SWC Runs Snow Trains to North Creek

The following stories are composites of anecdotes told by Dr. Vincent Schaefer, Dr. John Senn, Lee Hunt, Bud Hut, Lloyd Lambert, and Ken Picotte. A few were depicted in Bill Gluesing's 16mm movies of skiing at North Creek in the early 1930s. Mary Kuykendall added a script to the movies for SWC's 50th anniversary. The anecdotes agree with my personal ski train experience.

Early Sunday morning March 4, 1934, the first snow train ran from the Schenectady Union Railroad Station to North Creek. On January 6, 1936, the first overnight snow train traveled from New York City's Grand Central Station to North Creek.

The scene at the railroad station in Schenectady was excited confusion when the first snow train arrived. Skiers with rucksacks on their backs and skis and poles in hand stepped back from the edge of platform as the haunting sound of the train's steam whistle echoed and a big black coal burning locomotive, belching a long plume of dark smoke, rumbled to a stop. Smokers headed for designated smoking cars and nonsmokers scrambled for seats in cars designated No Smoking. The first skiers on the train took seats at the ends of the cars nearest the doors. They wanted to be first off when the train arrived at North Creek. They sat in groups of four and braced their ridge-top wooden skis (running surfaces already prepared with pine-tar-base-wax) in the narrow space between adjacent seat backs. Rucksacks packed with food and clothing were put on overhead racks. Then they settled down for the ride to North Creek.

"All aboard," the conductor shouted as he signaled to the engineer. The engineer pushed gently on the throttle.

Steam leaked from piston seals. Connecting rods moved, huge wheels started to turn and the train pulled slowly out of the station. Conductors then walked the length of the train collecting tickets, enforcing no smoking rules, and announcing ski conditions.

A few skiers put their heads against the backs of seats, closed their eyes, and tried to doze off, but were too keyed up to sleep. Others talked excitedly about trails they planned to ski and the proper ski wax to use. Single young men gathered around pretty girls and jostled each other for position as they tried to make good impressions and talk the girls into skiing with them. Couples that were going steady sat close and held hands.

Skiers selected the best wax for the day, pulled their skis out from between seat backs, rubbed on their chosen wax and smoothed it with a cork. "Excuse me," they said politely when they elbowed one another in the crowded aisle. People who wanted to take one last trip to the rest room at the end of the car waited to venture down the aisle until the waxers were finished and skis were stowed back between seats. Men's toilets were at one end of the car and the women's toilets at the other.

Two hours out of Schenectady, the train approached North Creek. Skiers put on coats or jackets, rucksacks, hats and mittens, picked up their skis and poles and headed for doors at both ends of the coaches. When the train stopped, the conductor opened the doors and stood out of the way.

Skiers poured out of the train and rushed to the nearest vehicle that would take them to the top of the ski trails on Pete Gay Mountain. A variety of automobiles, buses and open trucks were waiting for them at the train station.

The most exciting ride was in the back of a flat bed truck. Skiers paid the driver a quarter, climbed on back and placed their skis in an improvised rack. Some trucks were from the mine, at least one was used to carry ten-gallon milk cans to market during the week. On Sundays they were all transformed into magic carpets that transported skiers to the beginning of the ski trails at the top of Pete Gay Mountain.

"RIDE UP AND SLIDE DOWN" was North Creek's slogan.

The warmest spot for the cold eight-mile ride was in the middle of the crowd. A chorus of moans came from the back of the truck as skiers swayed in unison when the truck hit an occasional bump or went around a sharp bend on the steep workroad. The back of the truck was like a crowded elevator and was no place for someone with claustrophobia or a queasy stomach.

Occasionally someone in the middle of the crowd became carsick. When that happened, the crowd separated to make an aisle for the sick person to get to the railing. The ride was long, rough and cold, but it was better than climbing and complaints were few. Teenagers loved it. Riding the truck saved a half day of climbing and meant that skiers could make more downhill runs than if they climbed. Skiers may have disagreed about skiing technique, waxes, and trails, but they all agreed that the exhilaration of skiing through the beautiful, quiet forest restored inner tranquility. 

Their first encounter with the bear was utter panic struck when unsuspecting skiers from the city were menaced by a big black bear emerging from behind a huge boulder. They tried to stop, fell, tumbled in the snow, jumped back up, and turned and fled. They herringboned pell-mell uphill, skis and poles churning like pistons of a pile driver at runaway speed.

"You can always tell city slickers from locals by their reaction to the bear," Bill Gluesing said. 

Bill, a magician and educator who ran General Electric's House of Magic show, and Carl Schaefer, had mounted Carl's stuffed black bear on a toboggan. When skiers came around a bend in the trail, Bill pushed the bear out from its hiding place behind a huge boulder by manipulating a system of ropes and pulleys. Local skiers knew that the bear was stuffed and poked it with a ski pole as they skied by. First-timers, unfamiliar with the setup or the knowledge that bears hibernate in winter, panicked. A few skied past as fast as they could. Some stopped, turned and fled back up the trail in hysteria. Many startled skiers lost their balance and fell. When they realized that the bear was not alive, they threw a snowball at it, picked themselves up and, with an embarrassed smile, waved to Bill and Carl behind the boulder. Then they continued to ski down the trail.

There was no base lodge at North Creek in the earliest days. The train parked on a siding at the station all day. The train's fireman banked the fire and kept it going with just enough of a head of steam to heat the train. Skiers returned to the train to get warm and have lunch.

A few unknowledgeable people used the toilets but most used the toilets in the North Creek Fire House, as requested.

Some enterprising town's people set an old wooden piano crate on its side as a makeshift counter and sold coffee and hot soup. The village's religious fundamentalists insisted that it be sinful to sell anything on a Sunday. Others claimed that selling hot soup to cold skiers was a humanitarian deed and that God would approve.

While skiers were on the mountain, railroad yardmen uncoupled the engine from the train, backed it down a siding to a turntable and turned it around. The engine was then recoupled to the other end, and the train was ready for the return trip.

At 4:00 p.m., the engineer sounded five long blasts of the locomotive's steam whistle. The whistle's haunting sound was heard for miles up and down the Hudson River Valley.

At 4:30 p.m., three more blasts were sounded. At 4:45 p.m. sharp, as the sun sank behind the mountains and long shadows fell across the valley, the train slowly pulled out of the siding and headed back to Schenectady. Anyone not on the train was left behind.

Carl Schaefer said that he built the first rope tow at the North Creek Village Snow Bowl during 1935 -- 1936. One old-timer disputes this. The old timer remembers a rope tow powered by a V8 engine (constructed by Emmett Higgens and Bucky Burns) that preceded Carl's tow. The claim seems unlikely because it is universally accepted that the first rope tow in the United States was installed in Woodstock Vermont in 1934 leaving no elapsed time between it and Carl's tow.

In 1937, Carl installed another rope tow on 150 acres of his newly acquired pasture land on the south face of Gore Mountain. After that, skiers had a choice of three places to ski: the five-mile long winding trails through the woods from the top of Gore and Pete Gay Mountains, The Village Snow Bowl, or Carl Schaefer's Ski Land.

People who skied for more than one day stayed in the Inn at North Creek, The Whoopie House, or rented a room in a private home.

Most "Crickers" who had an extra bedroom or two in their home rented rooms to skiers, especially to skiers who came to North Creek on overnight snow trains from New York City. Mrs. Nan Perreau was one of the first.

The North Creek News-Enterprise ran a story on March 30, 1989, entitled, "North Creek in the Thirties" in which the writer described Mrs. Perreau going to the train station to meet Lois Perret of Schenectady whom she had never met and who was to be a boarder for ten days. The following account of that visit was written by Mrs. Lois Perret Schaefer:

"As the second weekend rolled around, my friends from Schenectady began to gather about to ski with me in the Ski Bowl as well as thru the fields, and woods, and down the Pete Gay trail off Gore. Since Ken Bennett and his trail crew and Vince Schaefer had cleared this trail we knew it well. It was a fitting climax to the beautiful ten days I had."

Mrs. Perreau became well known for warm hospitality, comfortable beds, and good food. Many guests returned year after year. 

Members of the Schenectady Wintersports Club all knew each other and were a gregarious group. As the ski train returned to Schenectady, hip flasks materialized out of rucksacks and the din in the train became louder and louder. Coaches of high school ski teams critiqued their racers in excited animation. Bud Hunt described his struggle to keep his skis together during a race as he stayed in a crouch careening around the most dangerous turns of the Garnet Trail between Gore Mountain and Pete Gay Mountain. He barely missed trees on the side of the narrow trail and won the race.

Slipping a harmonica out of a shirt pocket, a skier started to play old favorite campfire songs: "There's a Long Long Trail a Winding," "On Top of Old Smoky," "The Red River Valley," and many others. Before long, a group gathered around the harmonica player and sang. Stephen Foster's "Jeanie With the Light Brown Hair," was always requested. Its melody lingered long after singing was over.

Bud Hunt's older brother Lee walked the full length of the train announcing that there would be square dancing in the baggage car. The railroad always put a baggage car on the train but skiers preferred to keep their equipment by their seats and the baggage car was usually empty. Someone had an accordion and stood against the center of one side of the car.

Lee stood in the middle.

"SQUARE YOUR SETS!" he shouted as the music started.

"All jump up and never come down, Swing your partner round and round

....." 

The train lurched sideways. Dancers shrieked as they were flung toward one wall. 

"Just like skiing," a dancer shouted as he fell to the floor.

Everybody doubled over with laughter.

 "Snow is softer than this floor," he said. The accordion player's fingers slid off the keys and he lost his rhythm. Lee Hunt staggered backward.

"Square your sets," he shouted. He was laughing so hard he could hardly get the words out.

They started the dance over. "Room for one more square," he announced when the first dance was finished Another few squares squeezed into the already crowded baggage car. Noise and heat increased as even more people swarmed in. After a while it became too crowded to dance.

The accordion player switched from playing square dance music to old favorite songs. Irish songs like "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" and college songs like "The Whiffenpoof Song" were always among requests. Everyone knew the words to the choruses but only a few knew all the verses. Hip flasks were passed from one to another between each song.

Even people who didn't like whisky raised the flask to their lips for a sip.

Only people standing near the door heard the conductor announce: "Schenectady in twenty minutes." One last request floated through the crowd. "Quiet everybody," the accordionist insisted. The car became hushed.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should old acquaintance be forgot, And days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne; We'll take a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne."

The crowd slowly filed out of the baggage car and back to their seats while the train pulled into the station.

Skiers stepped off the train one by one and departed into the night.

The trains run no more. Union Station has been torn down. North Creek's long ski trails are overgrown with trees and bushes. The songs have faded into the past, but the glow of memories remains.