The City of Fernie supports a broad variety of cultural institutions. Churches, the public schools, the Fernie Academy, the Heritage Library, the Arts Station, even the new community choir. All affect the fabric of our town. Standing back and gazing at our snow-draped town in winter, no “institution” creates more underlying tone than Fernie Alpine Resort (FAR). In an unusual manner, FAR creates the music and beat to the talk and walk on 2nd Ave. When it snows everyone is happy and upbeat. A steady rain in January drains our hope and we walk to a dirge.
Many of us moved to Fernie for the skiing. We put our old lives away and reinvented ourselves for a year, or for a decade or two. Or dragged a job with us and figured out how to keep the thread live.
But we ski. And we ski on Christmas Day. Skiing on Christmas is a deliberate disconnect with the norm. Everyone has a story on why, this is mine:
That day eventually arrives. We leave home, really leave and start our own life. At the time, we do not realize the import, but later, looking back, one significant day marks the moment—a first birthday away, graduating from school and getting an apartment, or the first family holiday on our own. The first Thanksgiving or Christmas away. The day may seem immaterial at the time, but years later the day becomes the mark, the division between living at home and living on your own.
On December 1, 1969, the United States Selective Service held a draft lottery. The calendar days of the year were dumped into a large tub and drawn out one after the other. Your birthday’s position in the draw determined your ranking in the draft. After the lottery there would be no new draft deferrals. Existing deferrals would be honored, but no more granted. Low numbers, the first 170, were likely to be drafted when their deferrals expired. Those above not. The current troop level in Viet Nam stood at some 500,000 plus. Being drafted pretty much meant a ticket to Viet Nam for a year.
The lottery affecting so many of the country—families and sons—was carried live by all three networks up to the critical 170th date. I was in college and this single night would determine what happened at graduation in a couple years. Grad school or rice paddy.
A or B.
I did not understand there could be a C. Or even a D.
We gathered at the Longhorn, a bar a few blocks from campus A mix of farmers, students and companions, all wondering how this would affect our families, the war and a country shattered and scattered by the conflict.
I was not in the first 170. One of my ski buddies was number eight. Several friends were in the top 50. Not completely safe, I stood a little further away from of rice paddies.
We drank a lot of beer. A lot. Drank for those with the high numbers. Drank for those who didn’t know their number and almost didn’t care
The next morning, late, I picked up the paper, read the stories about the lottery and, after, started through the list. At a little over 200, I started over again, knowing I’d missed my birthday. At three hundred I started over again knowing for sure I’d missed the day. Finally slowly, a third time, one date at a time, I moved my finger through the list until at 335, I found my day.
There was Option C staring me in the face.
Again that night we gathered at the Longhorn, exchanging congratulations and commiserations. I’d finished my finals and was free. With number 335, quite literally completely free.
The next day I tossed a couple duffels of clothes in my car, my carpentry bags, Skill saw and level, slotted my two pairs of skis in the racks. As I was leaving I wrote a note to Dean Kimbo, “I think I’m not coming back next semester. Thanks, Keith” and dropped it in the campus mail.
Driving the 6 miles south to I-70, I turned west on the Interstate and continued west until finally pulling off and heading south at Glenwood Springs. I finally stopped in Aspen, Colorado.
Somewhere in the bowels of the Poweshiek County Selective Service archives is a post card showing Ajax Mountain in 1969 taken at the bottom of Ruthie’s with the single chair in the foreground and the liftie tucking a woman in for the ride with a blanket. On the back it says in my half-readable scrawl, “Dear Sirs, Please make me 1-A. Send all further mail to Keith Liggett, General Delivery, Aspen, Colorado 81611. Thanks, Thomas Keith Liggett Selective Service # blagh blagh”
Option C was in full swing and looking pretty good.
The Little Red Ski Haus sat half a block past the soccer fields next to downtown. I took a third floor garret room barely bigger than a closet with a single bed tucked in a dormer. The owner was building a house over on Red Mountain. I worked for him as needed–some in exchange for rent, some for cash.
These were the days before winch cats, so all the steep slopes were boot and ski packed by a crew. Somehow I picked up a position on the packing crew. It was a plum spot. Starting at 7 on powder days and the day after, we packed until 10:30 or 11 and then had the rest of the day off to ski. For this we received two transferable day passes. We could sell them, use them on other days, or convert 15 passes for a season pass. I was a rookie, first year in town. The crew was happy to show me around the mountain after we finished for the day. As I said, a plum job.
Life was good. Never better. Even on the days we worked on Red Mountain we skied until noon, then our addiction sated, we wandered across the valley to finish up the house. Nights were spent hanging in the living room downstairs or wandering the bars of Aspen.
A few days before Christmas, I received a small box from my parents. In it were Christmas presents from my parents and one from my sister. I don’t remember what they were but by that time, as a family, we mostly gave books with the occasional sweater.
On Christmas morning I walked downstairs, picked up a cup of coffee from the kitchen and went back to my little garret. I remember opening the presents and looking out across the soccer field to the base of Ajax and thinking, This is it. I’m on my own. What will I do today? It’s Christmas Day.
I didn’t have to wonder. We went skiing. Uncrowded, we skied where we wanted. I showed my new friends from the ski haus special shots I’d been shown by the other ski packers. They showed me their favorite line. We shared the day.
At the end of the day, as the shadows will Star Gully, we skied to the bottom of Ruthie’s, walked to the haus and somehow cobbled together a great dinner. Hodge podged at the last minute, it still had a turkey. It had sweet potatoes with marshmallows. Mashers. And enough beer and wine to float a small houseboat. Late that night, arm in arm, we ambled across the soccer field singing Christmas carols to see what was happening in town. We had a beer here. A beer there. And all was good.
In the intervening years, I can count the Christmas’s I haven’t skied on one hand. You know, it’s what you do. All the rest falls in place. The turkey, the potatoes and the company.
This Christmas was no different. After a casual morning exchanging gifts, we headed up to Fernie Alpine Resort and skied. Once sated, we went down to the Rusty Edge, drank a couple beers with friends. And shared some Politically Incorrect Poutine. We talked about this year. Great snow. We talked about other Christmas’ at Fernie and at other areas.
This was another great Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas all. See you on the hill.
