'In wisdom gathered over time I have found that every experience is a form of exploration.'
- Legendary Mountain Photographer Ansel Adams
Now, where were we before my narrative was so rudely interrupted by illness? Oh yeah, Whistler elder Cliff Jennings and his reminiscences about the community's early years...
Part of the fun of writing this column are the small discoveries made along the way. The details, if you will, that add so much more to our understanding of Whistler culture. For example, I had no idea of the breadth and quality of Jennings' photographic odyssey. I was only interested in his words at first — and he was kind enough to indulge me with as many tales as I could jot down. But then he revealed his trove of images to me — a rich visual journey through five decades of Coast Mountain life — and well, I admit it... I was immediately smitten.
Sure. I'm a romantic. Whatever. Whistler's early years, to me, are far more interesting and textured than the monolithic, dollar-chewing, tourist-munching monster it's become. Indeed, it only takes a few of Cliff's older pictures to remind me just how beautiful and wild this place once was. And just how innocent Whistlerites were in those days.
Travel back in time with me for a moment. See those stretchpant-and-sweater wearing kids hitting the big cornice jump? Floating over their 210cm nose-pickers like skinny-legged storks? Catch their smiles. Their energy. And then later — when they're all lounging together at timberline — look at the fun they're having with their impromptu picnic in the snow. This, they seem to be saying, is what mountain culture is all about. And this, I want to yell out, is what modern Whistler should be focused on too!
Ah, but I digress. Back to Cliff and his photography. "I got my first 'good' camera in the spring of 1967," recounts Jennings. "I was working on a promotional movie for Whistler Mountain at the time. The director of the film was Montana resident Jim Rice. And he'd recruited a bunch of us — various instructors, Dag Abye, John Nairn and me — as ski talent." He stops. Shrugs. "It was just a short promo, you know. But it was a lot of fun to do... I think it still exists, too."
Somehow the American director found out about Jenning's burgeoning interest in photography. "Jim was upgrading his own gear," explains Cliff. "And he offered me his old Pentax." Another pause. I can almost see him travel back in time to that early film set. "That was a real breakthrough for me," he adds. "For this was a good 35-millimetre camera with a wide range of lenses. I could shoot a whole lot of new stuff now." He smiles. "No more excuses..."
The timing of his new acquisition couldn't have been better. For that summer, the 24 year old was recruited for one of the boldest Coast Mountain adventures of that era.
"Yeah," he says, "we were hired as mules to support a surveying crew looking into the possibility of building a natural gas pipeline from Williams Lake to Powell River." Come again? I mean, that route would traverse some of the nastiest terrain on the planet. "Exactly. That's why they needed us. You see, they'd done the first part of the survey across the Chilcotin Plateau on horseback. And it had worked out pretty well for them. But when they reached the mountains, they hit serious bush and the horses became a liability."
Enter Jennings and buddies Hugh Smythe, John Nairn and Gary Davies. "We were the support crew to the coast," explains Cliff. Does that mean what I think it means? "Yep. We carried the gear. The surveyor — our nominal boss — was a guy called Mau... a compact prospector type." He smiles. "And one tough mountain man."
He had to be. And his support mules even more so. I mean, this was a 30-day trek through some of the jungliest terrain in North America; a constant, mind-numbing bushwack from dawn-till dusk. Sure, there were moments of indescribable beauty — after all, they were travelling through country that few humans (First Nations or European) had ever dared tread — but overall I can't imagine a ghastlier, more demanding route to follow.
And anyone who has ventured deep into the Coast Mountain bush knows exactly what I'm talking about. If there's a hiking-hell on earth, this is it. It truly features some of the most human-unfriendly ground around. Wet and clingy and claustrophobic in the lowlands and cold and exposed and dangerous up high. And yet to hear Jennings's account of the trip, one might be excused for thinking it was something of a lark.
Okay. Maybe not a lark. But he certainly doesn't dwell on the negatives. After all, he says, this was the biggest adventure of his young life. Every day offered something new. "Take the start of our trip," he begins. "There we were, hiking up Meagher Creek when I suddenly caught sight of what looked like steam rising up from the river. So we told the heli-pilot at our next supply drop. And he went to the source and stuck a thermometer in it – 180 degrees!" He smiles. "I think that might have been the first time the hot springs were visited by a white man."
Alas, there's no room to go into detail about the trip. But as he says; "We were as remote as you can get in southern B.C." And his photos of that journey reflect that fact well. More importantly, they reveal just how resilient and life-loving Jennings and his twenty-something buddies were on this trip. To see their happy, goofy grins in the face of such physical adversity, well, it puts a new spin on the '60s lifestyle...
Take the finale. When the crew was finally airlifted from a coastal logging camp and flown back to Vancouver — "the survey," says Cliff, "pretty much killed the pipeline project: way too much blasting and bridging," — the guys had no chance to change into clean clothes. "We walked into the Hotel Vancouver still dressed in our mountain gear," he recounts. And laughs. "Remember — we'd been wearing the same stuff for a month." More laughter. "You can imagine the kind of entrance we made."
But Cliff's mountain adventures had only just begun. That winter he, Brian Rowley and Jamie Pike decided to launch Pacific Ski Air — the first heli-ski business in the Coast Mountains. Back then, he says, helicopters were still considered exotic flying machines. But Jennings had seen them successfully put to use during the construction of Whistler Mountain and understood their ski-lift potential. "We were just a bunch of naïve, young ski bums with a dream," he says, tongue held firmly in cheek. "But seriously — we got a lot of assistance from Glen McPherson (the then-president of Okanagan Helicopters). That was the other part of the partnership."
He smiles at the memory. "It was pretty basic stuff, you know. Still, we were pioneers there too." The company flew its guests in a Bell 47J, which carried three passengers plus the pilot. Cliff was head guide. And the sales team? He laughs. "Our marketing was simple. We'd ski to the bottom of the lift on a sunny day and try to convince people to join us for a few runs of helicopter skiing." He pauses. Sighs happily. "That was such an amazing experience."
In those days, he says, skiers were charged $5 for a ride to the summit of Whistler Mountain and a whopping $45 for a three-run day and a final drop-off on the peak. "It was a labour of love," Cliff admits with a rueful grin. "We never really managed to make much of a profit out of the venture..."
High points? "Well, I remember taking members of the national ski team on a victory heli-ski trip," he says. "I was sitting next to the pilot and the radio was pumping out rock and roll and we were flying down the mountain at an amazing speed, just above the trees, and following the contour of the hill like we were actually skiing it." Another happy sigh. "Even now I can feel the exhilaration of that descent. It was so much fun," — he grins — "especially since our guests were digging the moment too."
Most exciting ride? "Well," he starts, "there was the time we tried to land on Whistler Peak in a blustery north wind." He pauses. Takes a long breath. "Just before landing, I heard the pilot go 'Oh-oh,' and instead of putting down, he dropped the heli's nose and off we went screaming down the front side of the mountain. Turns out the north wind had created a back eddy behind the summit and the helicopter had stalled in the dead air. If the pilot hadn't been so quick to get us out of there and into clean air again we'd have crashed for sure..."
Pacific Ski Air only lasted two years. "The problem," admits Cliff, "was twofold. Either we had good weather and no clients or we had good clients and no weather. It was a bit of a comedy at times." Still, the biggest stumbling block had nothing to do with guests or weather. "We just couldn't get tenure," he says. "I mean, I still remember our presentation to the government guys in Victoria. 'What the heck is heli-sking?' was their response. They just didn't get it..."
