles and boots for Christmas, Charles was getting scuba gear,

By 1969 I was in seventh grade at Bishop Dagwell Hall, the middle school and high school portion for boys of St. Helens Hall (i.e., now all OES), And in the process, I had made a new friend, my classmate Jerry Russell. If I was a good skier (which I had become), Jerry was a great skier. Thanks to Saturday skiing outings arranged by the school, Jerry and I had now become skiing buddies. I knew Jerry was better than me. I wanted to learn from him. And I did.

It was in mid-winter of 1970 when Jerry sprung an idea on me.

“Dad’s taking us up skiing,” Jerry had said. “We’ve got a snow-cat. Why don’t you come with us? It will be skiing like you’ve never experienced.”

At thirteen-years-old, I was game. Jerry was talking about how we would go way up on Mt. Hood. Higher than the chairlifts could ever take us. Some inner teenaged sense told me not to share that concept with my mother. I told her about the snow cat. I reminded her that Jerry’s dad was a doctor. Which he was. I just conveniently left out the portion of going way up on Mt. Hood. Assuming I did not like get killed, I would tell her after the fact.

“Sure,” mom agreed.

She had, through me, met Jerry and, through some school events, met Jerry’s dad. She knew I loved skiing. She knew I was now in my fourth year of this and was pretty competent at it. And with Jerry’s dad being a doctor, what better hands could her thirteen-year-old son be in?

She said “sure” without any reservations.

Had I lied to her? No. I told her about the snow-cat but had coached it in terms of how we would not even have to pay for lift tickets. I sort of left out the part that we would be going up the mountain. Like high up the mountain. Higher up the mountain than her thirteen-year-old child had ever been before. After all, why ruin her Saturday fretting, worrying over nothing.

Nothing? Ha.

Truth was, at thirteen I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Jerry knew. But Jerry, after the half-a-dozen or more times we had skied together, felt that I was competent enough.

Boy, were these two thirteen-year-olds mistaken.

As mentioned before, Mt. Hood’s elevation is 11,260 feet. Timberline Lodge is at the 6,000-foot level. At the 7,000-foot level is Silcox Hut and the top of the Magic Mile chairlift. Built in 1939, a year after Timberline Lodge had opened, Silcox Hut had become a sort of run down, rarely used. for anything except emergency structure. (Today, in 2024, it has been refurbished and is used as both a bed and breakfast site as well as for weddings and receptions for the skiing enthusiasts. But in 1970 it was sort of alone up there on the mountain.)

​

5
It was a beautiful Saturday morning as we drove up to Mt. Hood.

Sure, I was excited. Who wouldn’t be? Thirteen-years old. An avid skier. Getting to go up Mt. Hood in a sno-cat. My excitement would soon give way to concern. Followed by a knot in my stomach and, ultimately, downright fear.

It was still the excitement faze as we arrived at Timberline Lodge and unloaded our skis, poles and boots. There were five of us. Jerry and me. Jerry’s older brother and his friend and, of course, Jerry’s dad. If anything, that excitement faze was becoming greater as we pulled off our tennis shoes to be replaced by our boots.

With the majesty of Mt. Hood’s peak looming over us, the excitement continued for me as we loaded our gear into their Tucker Sno-Cat.

The Magic Mile chairlift at Timberline goes up to the 7,000-foot level Pretty much even with the Silcox Hut. As we approached both the hut and the top disembarking ramp of the lift, I was still okay. I had done the Magic Mile lift several times. And skied it well. It was a safe feeling place for me.

As we passed the Magic Mile chairlift, however, suddenly Jerry’s words went ringing through my head: “We’ll be going above, way above where the chairlifts end.”

It was, to a thirteen-year-old, an idea that had sounded exciting on paper, so to speak.

Now we were leaving the hut and the chairlift in the background. Quite a bit in the background. While the hut is not a particular large building, as we continued up the steep slope (a fact I was also becoming more aware of as Dr. Russell drove on), the hut was growing smaller and smaller.

I wasn’t scared. Not yet. But apprehensive would be a good description. It was about then that the knot in my stomach started. And Dr. Russell kept on driving. And as the top of Mt. Hood grew larger and larger, I began thinking that anytime Dr. Russell would want to stop that would be just fine with me.

“Ok, boys,” Dr. Russell finally said, stopping the snow-cat, “here we are. 8,000 feet.”

Of the four of us who were going to ski, I was the only one who had never skied before at this level. And suddenly was not so sure I wanted to. Still, at thirteen, I did not want to look as scared and as apprehensive as I was. Jerry and the other two were getting all the gear out while I looked through the front window of the cat. We were still like just over 3,000 feet below the peak of Mt. Hood and yet looking at it that close up, it seemed like we were at the top of the mountain. I wasn’t taking in how beautiful it was. I was busy taking in how I wished I had not done this.

“Well come on, Chris,” Jerry urged me on.

6
Reluctantly, I stepped out of the cat and immediately realized (without even skis on) this was trouble. It wasn’t snow. It was ice. Like pretty solid ice. I almost slipped and fell only in my boots. Before I might have said anything, it was too late.

“Have a good time, boys. See you at the bottom.”

Dr. Russell already had the cat closed up, turned around and was heading back down the mountain.

Jerry’s brother and his friend already had their skis on and were, like experts, heading down the mountain.

“Come on, Chris,” Jerry said. “What’s the matter?”

“Jerry,” I said, suddenly willing to look scared in front of my buddy, “this is like ice.”

“Well, sure it is. We are 8,000 feet up. What did you think it was going to be? Snow?”

Yes. Snow, I thought to myself. I thought it would be snow. On snow, you have some control. On ice. You could be dead. Mother’s advice from that first trip of just fall down was apt not to be a smart thing to do on ice.

Jerry already had his skis on while I was still dawdling and trying not to fall down.

“Jerry. I’ve never skied before. On ice.”

“Listen, Chris. You’re a good skier. I’ve seen you. You’re a really good skier.”

“Well, thanks. But on ice?”

“You know how to snow plough,” Jerry said, referring to the V-shape with your skis that beginners use. (Like the Swedish instructor had taught us what now seemed like a lifetime ago.) “Just snow plough down. At least until you get a feel for it. You’ll be fine. I won’t get that far ahead of you.”

“You promise?” I asked.

“I’m not going to leave you up here, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

What I was thinking was my flying out of control off the side of Mt. Hood.

Given that Jerry was my age, I appreciated that he was not like razzing me about doing this. If anything, he was being quite supportive.

Reluctantly, I strapped on my skis and, from Jerry, grabbed my poles. I thought if I could even get down the 1,000 feet to the Hut in one piece at least maybe somebody could come there and rescue me.

“Just don’t try to stop suddenly. On ice that could be a problem.”

If there was a God through our education at the Episcopal Church school we attended now, I thought, would be a great time for Him to make an appearance.

7
Taking Jerry’s advice (given that he knew I was scared and that I didn’t want to kill myself getting down the mountain), I immediately put my skis in the V-shaped snow plough position while Jerry, so much more the expert at this ice thing, just started skiing.

“Take your time,” he yelled back. “I won’t get that much far ahead of you. You’ll be fine.”

I was starting down. Going slow. Or as slow as ice would allow me to go.

Instantly, I was aware – as per Jerry’s advice – that trying to actually stop suddenly would not be healthy for my survival.

I didn’t have to worry about running into other skiers. There were none. Jerry, moving like a pro at thirteen, was gradually becoming a spec on the slopes. As for his brother and his friend, they were long gone. I was taking some slight solace to my nerves in that the Hut, a decent-sized structure when we had passed it coming up, was seeming to get larger. Yet, at the pace I was going, it was still small compared to its real size.

I also realized that skiing like this was tiring me out. Like really tiring me out. The choices were simple: keep going like this or, heaven help me, try to stop and catch my breath. (Being this high up, the oxygen was also thinner.) There was the other option: ski. Like put both skis together and ski. For the moment, I dismissed that concept.

I knew I had to stop. Yet there were only two choices to do this maneuver. Fall down, which I knew, at best, would hurt like hell. And might not actually stop my downward motion. Or be a big boy skier and turn the back of one ski or the other to the other one, plant a pole – in ice – and turn.

Okay, I either said to myself or maybe aloud, this is simple. Just plant your left pole and turn both skis left as hard and as fast as you can.

I kept going forward in the V-shaped position.

“Okay,” I now said aloud (as if to give myself company…misery loves company, after all), “just plant the left pole and turn both skis left.”

I kept going forward in the V-shaped position.

My body was not listening to what my head was saying.

“Just DO IT, Chris,” I admonished myself.

I planted the left pole and swiftly turned both skis.

Okay. This was a bad idea.

The pole couldn’t “plant” because it was ice. I was leaning left into the mountain because that is what you do. But now I was both moving forward and yet sliding down the mountain sideways at the same time. And I wasn’t going particularly slow.

“Ski, you idiot,” I said aloud. “Ski or die.”

8
With more strength, all that I could muster, I planted my right pole and shifted myself and my skis to the right.

For a flash of a second, I was pointing straight down the mountain. I didn’t like that idea and forced the skis and me right.

“Now you’re skiing,” Jerry hollered out.

I went right past him.

I had been so focused on not killing myself, I had not seen him side step partially back up towards me.

I flew right past him.

“How in the hell do I stop?” I hollered back at him.

“Don’t. It’s snow back down by the Hut. Just keep going.”

I was now so far ahead of him, I barely heard the end of his sentence.

While I realized that trying to stop might still not be a great idea, I also realized that I was skiing. On ice, no less.

I planted the left pole and swung around again.

“You’re doing great,” Jerry said, as he skied down to join me.

He had skied directly down the mountain to catch up to me. I was a bit envious. I wanted to do that. But then again, I wanted to live to tell about this.

“I’ll meet you at the Hut,” Jerry said as he took off. “Just don’t run into the Hut. Nobody’s home.”

I kept this up. Traversing back and forth. It was tiring and yet it was thrilling. Getting past my fears, which, mind you, were completely understandable under the circumstances, I realized that Jerry was right. This was an experience. A thrilling experience.

I finally arrived at the Hut. It seemed like forever when, in fact, it was only maybe fifteen minutes.

Jerry was there. Along with his brother and his friend.

I stopped. I was sweating profusely. I wanted to like take off my jacket. Or at least my scarf.

“Don’t,” Jerry’s brother said.

Good advice.

The rest of the trip down, I surmised, would be easy. I had skied from this level before. It was indeed more snow than ice.

“You, ok?” Jerry asked me. He, his brother and the brother’s friend were ready to continue.

“Sure,” I said. “Sure. You go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

9
I looked back up the mountain. To the top of Hood. I was now taking in the majesty of Mt. Hood which, out of sheer fear, I had not been able to before.

Yet, armed with Jerry’s words of encouragement, I had done it.

“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Jerry said.

“The mountain or that I got down this far without crashing and burning?” I asked.

Jerry laughed and headed down the mountain towards Timberline Lodge.

I took one last look up the mountain. At what I had just skied. With a sense of personal satisfaction, I turned and yelled:
“Hey, Jerry. Wait up.”