Daughter Helen reflects on skiing with the family and using the family cabin long after it had been abandoned.
“I wasn’t fond of skiing as a youngster as I didn’t like getting cold. However, I can remember when I was about five we would go skiing every weekend usually to Mount Seymour or Mount Baker as they were both accessible by car whereas Grouse Mountain was not. I can remember jumping on the backs of my Dad’s skis and skiing down where we had lunch on the tailgate of our Ford station wagon, complete with hot chocolate.
In the early 70s, when I was about 18, I had a pass up Grouse Mountain. A girlfriend and I would go up and stay at the family cabin and ski. The roof had caved in on the 2nd floor so we slept by the stove on the main floor. One night, something jumped on my sleeping bag. Thinking it was a pack rat, I kicked it off. We soon found out it was a skunk— it let us know it! We carried big packs so we had to take the T-bar up the cut and then go down the tram. The smell was emanating from our bodies and packs and people were pointing at us. We were mortified! My brother had to come and pick us up and he was none too pleased with the smell. After my Dad passed in away in 1975 my two brothers and stepmother hiked to the cabin one summer night to scatter his ashes.”