Spring 1975, Camillus, NY — Sitting in my high school lunchroom, I kept hearing classmates talk about Ski Club trips to nearby mountains and church outings to Vermont. Everyone seemed to be having a blast, and since I didn’t ski, I felt left out. That spring, I made up my mind: I was going to learn to ski.
Luckily, a small community ski area called East Hill was just five minutes from my house. Nestled beside an elementary school of the same name, it had about 100 feet of vertical drop, a rope tow without handles, and a perpetually idle T-bar. The hill was open nights and weekends and staffed entirely by volunteers from the Camillus Winter Sports Association.
In the fall of 1975, East Hill hosted a used equipment sale to raise funds. I showed up with $35 from my summer job and left with an inexpensive ski setup—215 cm skis, Salomon 505 bindings, safety straps, a painful pair of early Henke plastic boots, and poles. The gear looked more at home on the wall of a ski cabin than on the slopes, but I was ready to go skiing.
When snow finally came in the winter of 1975–76, I spent many evenings and weekends at East Hill. The place was packed with fifth to seventh-graders—true “ski bros in training”—and then there was me, a high school junior and football player, trying to control my 215cm skis. With no money for lessons, I just copied what the kids were doing. I fell constantly, bruised often, and learned the hard way.
Once, while resetting my bindings after a spill, the heel snapped shut on my ring finger. It hurt, but I didn’t notice the blood dripping from my glove until a lift attendant pointed it out. Another time, during a fall, one ski whipped around (still attached by the strap) and caught my forehead, leaving a nice cut and bruise. But none of that stopped me.
After about 15 days on the hill, I could finally make smooth turns without snowplowing. Feeling confident, I signed up for the high school ski club trip to nearby Song Mountain—a “giant” 650 feet of vertical. Compared to East Hill, it was huge! I was thrilled but terrified at the same time. My first chairlift ride ended with a ski falling off, but after that, the evening went great.
I never returned to East Hill after discovering Song Mountain, but I’ll always be grateful for that tiny community slope. It was where I learned perseverance and the thrill of stem-christie turns. More than anything, East Hill sparked what became a lifelong passion—a ski adventure now 50 years strong and still going.
Love reading this moment of your childhood moments! Always a pleasure to have contact, by reading this, seeing your face in a small picture of the author. It makes me smile to remember how you always loved to share your passions, with that energy and vitality I remember you for. Know that, you will always be my host dad, and all the family my host family – even if far and not so in touch, always in my heart! Great article!