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THE DAILY ASTORIAN • FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 2019
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‘ThE mOuNtAiN iS oUt’
Grace Hunt’s
run down the
hill at Mt. Hood.
Ed Hunt photos
Mt. Hood and other gods of the Pacifi c Northwest
By ED HUNT
For The Daily Astorian
T
here is a Northwest saying on a
bright and cloudless day: “The
mountain is out.”
It means you can see your local
mountain — perhaps Mt. Hood or Mt.
Adams, maybe even St. Helens.
Our volcanic peaks are majestic
gods that lie in repose among untamed
forests rather than jagged ranges
crowding far-off horizons. Our moun-
tains are mighty things that shine when
the curtain of clouds lifts to reveal their
eminence. They seem personal and
singular, close enough to touch.
We knew nothing of mountains
when my family moved across the
country and planted roots between Mt.
Hood and Mt. Adams. From the hill
above our home we could see them
shining at twilight.
Two mountains with very different
personalities.
Adams, like most of the north side
of the river, is more rural, more prim-
itive. To this day there is not a single
ski lift on its slopes. Like St. Helens
before she blew her top, the moun-
tain is tolerant of human incursions but
untamed and unbothered by our activ-
ities. Adams is still wild country. A
mountain as a mountain should be.
Mt. Hood seems attached to the big
city of Portland, the old Barlow Road
encircling its southern slope like a pos-
sessive arm around its shoulder. It is
this southern route that Portlanders
caravan up on weekends in the win-
ter, their Subarus and SUVs racing
up to the massive parking lots of Ski-
bowl, Timberline Lodge and Mt. Hood
Meadows.
‘See you at the bottom’
Growing up, I spent many days on
Mt. Hood as a scrappy low-budget ski
bum.
I learned to ski at Cooper Spur, a
well-kept secret on the mountain’s
north side. I was probably just 11 when
I learned to ski. One quick lesson at the
rope tow before my stepfather brought
us over to the T-bar, which dragged us
to the top of the only hill. He led us
over to a tree-bordered run and said,
“I’ll see you at the bottom.”
We crashed on our way down, fall-
ing at fi rst with each attempted turn.
By the time we reached the bottom, we
were skiers. Not in the sense that we
were any better, or by any means com-
petent. Rather, we had lost the fear. We
felt the mountain had done its worst to
us, and we had survived.
So we clambered over to the T-bar,
ready to go again.
I love any excuse to get on the
mountain, to turn at the top of the lift
and see the blanket of treetops stretch
away below. I love being above the
clouds and to catch the other moun-
tains peeking their white heads up to
be painted purple, pink and orange in
the setting sun.
Cooper Spur is the perfect place
to learn. The runs are relatively short
and uncrowded. The trails are sim-
ple and clearly marked. Simplicity is
something you only really appreciate
when you are much older. My brother
and sister and I soon outgrew this little
ski resort and found more challenging
experiences higher up the mountain.
Skiing was a rich man’s sport even
30 years ago, but we managed. We cob-
bled together used skis and hand-me-
down ski pants. I have never owned a
new pair of skis in my life.
As a kid growing up in the Gorge,
we skied at night and whenever we
could get a deal; weekends and day
skiing were too crowded, too expen-
sive. We kept our skis in the car and
Grace Hunt, left, and Lindsay Hunt cross-country skiing.
Ed Hunt, foreground, and Grace Hunt.
after school in the bed of our truck,
sliding around under the canopy with
skis and poles.
We never became good skiers, but
we got so that there was no slope that
could deter us — even the cheese-
grater moguls of “Elevator Shaft” at
Meadows or the icy glacier at the top
of the Texas lift.
We started skiing after Thanksgiv-
ing and didn’t stop until summer. I
went skiing the day after graduating
from high school. We skied in freez-
ing rain and fog and the blinding, icy
slopes of spring.
Something for everyone
Cooper Spur Lodge at Mt. Hood is one mile from downhill skiing.
could be on the slopes an hour after the
school bell rang. Mt. Hood Meadows
had Franz Bread nights in the 1980s. A
lift ticket was just a couple of bucks if
you had a Franz wrapper.
I remember riding up the mountain
After college, marriage and kids,
it took a while to get back to skiing.
My wife, Amy, and I tried cross-coun-
try and loved it — no lift tickets, no
crowds. We took the girls up Mt. Hood
every year for sledding.
Yet it took a while before they were
old enough and I was brave enough to
shell out for rentals and lessons.
See Mt. Hood, Page C2