Central America’s Gift to Skiing

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Grove Koger

I’ve adapted today’s post from an article I wrote about a famed Idaho skiing resort for the Winter 2012 issue of Boise.

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As the opening day for Sun Valley approached in late 1936, engineers for the resort’s developer, Union Pacific Railroad, were busy figuring out how to get prospective skiers to the tops of the slopes. The skiiers could, of course, work themselves up using what was called the “herringbone hump,” but there were various kinds of lifts already in existence that made the job easier—made it, in fact, into something other than a job.

The first ski tow seems to have been put into operation in Germany in 1908, and a similar device was used for the first time in this country in Woodstock, Vermont, in 1934. Sun Valley’s marketing director, Steve Hannagan, hoped to improve upon these basic models, envisioning what he referred to vaguely as “mechanical devices to take people to the top of the slides.” But structural engineer Jim Curran (whom you see below) had a more concrete idea, an idea for something completely new—a series of chairs hanging from moving cables.

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Curran had once worked for an ironworks that built hoists for loading bunches of bananas onto fruit boats in Honduras. Why, he wondered, couldn’t chairs be mounted in place of the hooks that the bananas hung from? At first, Curran’s idea was rejected as being too dangerous, but Harvard ski coach Charlie Proctor, who had been recruited to help design the runs, saw the idea’s potential and gave the young engineer the go-ahead.

Under Curran’s direction, a mock-up of the lift using a pickup and an ordinary chair was put together in Omaha at UP’s locomotive and railcar repair shop. Considerable time was spent determining how fast the lift should move, with workers roller-skating slowly across the pavement as the pickup and its attached chair approached them from behind. As it turned out, a speed of four to five miles-per-hour was ideal.

A prototype was completed by July, after which the engineers decamped to Sun Valley to build a pair of what would initially be called “chair-type lifts” on Dollar and Proctor mountains. Curran’s wife would later recall that her husband “was gone several months at a time working on that assignment.” Eventually, she and their children were able to join him at the resort.

“When I saw that big thing hanging in the air,” she continued, “I thought, ‘I can’t say no.’” The contraption turned out to be a “real thrill to ride.”

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The 1936-37 season at Sun Valley involved quite a few firsts. It was the resort’s first winter, and while initially there was precious little snow that December, the world’s first two chair lifts were ready to roll—or, rather, lift—when the white stuff started coming down. And when that finally happened, officials quickly realized that some improvements were called for.

First of all, the chairs had been hung so low from the cables that trenches had to be dug along their path to give the skiers legroom. Just as importantly, it became obvious that the lifts should be built not in the valleys—where people, naturally enough, liked to ski—but on the ridges. As a result, the lower parts of the Proctor Mountain lift were disassembled in 1938 and incorporated into a lift on Ruud Mountain. And it’s that “newer” structure that today stands a little forlornly near the end of Fairway Road in Sun Valley—and that you see in our photograph at the top of today’s post.

Ironically, Jim Curran himself didn’t get a chance to try out the slopes that season. It seems that he broke his arm ice-skating, prompting UP to forbid its employees from skating—or skiing—unless it was in their job description.

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Celebrating the Solstice with Stipe Nobilo

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Grove Koger

We’ve reached the winter solstice in the Northern Hemisphere, which means that while winter is now officially upon us, we’re going to be receiving a little more sunlight every day. While it’s far off, spring is within sight, and even though summer is farther off, it’s at least a possibility. And with those warm thoughts in mind, I’d like to share the image of a print that hangs on our wall.

It’s a small, brightly colored lithograph by Croatian artist Stipe Nobilo, and it was given to us by the generous owners of Art Gallery Talir in Dubrovnik on our 2015 visit to Croatia. My article about the trip, “Croatia: Landscape, History & Art” appeared in the Winter 2016 issue of the late lamented Laguna Beach Art Patron Magazine.

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Nobilo was born in 1945 in the fishermen’s village of Lumbarda near the eastern tip of the Croatian island of Korčula, which is a few hours by ferry from Dubrovnik. He graduated in 1971 from the Academy of Fine Arts in the nearby port of Split, where he studied under Šime Perić, and apparently still lives and works in Lumbarda. (The photograph of him you see above is reproduced courtesy of Lešić Dimitri Palace, Korcula.)

Despite Nobilo’s apparent popularity in Croatia and abroad, there’s very little information about him available online. So far as I can tell, he’s produced oils and lithographs in the same simple but distinctive style all his creative life, a style that owes more than a little to the Fauves of the early twentieth century. His seacoasts and islands lie beneath an untroubled sky in a kind of perpetual summer, a season of unalloyed pleasure outside of time.

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With Isabella Bird in the Rockies

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Grove Koger

As I expand and update When the Going Was Good, I’m posting revised entries from the first edition. Today’s deals with a remarkable woman traveler who visited the American West in 1873.

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A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains (London: John Murray, 1879)

The daughter of an Anglican clergyman of inflexible character and a Sunday school teacher, Isabella Lucy Bird was born in Yorkshire in 1831 and grew up an invalid. A prescient doctor eventually prescribed travel for her “spinal irritation,” with the result that she visited the United States in 1854, a trip she described in her first book, The Englishwoman in America. Travel did indeed allay Bird’s illness, although remarkably enough it recurred when she returned home—a pattern that would persist throughout her busy life.

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Bird traveled to Australia and the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) in 1873, returning by way of the United States and spending the last few months of the year high in the Colorado Rockies. Here she had an opportunity to observe American frontier life first hand, helping round up cattle, carry the mail and nurse the sick. At one point she remarked that she had been spending ten hours or more a day in the saddle.

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A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains has its origin in a series of letters that Bird wrote to her sister Henrietta. The letters were published in the magazine Leisure Hour in 1878 and in book form the following year. Bird’s description of frontier life is keenly observed and direct, a vivid picture of an existence both vibrant and monotonous. Particularly striking is her account of ascending 14,700-foot Long’s Peak, “one of the mightiest of the vertebrae of the backbone of the North American continent.” Her guide on the ascent was the colorful “Rocky Mountain Jim” Nugent, an Englishman who had once made his living as a scout and who was eking out a living trapping when Bird met him. Bird’s remarks suggest that Nugent had made more than a passing impression on her, and she found his violent death under disputed circumstances shortly after her departure a tragedy “too painful to dwell upon.”

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If you’re looking for a good edition of Bird’s book, the University of Oklahoma Press edition (Norman, 1960) contains an introduction by Daniel J. Boorstin, as well as a detailed map and an index. Its cover, which you see above, reproduces William E. Hahn’s 1874 painting Yosemite Valley from Glacier Point. Now, if you’re up on your geography, you probably realize that Yosemite is a long was from the Colorado Rockies, but at least they’re on the same continent

Other works by the indefatigable Bird include: The Englishwoman in America (1856); Six Months in the Sandwich Islands, amongst the Palm Groves, Coral Reefs and Volcanoes (1874); Unbeaten Tracks in Japan: An Account of Travels on Horseback in the Interior, Including Visits to the Aborigines of Yezo and The Shrines of Nokkô and Isé (1880); The Golden Chersonese and the Way Thither (1883); Journeys in Persia and Kurdistan; Including a Summer in the Upper Karun Region and a Visit to the Nestorian Rayahs (1891); Among the Tibetans (1894); Korea and Her Neighbors: A Narrative of Travel, With an Account of the Recent Vicissitudes and Present Position of the Country (1898); The Yangtze Valley and Beyond: An Account of Journeys in China, Chiefly in the Province of Sze Chuan and among the Man-tze of the Somo Territory (1899); Chinese Pictures (1900); and This Grand Beyond: The Travels of Isabella Bird Bishop (1984).

And for more information about Bird, consult: Dea Birkett, Spinsters Abroad: Victorian Lady Explorers (Basil Blackwell, 1989); Lila Marz Harper, Solitary Travelers: Nineteenth-Century Women’s Travel Narratives and the Scientific Vocation (Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2001); Evelyn Kaye, Amazing Traveler, Isabella Bird: The Biography of a Victorian Adventurer (Blue Panda, 1999).

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Joseph Conrad Crosses the Shadow-Line

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Grove Koger

Today’s entry in the series I’m calling “Sea Fever” deals with a short novel by the master of sea fiction.

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Joseph Conrad, The Shadow-Line: A Confession. The English Review (London) Sept. 1916–March 1917; Metropolitan Magazine (New York) Oct. 1916; J.M. Dent, 1917

Joseph Conrad’s short novel The Shadow-Line (or The Shadow Line) occupies an intriguing position in his oeuvre. Published in 1917, it’s generally regarded as his last important work. Unlike his longer, melodramatic novel Victory (1915), it’s written in a refreshingly direct, uncluttered style, and the story it tells is an intriguing one.

Despite its appearance near the end of Conrad’s career, however, The Shadow-Line is based on his first, and only, command, that of the 3-masted, 147-foot barque Otago. (A barque, or bark, has two or more square-rigged masts and a fore-and-aft rigged mizzen mast.) Conrad had sailed aboard the S.S. Melita from what was then the British colony of Singapore, at the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula, to Bangkok, Siam (now Thailand), in January 1888 in order to take command of the Otago, which he managed to accomplish later that month. His assignment was to sail her back down the Gulf of Siam to Singapore.

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Conrad made the claim that The Shadow-Line was “exact autobiography,” but, as Norman Sherry makes clear in Conrad’s Eastern World (Cambridge UP, 1966), he was not quite telling the truth. Not quite. Although the outline of the experiences described in the novel is close to the truth, Conrad shaped and exaggerated the steps he took and the experiences he underwent as the ship’s master. There’s nothing surprising about any of this, and if you’re interested in the details, there’s no better source that Sherry’s study.  

The unlucky voyage of the fictional Otago can be described briefly. After frustrating delays, the ship is becalmed for days in the Gulf, and before long, nearly every member of its crew has been laid low with “fever,” presumably malaria. The narrator administers the quinine that he finds in the ship’s medicine chest, only to discover, after a time, that the previous captain had emptied out the precious powder and filled the bottles with some sort of useless substitute.  

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Conrad’s characters are clearly drawn, from Captain Giles, who craftily nudges the narrator into securing the command, to the feverish and deranged Burns, the chief mate of the Otago, who believes that the ship is haunted by the ghost of its previous captain. Particularly memorable is the cook, Ransome, whose heart, as Burns explains, has “’something wrong with it,” and who “mustn’t exert himself too much or he may drop dead suddenly.’” As the narrator observes, the poor man lives and works “in mortal fear of starting into sudden anger” their “common enemy it was his hard fate to carry consciously within his faithful breast.”

The Shadow-Line complements Conrad’s 1898 short story “Youth,” and in effect carries his young seaman across the “shadow-line” between youth and maturity. But the line might easily be read as the metaphorical one between sanity and insanity, as well as the literal line—at 8°20’—where the crew of the Otago had consigned the body of their deranged captain to the water. Significantly enough, Conrad dedicated the novel to his son. Borys, who had enlisted to fight in World War I, “and all others who like himself have crossed in early youth the shadow-line of their generation.”

In my opening paragraph, I referred to Conrad as “the master of British sea fiction.” I did so in spite of the fact that he himself disliked being categorized in such a way, and once expressed the desire to be “freed from that infernal tail of ships, and that obsession with [his] sea life which,” he felt, had no bearing on his “literary existence.” Nevertheless, it’s for his sea fiction that he’s most often read and admired, including “Youth,” the opening section of Lord Jim (1899-1900), The End of the Tether (1902), Typhoon (1902), and “The Secret Sharer” (1909-10). The sea plays a significant role in several of his other works, including such “island” novels as Almayer’s Folly (1895), as well as his masterpiece, Nostromo (1904), which, after all, is subtitled “A Tale of the Seaboard.” Had Conrad not written these works, his reputation would stand considerably lower than it does today. (The dates I mention, by the way, are for the first periodical publication.)

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The image you see at the top of today’s post is the cover of the first British edition, while the image at the bottom, the cover of my World’s Classics paperback copy, is a detail from Henry Scott Tuke’s 1888 painting Climbing the Rigging. The map, reproduced from the 1924 issue of National Geographic, shows the route of the Otago as a blue line, while the 1888 photograph of the ship is reproduced courtesy of the National Maritime Museum, London.

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