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The early years — Cliff Jennings and the launch of Whistler Mountain

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life... Don't let the noise of other people's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.
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"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life... Don't let the noise of other people's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

- Steve Jobs

He's lived in this valley for almost half a century. Experienced countless adventures. Seen change on a grand scale. Truly, this man is one of our legitimate mountain elders. He helped launch the region's original heli-ski business, and in so doing became one of Whistler's first bona fide ski-guides. He was a founding member of the resort-community's famed search-and-rescue team, the Chamber of Commerce's first president and a 25-year RMOW employee. Oh, and by the way — he's also an outstanding photographer whose much-sought-after images showcase nearly 50 years of high-mountain exploring. Heck, he and wife Vivien even conceived the resort-municipality's first "official" child.

All of which poses quite a dilemma for me. Frankly, I'm stumped. How do I fit Cliff Jennings' multitudinous stories into my usual Alta States format? It's impossible. Consider: the last time he and I met we talked for nearly four hours. And yet, by the time we were done (where had the time gone?), we'd barely covered Cliff's take on Whistler in the 1960s. See what I'm up against?

It's impossible. Or maybe it just requires a different approach. Which, I guess, is where I'm going with this. Instead of trying to stuff all Cliff's Whistler tales into a one- or two- or even three-part story, I've decided to simply cover one decade at a time. That way, I figure, we'll all be able to enjoy his reminiscences without feeling rushed. As for the remaining years — no need to fret, we'll make sure to have him back for frequent guest appearances. Fair enough?

Cliff was born in Lachine, Quebec, in 1944. "My dad was already a keen skier," he recounts. "I got my start on the local golf course." He smiles. "Well, to be honest we skied some days, and on others we simply slid down the hill on ice blocks." He still remembers well his introduction to Mont Tremblant. "For some reason, I had klister wax on my bases that day so my skis didn't slide at all." He shrugs. Laughs. "Seems to me, I walked most of the way down the run..."

He was 12 when his father was transferred to Toronto. "The opportunities for skiing weren't great in Southern Ontario in the 1950's," he remembers. "But luckily I met a friend. And together we made major journeys to places like Blue Mountain and Georgian Peaks and Alpine... even Devil's Glen."

After high school graduation, he spent a year at the U of T engineering school under the ROTC program. Alas, his calculus was weak and he didn't qualify for a second year. He was offered a commission in the RCAF, but his older brother (who was already a pilot and had seen the recent cutbacks) persuaded him to reconsider.

But Ontario, he admits, wasn't doing it for him. "So instead, I decided to travel to Alberta to visit my brother at the base where he was stationed." That was all it took to change Cliff's life. He got himself a job in the oil patch 400 kilometres north of Edmonton — "I'd never experienced -60ºF before. It was so cold that it made a well-head shatter" — and lasted a season before moving onto bigger (and warmer) things.

"I went through all sorts of jobs," he admits. But it was the one he landed during the summer of '65 that really rocked his world. "I was hired as a guide on the Columbia Ice Fields," he starts. And then stops. "You know," he starts again, "I think that's when I first truly fell in love with the mountains..."

Meanwhile, though, he'd also enrolled at the University of Alberta. "It was in the fall of that same year," he says. "There I was, living in Edmonton, in a basement room with no windows." He sighs. "I had the blues bad. That's when I heard about a new ski hill opening up out west." It didn't take long for the 21-year-old to make up his mind. "Whistler? I knew next to nothing about the place. No matter. I just jumped into my bug and pointed her west."

Cliff reached the Lower Mainland in early November. "The only thing I knew for sure about this new ski area was that it was 'north of Vancouver.' But when I asked people about it, they'd turn vague. 'Just go up Highway 99 and follow the signs,' they'd say. So I headed for Squamish..."

Apparently there wasn't much signage. "After passing Squamish it got kind of confusing," he says. "And I ended up on this crazy road that just kept climbing steeper and steeper and steeper. 'This can't be right,' I thought." And it wasn't. Somehow he'd gotten on the track for remote Red Heather Lodge. "I figured it out eventually. But turning the bug around," he says, "that was no easy manoeuvre."

He finally found the right route. But even then, it was touch and go. "It wasn't much of a highway in those days — more just a patchwork of logging and hydro-line maintenance roads." He laughs. "Oh yeah, and you still had to drive over the Daisy Lake dam back then."

It was pissing down rain by the time he reached the construction site at what we now call Creekside (remember — this was in November of '65, barely three months before the new ski area was scheduled to open). "I saw the Garibaldi Lifts sign and a bunch of guys working," he remembers, "so I sauntered over and asked them if there was any work available in the area." Suddenly the project manager, Eric Lomas, showed up. "He looked at me — 'What do you want?' he asked. So I told him I was looking for a job." Lomas didn't even hesitate. "He just handed me a shovel," says Jennings. "And then he told me: 'We just finished pouring the foundations here. And all this rain is going to rip it right out again... so if you want a job, start shovelling.'"

Welcome to Whistler, Cliff.

He laughs. "But seriously," he says, "I ended up working with the Whistler Mountain construction crew for the next two winters. My boss was a guy called Addi Schum. He'd been brought in from Austria by Mueller Lifts to oversee the chairlift installations. And he was a really strong skier." A pause. "But then," he continues, "you had to be a strong skier just to get to the construction site..."

Forget grooming. There was none. "In those first two years," he tells me, "you had to know your way around powder snow pretty well if you were going to enjoy the mountain." He stops again. Grins like a little kid. "So I ended up learning how to ski powder, really, before learning how to ski properly."

There were incidents of course. "I remember this one time," he starts, "I was going up the Red Chair with the Mueller engineer. The government inspectors were supposed to be coming up from Victoria that day for final inspection of the Green Chair and we were just making sure that everything was still OK up there." The wind was terrible that morning. And the two men were buffeted around by the fierce gusts as the lift carried them higher and higher up the mountain.

"In those days, the off-load stations were built on massive wooden platforms. Really beefy stuff, you know. Imagine our surprise then, when we cleared the top only to discover that the Green Chair's off-load station was gone! The wind had blown it apart! All that was left were wood splinters and cables ends hanging out..."

Fortunately for Whistler Mountain, all coastal ferries had been cancelled that day. "So we got everything fixed before the inspectors could reschedule their visit." He laughs again. "It was truly the wild west back then. Whatever worked."

By the winter of 1967-68, Whistler's on-mountain construction was all but complete. So Jennings — appropriately enough — was hired to run the new grooming crew. "I had one employee," he says, rolling his eyes, "and two Thiokol machines (essentially Econoline vans with tracks) and a roller that did absolutely nothing. I mean, it was all pretty bad... for example, the blade up front would go up when you wanted it to go down and down when you wanted it to go up."

Still, he says, they were doing pioneering work. Take the time the 24-year-old decided to groom the Weasel for Whistler's Mountain's first big downhill, the 1968 Du Maurier International. "Well," recounts Cliff, "it was a pretty simple procedure. I'd start at the top of the Weasel with my Thiokol set in fourth gear, put my feet on the dash and steer the machine into the falline." More laughter. "And when I could see again — the Thiokol would push so much snow on its way down, it would fly right over the hood and totally cover the windshield — I was usually back on the road and I could swing the cat around and go right up again for another pass."

Next Week: Cliff crosses the Coast Mountains on a 30-day odyssey, launches Pacific Ski Air, and with his new Irish bride, Vivien, starts one of the first Whistler-born families.