By Aaron

click here to listen to the mp3

By Corey

(NOTE: this was handwritten, in an envelope with dried rose petals)

To My Dearest,

I've been thinking a lot about your recent decision to leave, and quite frankly, I'm not in love with the idea. Not as much as I'm in love with you. You've uplifted me to the top just when I thought I had reached rock bottom (or at least half-way). You've introduced me to some of my now closest friends, and if the friendship never blossomed, you sure gave me a hell of an interesting ride. We've seen each other on our best days and our worst. I've seen you at your lowest low and your highest high - nearly 5,000 feet! I recall one particular passionate morning rendezvous we had; I thanked you and praised you, held you tight and made sure you knew I loved you. I even declared my affection in a scratched-out heart when I felt our connection the deepest. I left my mark on more than one of your chairs, and you left your mark on more than one of us . . . if it didn't come figuratively or symbolically, it sure came in a bump to the backside. But you were never spiteful - no, numero uno, you always kept a level head about your teasing. You never worked too hard, or too fast. You gave us just enough time to catch our breaths, reflect briefly on the past, and prepare for the next descent. I've seen you dump a handful of "other guys" into your lofty nets, and I can't tell you how glad I am that it was never me you made an example of. What we had was special. I know the other lifts probably got more attention than you, but you could never play on weekdays! Even so, I often made the brief midweek hike up to your off-ramp to say hello and see how you were doing. I can't tell you how much I'll miss you. And now . . . this news of you scattering about the area; oh how it hurts my soul. You might end up indoors! You might find yourself swinging from the ceiling of a downtown business office. Hell, you might even come to realize you've become wait-list seating at some uninvolved restaurant! Oh, how I'll miss you numero uno. And I know you'll miss me. But there's one plea I have to offer you. I know you aren't big into commitment; any one ride with you was never more than seven minutes . . . but I think you may accede to my proposal, so here it is: Chair One, will you MARRY ME? Will you take my butt, and the butts of all of my guests and visitors, perhaps even my unborn children's butts years down the road, into your modestly padded seat? I want you to meet my mother so I can share with her tales long past of our rowdy, passionate trysts. I can't stand the thought of unrequited love from the chair I love so dearly. Please, consider your future and what we could have . . . I love you.

Yours Truly,
Corey

By Mary

I saw him from the Alpine chair, known locally as "the old chair" on Sunday morning as we headed up in search of fresh tracks in Avalanche gulch. He was hard to miss. Red ski coat, silver hair, a craggy face, his head back laughing; he was always larger then life. My father; ski patrol, mountain man, was kissing Marge, my Mom's secretary right next to the ski rack in broad view of chair riders high over head. Here in the holiest place I knew in all of big sky Montana: my outside church, my winter home, Bridger Bowl. It was 1974.

Mat Basher was riding with me and said he'd known for awhile, was meaning to tell me, just hadn't found the right moment. A wild man at fourteen, he was always hurling himself out of the chair when the snow built up under tower seven or nine, leaving me alone on a swaying seat as he rolled off into deep fluff. We'd meet later at the mid station, often times huddle in the old shack to drink hot chocolate, gnaw venison jerky and warm our hands. It smelled of hot wet wool and cedar smoke. I was thirteen. Carried the secret around with me for about three days and then spilled it to my Mom.

Overnight my life changed. Ranch house, three day ski weekends, a world of fly fishing and the great outdoors was all sold because of uncovered lies and lost trust. We moved. I left behind "the old chair" and "the new chair", (they both seemed pretty old.) below zero temps with bottomless feet of fresh powder and deep bowls, and a father that I wouldn't speak to.

We traded Bozeman for Anacortes and I worked on the fuel dock at Skyline Marina and stared longingly across the Sound to the white flanks of Mount Baker. A single Mom, three girls and a tight budget meant skiing was impossible.

I went to school at Western and that winter a group of kids told me they were heading up to Baker for the day and asked if I wanted to come. I'd saved my skis. Hand-me-downs from my father; they were long black boards, measuring in at about 210. They were book shelves in my dorm room waiting for their former life.

I rode crammed in the back seat of a stick shift Datsun with fogged up windows and no view of the road. Our skis rode on the roof, tied with rope to a rack mounted with duct tape. My first view of the ski area was of chair one as I climbed out of that car just thankful to breathe. We side stepped up the ramp getting closer and closer to a chair that looked like a mirror image to "old chair" far away in Gallatin National Forest. My skis slid over the boards, we pitched forward and out into the swaying freedom that you can only feel on a two person chair. Five years had passed since I'd touched snow. I knew I'd come home.

Thirty years at Mount Baker with family and friends, has long replaced Montana. A coming of age place for our son; a sometimes sullen teenager, he breaks his silence to talk as we ride the chair together. It is a common ground for a van full of wild boys every weekend that share the same passion and love for this winter white playground. And a place we hold sacred in our marriage; a hold-your-breath beauty that forever shocks us as we look across to the ice fields and snowy peaks together. Our family's year is divided into two seasons; Lake Whatcom and Mount Baker.

Now 85, the mountain man has traded in skis for playing bridge and wears tasseled loafers and neat slacks. A different wife and refined trappings, I believe the mountains still live somewhere deep inside him. Forgiveness, long in coming, bridges the gap that split us and I think how full circle it would be to sit with my father on an old chair, here at the house, and listen to the red winged black birds sing out to one another.

By Heidi

The first time I rode up chair one, I was worried about the treacherous off ramp, the icy ungroomed eater of bipedal snow sapiens, the ramp that separated those who can ride from those who cannot. While the entrance to the chair boldly proclaims "experts only", the carnage at the exit suggests otherwise.

It was the winter of 2000-01 and I had just moved to Glacier, and as though the mountain gods had decided a proper coronation was in order, my new paradise was blanketed with 14" of perfection, a candy coated dreamland. My new roommates woke me before the sun had decided to come up to ensure my very first first chair. We arrived in the cold predawn light while the quiet snow gently continued to fall. We got fifth chair.

Everyone was giddy, I was nervous; my desert snow skills did not include powder. As we ascended on the ancient chair over the first hill, I caught my first glimpse of the infamous Chute head on. Approaching an already packed midstation, this pathway to the top astounded me, flanked by by cliffs and massive trees I could not conceive that this is actually a waterfall the rest of the year. My friend chatted amiably and pointed out the numerous chutes, lines and drops that were beyond my nubile reckoning as passable ridable options.

The first riders started to float down Panface ...under us, around us, they threw up huge plumes of misty magical, and for me, elusive until now, pow pow. I truly felt like I was in a foreign land, so far from the desert and...and...and...

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"Strapping in. The offramp is a deathtrap."

"What?!?"

That is when I learned what was in store. I struggled wildly, franticly, anxiously to strap in, but it just didn't make any sense. The lift shack approached, my snowboard remained dangling and I was instructed to go right. The offramp is capable of separating those who can ride from those who cannot, on that particular day I fell into the latter category and continued to fall for the rest of the day as I was destroyed by the ramps and wallowed in the bottomless drift and gullies of snow.

I never did ride with my friend that day, but I did take the chair up with numerous people. It didn't take long to figure ou how to strap in on the chair, and the understanding of how to ride powder soon followed, but I never forgot my humbling initiation on Chair 1.

A EULOGY FOR CHAIR ONE
The inherent charm of Chair One was that it was intimate, just you and another person. It has a sincerity the bigger chairs have lost, honesty, two people, one chair, a love seat not necessarily for lovers, but for people with a unifying love, a passion for the same thing. Whether you relive the prior run on the way up, admire the scenery, catch up, or remain silent, whether there is the anxious strain of a powder day or the gentle relaxation of a warm slush day... For a few minutes it is two people sharing something that doesn't need any words at all.

I am going to miss Chair One.

By Bryan

Chair #1: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Death Defying Heights

In the summer of 1989, my sweet and generous mom bought me a Sims Shredder. It was my first snowboard, and I loved it like a pet. Later that same year, my dear old Dad took my older brother and I up to Mt. Baker. I'd never been before. It snowed so darn much that we had to park way down the road. It was before the White Salmon came along, so we had to hike to the old Razor Hone cafe'. It reminds me of the way that we hike in nowadays to get first tracks. The staff allowed us to ride Chairs #2 and #3 over to the upper lodge to get tickets. I was a bit nervous after Chair #3, being new and all. I really did not want to ride any more chairs. My brother, being bigger and better than me at everything, took off to go shred with a friend. But my dad stayed with me. He patiently walked me up to the lodge, watched as I practiced going down the bunny hills, and somehow convinced me to get back on the lifts. We headed over to Chair #1 and got on. Right about the same time, a nasty storm loaded with a sideways blizzard rolled in. Within seconds, my dad's beard transformed from youthful red to ghostly white. I looked up to the clamp that held the chair to the cable. Bad idea. It looked so feeble, like a baby's hand trying to grip a speeding train. Even the icicles, clinging desperately to the cold metal, did not want to look down. Instead, they jutted sharply out, driven horizontal by the winds. I became bloated with a deep and ominous feeling of dread. Across from us, the chairs careened downwards, swinging violently in the wind, and even smashed into the poles with a sound that jarred the bones. This was probably not the ideal experience for a nine year old with a fear of heights riding chairlifts for the first time. My entire being recoiled and with every breath I wished for escape, even if it meant death. I just wanted to get it over with and never ever go snowboarding again. Between being assailed with snow and being squeezed tight with fear, my eyes noticed something wrong about the chairs coming down. There was big gap. Then I saw skis down in the snow, tips up and crossed, like a warning. They had fluorescent pink bases that screamed, 'BEWARE' Then we saw the reason for the gap. Below us lay a chair, half submerged in the snow but not yet coated with the fresh flakes that pelted us from every direction.

"Dad" I cried, "Look" In my delirious state, I thought that because a chair had fallen, we could now get off and that the
nightmare might be over. The mountain must have a policy for crises like this one. There would be rescuers. There was something, a ladder on skis, or a way of lowering the cables and chairs to the ground, anything! This was an emergency for crying out loud! But it wasn't. It was just a regular day at Mt. Baker, as I discovered over the next twenty years of riding. In time, days like this one became part of the charm, as did the rickety old double seaters. But that was later.

My dad took his poles and skewered them through the ice-encrusted armrest to create a makeshift restraining bar. He kept calm, told me not to look down, and said, "Hang on tight, son. We are going to pass the mid-station. Don't try to get off. It's going to get a bit steeper after this". For those of you who have ridden Chair #1, you will know that by "steeper", he actually meant terrifyingly higher.

I went back to the bunny hills for while after all that. But soon my riding improved, and I got back on the chairlifts. I learned to strap in on the chair, to ride down Baker's crazy off-ramps, and to stay calm as those little seats bounced along through the sky over cliffs and ice. I have seen those same chairs get dug out from under world record snowfalls. I even hiked up to Chair #1 when the area was closed due to eight feet of fresh snow. We snuck up the off-ramp and did flips over the railing. One summer I rode an old mountain bike from Chair #1 down to Glacier, my shins stained purple from ripping through wild berries. Seeing those chairs without a snow base below them, I came to realize how impossibly high up they really are. Despite riding Chair #1 many more times over the past two decades, my stomach still drops every time my board leaves the mid-station platform, and I still grip the armrest a little too tightly. Part of me wishes my dad's ski poles were there to protect me, but today, I wished I rode down and grabbed that fallen chair while I had the chance. I could have laid my claim upon it in the same way that Mt. Baker has laid a claim on me. Carrying it away would have probably been impossible, but maybe the mountain would have let me have it. Maybe it was broken and the Howat's wouldn't want it. And maybe, just maybe, it would be hanging on the porch of our family cabin, still swinging when the winds blow, where my dad and I could sit there and sip on Schmidt Ice and reminisce about the old days, when riding up pan dome was almost as thrilling as riding down it.

By David

In November of 1976, when I was a senior in high school, I was sitting down having a Thanksgiving dinner with my cousin John, his wife Beth, and Beth's brother Gordy in Seattle. She was a peach and Gordy was one of my favorite characters from my childhood. He was an Avalanche Controller at Mt. Baker Ski Area, a ski area I had only been to once, but my twin brother and I scheduled a trip over Christmas break to come visit Gordy and ski for a few days.

What seemed like only a few days later, we received a call from Beth saying Gordy had been killed while skiing on a run named after him, "Gordy's Gulch". Instead of skiing with him over Christmas break we went to his funeral. I remember it like it was yesterday, he was buried with his skis because of all things Gordy was, being a skier was number 1.

Gordy used to tell me that Chair 1 was the oldest chair in North America. I was never sure if he was pulling my leg or not, but for the 32 years that I have skied here and since I moved up here and have made Mt. Baker my home, I can never ride Chair 1 without thinking about Gordy Goodwin.

By Grant

Chair 1 changed my life.

Some say for the worse, be it Parents, Professors, Girlfriends citing its effects on my Schooling (lack of attendance) Work (unexplained absences) Relationships (disappearing for 6 months at a time)

Some say for the better, Friends, colleagues, and most importantly my self. Citing its effects on my Mood ( constantly stoked) Work ethic (is this really work?) Life Goals (is there any more important than skiing 100+ pow days a season?)

In the ten years I've now spent at Baker all I can say is WOW! What a long crazy intense decade. As I sit here in my makeshift office, which also happens to be my bedroom, I can't help but reflect on the past 10 years. As I sip on my last cold PBR and stare at the dead solders on the desk I cant help but be grateful for the unbelievable opportunity I've had to shoot as much as I wanted, not going to work, and just ski my ass off. All do to Chair 1.

When I first moved here, I had my goals set on graduating in 4 years. Getting an engineering job, working 9 to 5 and skiing on weekends. Chair 1 changed everything. It completely took over my life, it made me a better skier, it made me a powder addict, it changed how I look at the mountains, it re-prioritized my goals in life, it made me stoked to live everyday to its fullest.

When I just quit showing up at my day job of 10 years last December I had just a few measly bucks in the bank account, some sizeable credit card debt, and a bunch of student loans not even remotely paid off. With the constant feed of Avy death reports on the radio every morning on the way to the hill a constant reminder that it was just too dangerous to be out shooting where I wanted to go. Common reason would have been to keep the day job, and shoot in my free time, but the skiing was just too damn good.

Plugging away, with a few pics here, a few there, the last decade has been an incredible rollercoaster ride, with some great ups (98-99) and some shitty lows (RIP Tobias, Teddy and Skoog). The one thing that I have learned is expect the unexpected, and not knowing what's over the next horizon is the best damn thing about life.

I cant help but be thankful for being able to ski every day, not working a 9 to 5 anymore, and all of the great people that I get to hang out and work with. I'm stoked that I was able to make 'the Dream' a reality. I'm Stoked I got a great girlfriend that puts up with my 3 AM drunk dials, when I'm stoked on the pics from the day, but I am even more stoked on the crew of guys that's almost 3 times my age and I cant keep up with touring, the cool kick ass tap room reports of people just getting after it, and community of skiers that keeps the stoke alive, and knows what's the important things in life.

Now at the end of a decade, I sit here with a healthy addiction to liquid crack (Thanks Redbull) frantically finishing up all of my image processing, and trying to figure out how to pay off 50k of debt. Was it worth it? @!x#$ yeah it was.

I have no clue how this summer is going to pan out. If the collectors are going to come knocking. All I know is that I am sure as hell not going to let the little things like financial realities keep me in the way of following my dreams, and pursuing my passion to get people stoked to ski more.

By Ian

The orange sun peaks over the crest of Shuksan, piercing the crisp cool of morning at 4000 feet, coaxing out the scavenging squirrels and the songs of birds, illuminating the lush green of the conifers. Such a green can be found nowhere else in the world. Not in the clearest emeralds or the calmest seas can you see what lies before us. The mountain glows orange with the rise of the sun, and above, the baby blue sky rests, cloudless and content. The greens of the pines and the browns of the rock battle for authority.

To truly experience what is great about Mt. Baker you have to float along atop a fresh coat of powder. You have to twist and wind through the tightest paths and beneath the oldest trees. You have to feel the soft curious prickle of fresh snow falling to your skin, as in a dream.

As in daily ritual we load onto the first chair silently. We dip our heads into our warm jackets as a priest bows his head in prayer. Our joints are stiff and our muscles are sore. It is a magic of a sort to glide silently over the snow, suspended, as if in a play acting the role of a bird. The silent hum of the chairlift harmoniously mixes with the call of a bird and the whispers of the air, as do the tracks in a song. The bump, bump, bump of the lift mark the beat like a drum. The ambient whispering of the mountain breeze adds a rhythm, the strumming of a guitar. The calls of the raven swoop above the highest peak and penetrate the deepest crevasse. They echo across the widest pass and thunder above the highest skies. This is our anthem. This is what we live every day of the week for. This is what we dream of at night and speak of in day. And most of all this is what we ride.

And when at last chair 1 faithfully shepherds us to Pan's blanketed, white Dome, it is time. Our joints are no longer stiff; our muscles feel renewed. From the first moment we feel the loving embrace of this mountain, we smile. We smile, and, we live.

By Joe

There is something magical about Mt. Baker, a force that captures some and doesn't let go. It is a place every snowboarder and skier dreams of experiencing at least once in their life. For many it is a pilgrimage who do not have to go back? To be one of the few who has been touched by the magic of Baker, I feel lucky.

It has been a journey to arrive at this wonderful place. I lived in Tahoe in the early 90's, Jackson Hole in the mid 90's and visited many other resorts in-between and after. In Tahoe I saw my friends and peers become more concerned with what they were wearing and with whom they were riding more than shredding. Jackson wasn't much different. The extremem localism was enough to rival the most secret of surf breaks along the California coast. However, the locals in "J Hole" are mostly transplants, as it soon become evident that no one is actually from Jackson. Both places left more to be desired.

In the winter of '97, after reading about it, talking about it, dreaming about it, my life finally opened its doors and allowed me to enter this amazing world we know as "Baker". I was returning from fishing in Alaska and wanted to stop by for the day to see my friend, Brian. I came blind, my Subaru stuffed to the roof with my belongings - my only belongings. That night, Brian offered up a room for the winter. The very next day we went snowboarding, and until last month, I have been living in that same cabin where I first rested my bones after riding Baker. I guess one could say I saw no valid reason to go back to Jackson.

I don't think I even saw the surrounding mountains for the first week I lived in Glacier , maybe even two. I rode the most amazing terrain I had "never" seen. I rode in whiteouts, sideways snow, socked in vertigo snow and terrain only a Jedi could master. And when it rained, I followed suit with the locals and geared up. Then one day, after a snowy gray morning, the sun peaked a curious eye through the clouds. I was riding up Chair 1, a carnival of a ride with it's bouncing antics just after mid station, when the clouds, fearing punishment from the sun, backed off and hid behind other mountains. What I saw when the clouds parted will be embedded in my memory for the rest of my life. I had been in the mountains before. I had snowboarded at world renowned resort. I had ridden 6 man detachable quads. But never had I seen, or expected to see, what I saw from the wooden planks of Chair 1 as it carried me out of the chute and up towards the u-turn at the end of the line. The most picturesque mountain, Mt. Shuksan in all its glory and grandeur, was beaming down at me as I almost forgot to get off the chair. I had no idea I was going to be living and riding in a world of such breathtaking beauty.

From that moment on, I knew why Baker was known as "the mecca of snowboarding." The Rockies . . .what? Tahoe . . .what? We live among surreal yet powerful mountains and peaks. We live where it snows for the record books. It is rugged. It is challenging and always has so much to offer. I find myself in new and more amazing terrain every year and creating more and more memories as I go.

One of my most memorable snowboarding moments actually transpired while I was riding the chair lift. It was the first year of the K2 Festical. Riders from all over the world flocked to our backyard to try shredding in the Northwest for a week. I think it snowed about a foot overnight. And, it wasn't the super blower snow we've been blessed with most of this 2008 season, but the typical April "powder" we see at Baker. (If you can't drink it, it's powder! R.I.P. Georgie!) I don't think anyone know what to do other than head for shelter. But without thinking twice, I cleared the fog from my head and made way to the lift. By the time I finally awoke, I realized I was the only one on the lift. Not a soul in front or behind me. Solo. I looked below. No one. Left, right ... no one. I thought, "This is crazy. No...everyone else is crazy, this is killer!" As I neared the bullwheel in anticipation of what was sure to be a memorable run, I spied one solitary rider, one brave soul who wasn't going to let strong winds and heavy snow deter him from getting some turns. I thought, "Right on, at least one of the tourists is going to shred today." As the lift drew us closer, I got a better look at that lone rider. It was none other than my friend, Weege, painting smiles all the way down showing me how we really do it at Baker! I think my run down was equally as magical, but I will never forget Weege getting the goods when the rest of the world was trying to figure out how to cope with what Baker threw at them that day.

Well, it's been 11 winters so far and I've seen many friends come and many go. I've seen many of my friends have babies and a few others pass. Why am I still here? Why do I live in the fog, in the drizzle, in the hole that is made of Glacier in the wintertime? It's because of the people I have met and the friends I have made. It's because most don't care what they are wearing or who they ride with as long as someone picks them up at the Shando parking lot to get them to Baker. And, have you ever been to Baker on an early winter's morning with a foot of fresh out, the still of the air without the buzz of traffic inviting you to just quietly make that pilgrimage to the lift?

Change is inevitable. The crowds will come. The sport is growing. Snowboarding, which Baker embraced and nurtured from the beginning, is evolving. Baker is evolving as well. The last double chair will see its last trip around the bullwheel this final weekend in April, ushering in a new era at Baker. But, here, I will remain. I will continue to come even as the pilgrims find their way to the holy stashes. I will continue to come even as the hike in to Chair 5 becomes more like I-5. I will continue to come because I know there will be one day of the season, that one day, where I see my friends shredding like it's a secret, shredding like no one is watching. And 20 years from now, when I sit with my loved ones in the double chair swinging from my porch, I will forever remember what is important in this world and what makes it that way. That is the magic of Chair 1. That is the magic of Baker!

By Dan

"The Next Season"

The only thing we know for sure is that it will never be what it once was. Ask any old timer or crusty local and they will confirm this cold hard fact. But change, like the tide or the wind, is not a force that requires our consent.

As the new moves forward it is our collective memory of the old that makes it what it once was. Sick days and pounding storms, first lines and perfect crews, even long waits and humbling falls are now not just our stories but our history as Chair One gracefully fades away.

The old girl shared in all these moments but will live on because it was her who made them possible.

In memory and legend, in print and in the Tap Room, her lingering presence will continue to make us smile. The new will more forward and history will reset. But she sent us out with a wink and a whisper, because with 54 years as a local, she knows change is a force not to fight.

By Mark

I'm relatively new to the mountain.

Sharmon and I joined forces 6 or so years ago. She's been riding Baker since the beginning. Every since her then boyfriend Janko dragged her up the road. Her old Sims makes a brief appearance stuck in the snow on Hemispheres in 'Baked'. She dragged me up the same road and I knew I was home before I even got out of the car. It wasn't that Shuksan looking down from his throne was overwhelming (it was). It wasn't that the snow was deep (it was). It wasn't that the terrain was steep (it is). It was . . . well . . .

Lao-tzu said the unnamable is the eternally real. I'll leave it at that.

It's been season' passes for the family of 5 ever since. The kids joyfully look for gloves, new coats, hats and goggles under the tree. They happily accept their big Christmas present in late October in the form of a Mt. Baker season's pass receipt. No one complains about the drive. 134 miles every Friday night from the door of our home in Poulsbo to the cabin we rent in Glacier. 134 miles back home on Sunday night. 17 or so miles cabin to lift and 17 back again. November through April ..nearly ever single weekend. 2 adults, 3 kids (11, 9, 7) load into the Explorer and head to the mountain.

We've got friends down here that ride. They load up their cars, minivans, or SUVs on the occasional Saturday and head to Alpental, Stevens or maybe Crystal. They think we're crazy for heading all the way to Baker every weekend. We like to say we're "enlightened".

I'm rambling. I'm not a writer. I'm not particularly articulate. I did not get good grades in English. This was supposed to be about a chair. We've got a great place for it. In our small front yard we've built a little creek powered by a silent buried pump. We are lining the channel with rocks brought down from Glacier Creek a dozen at a time over the years. Our plan is to sit on a porch swing by our own piece of Glacier creek during the summer to bring the mountain to the front door of our Olympic Peninsula home. The chair makes the perfect porch swing.

Anyway, I'll wrap this up. I imagine running a ski area business and acting as stewards for the "eternally real" is difficult. Like pruning a 1000 year old bonsai tree. When to clip and when to leave well enough alone? These cannot be easy decisions and I thank you for making them for all of us. We will see you again next year when the nights get cold and the snow starts to fall.