By Robert Adams

My Alpine Experience
in Gaylord
Images courtesy of the author and the Otsego Club & Resort.
By Robert Adams
I
n the early 1950s, families like ours flocked to northern
Michigan to try their hands at a winter sport that had
its origins in the mountains of Europe. Gaylord was
the place that my family frequented. It was (and still is) the
home of the Otsego Ski Club at Hidden Valley.
The main lodge was fashioned from huge round cedar
logs that had the shiniest finish I have
ever seen. The atmosphere there was
enlivened by Swiss folk music, projected
from high-mounted speakers for all to
hear. The sounds that came forth helped
create the feel of an Alpine mountain
resort. It was, however, frequently
interrupted for announcements, either
beckoning ski school attendance or
paging a lost child. People would
sometimes appear in lederhosen, and
one chap even yodeled. It was all so
foreign to me; I’m not sure if the
characters were real or costumed. These
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michigan history
were the early impressions of the magic that greeted us young
skiers in the 1950s on winter breaks in Gaylord.
The terrain at Otsego was gently rolling. But, with the
addition of a few man-made bluffs, the owners created
illusions of steep and treacherous slopes to the delight of the
skiers. The ski resort was mostly equipped with rope tows,
mounted and looped on telephone-like
poles using a collection of metal pulleys
powered by electric motors. No gasoline
engines were used at this fancy ski club.
T-bars were also installed on the newer
slopes during its expansion in the 1950s.
The Otsego Ski Club was famous for its
ski instructors, who were born in Austria,
Switzerland, and Germany. Names such
as Karl, Hans, and Gunter filled their
ranks. Their Germanic accents were quite
pronounced, and they were oh-so charming,
especially when they taught the women,
i.e., our mothers. When their responsibility
remember the time |
shifted to teaching us, the charm diminished quickly.
My brothers were much more proficient at skiing
than I was. They were a few years older and had
already graduated from ski school. Most of my
memories of learning to ski involved being with
my dad, starting up the towrope on the bunny hill,
secured between his skis. I was learning to master
the art of ascension. Gosh, he was a patient man. I
liked skiing with Mom and Dad a lot better than
the group classes led by the instructors. At least my
art of timing the intake of the hot liquid to truly
enjoy the beverage. The cup of cocoa would move
from scalding hot to tepid in a matter of 85 seconds.
(I timed it.) It was a very narrow window of time
and took some practice and luck to hit it just right.
When you did, though, you were truly in “chocolate
heaven.”
I could never quite balance the filled cocoa cup
on the cafeteria tray and walk at the same time. I
attributed this problem to my heavy, metal-toed ski
parents laughed!
Adding further to the mixed ambiance on the ski
hills was the resort’s maintenance crew. They dressed
for warmth and duty in their oil-stained coveralls
and huge unbuckled rubber boots. The men were
a grumpy bunch. Frankly, they had trouble dealing
with the playful antics of us children, as we waited in
line to grasp the whirring rope for our 60-second ride
up the hill. I suspected they had faces, but I cannot
recall ever seeing them. They were always covered up,
protected from the winds that would howl through
the hills.
The maintenance workers groomed the slopes with
what looked like upside-down coal shovels, covering
dirt and grass with a shaving of white ice that they
artfully carved from the surrounding snowbanks.
I always wanted to ride up the hill on one of those
shovels.
The main lodge had an expansive cafeteria with
picture windows facing the slopes. It served the best
hot cocoa, with a sweet, dark chocolate flavor that
was near perfection. One needed to learn the fine
boots. In reality, I would have spilled the cocoa even
if I were wearing tennis shoes. The real challenge was
negotiating a room full of random motion-makers,
darting in and out. Most days after visiting it, I
would head back out onto the ski slopes with spots of
chocolate on my powder-blue ski jacket. If I looked
straight ahead, I wouldn’t even notice them.
In the evening back at our lodgings, my mother
would apply soap and water to the stains from the
day’s mishaps. After her magic, she would hang my
ski parka from the shower curtain to dry in time for
the next day’s service.
Such was a glimpse of life at Michigan’s wonderful
Otsego Ski Club in the 1950s. I have many fond
memories of this era, and thank the original owners
for their foresight in developing such an Alpinethemed paradise.
Beulah businessman Robert Adams recently penned
a collection of essays titled “From the Hip and Heart:
Rebooting on Crystal Avenue,” from which this piece
was drawn.
November/december 2013
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