Chalmer Sinkey of Fox Movietone wrote about covering a alpine ski race on Oregon’s Mt. Hood in 1940 and the troubles he and his fellow photogs encountered, including being ditched by the ski patrol right after the race was over.

Greetings from the Pacific Northwest! Well, it’s two days before the New Year as this is being written and three of the Pacific Northwest newsreel boys are packing their luggage for an invasion of Timberline Lodge, at Mt. Hood. Oregon. Since before Thanksgiving (Roosevelt’s version) the boys have been making X’s on their calendar for the first official skiing event of the season-the Arnold Lund trophy race!

This was due to come off in November, but after all, even crack skiers cannot plummet down rock-strewn lava slopes from the 7,000 foot elevation on Mt. Hood, without a little snow to cover the lava.

The date of the Arnold Lund trophy race has been bounced on and off like a ping-pong ball in the game-room of a big family, but at last we have two feet of snow at Timberline, and nothing should stop us this time.

The camera boys arrive at the Lodge in various states of Christmas aftermath. Parris Emery, of Universal, has lifted himself from a sick bed (ol’ debbil flu); Charles Perryman, News of the Day, burdened down by his eighteen new ties; and Movietone’s man just getting nicely over too many-ah-turkey dinners. All of which gives you the general idea that the brigade isn’t in the best of mountaineering form.

In fact, even the mountain is in poor form when we arrive. The narrow road, winding up to Timberline, is sloshy with spattering mud. Squirrels and grouse run across the highway, as though they think it is still July. When we approach the Lodge itself, we see a soiled covering of snow, some two feet deep, well punctuated by shrubs, trees, rocks and other obstacles. This covering should, by all that’s right and holy, be at least ten feet deep, come January 1st, but some prank of nature has ordained that winter shall not come to the Cascade mountains until it gets good and ready.

However, after no snow at all, two feet of covering is welcomed by the masses on hickory blades. The race course is set for the Lund event, flags marking the tortured wave among barren ridges, slushy schusses, and variously-sized Douglas firs. Timberline Lodge is filled to the scuppers and the sociable host, Arthur Allen, beams with a satisfied air.

Now, there’s two nice things about being at Mt. Hood. One is: Luxurious, thoroughly comfortable accommodations. Probably you know that each guest room at Timberline Lodge cost Uncle Sam approximately $100,000. This includes the hand-made furniture and hand-painted pictures on the wall, not to mention every conceivable device to add to one’s comfort, such as – indirect lighting, concealed radiators, adjustable spray showers, deep hand-hooked rugs, etc., etc. (Are you rushing your reservations!)

The other: a mile-long ski tow that carries you straight up the mountain side, where it deposits you at the 7,000-foot level, gasping at the sheer beauty of the view. This is the longest continuous lift in the world. It comes, all wrapped up and delivered for use, at $100,000. And I might add that it surely is a boon to cameramen, with too much turkey dinner on their consciences.

The principle is simple: you step onto your skis and stand on a certain designated spot. After a minute or so, a well upholstered chair approaches from the rear and hits you gently, just back of your knees. You follow the natural impulse and sit down. Once seated, you notice that there is a heavy wool lap-robe to be placed over the front of you and as you take off you hear the starter yell. “Fasten the safety belt.”

By the time this is done you note that you and your chair have gained altitude. In fact, with the minimum of snow this season, you find about fifty feet of space beneath you and the ground as you cross certain deep gullies. You check the safety belt, to be sure that it is fastened, and take a good hold of the narrow steel bar that holds your chair to the conveyor cable, fifteen or twenty feet above your head. Your skis find themselves an updraft of air, and ride along beneath you with no particular trouble.

After fifteen or twenty minutes, you approach the top of the lift. Glaring signs read: “Prepare to land” – “Unfasten safely belts” – “Dismount here.”

By the time you reach “here” you have done all of the instructed items and tensed your body for the leap. The chair suddenly travels downward to a level spot, an assistant grabs the back, and the slight jolt deposits you on the snow. You hustle out of the way. as the next chair is coming right along.

Taking your bearings, you see the Lodge far below, and. in every direction, lesser or greater peaks. covered with clouds. Today we are above most of the clouds and the summit of Mt. Hood looks close enough to touch (optical illusion). The Arnold Lund Race is due to start four hundred feet higher than the top of the lift.

As the starting time draws near, things look forbidding. We are above a boiling inferno of grey clouds that open at times, revealing spectacular views below, then close again, wrapping us in dense mist. The course is marked by flags, placed close enough to keep the contestants from being lost in the fog.

But how would you like to be facing a two-mile descent, against time, with poor snow, countless dangerous obstacles, and intermittent visibility. And no chance to fly by instruments, either. Such was the Arnold Lund race.

The boys were nothing short of heroic. All in all, there were 160 contestants in the combined events. The radio failed to work, between start and finish line, and with necessary delays it took about four hours to complete the affair.

After getting views of the start, we took our cameras down to the finish line. From the bottom of the lift they had a huge toboggan ready and a ski patrol rushed equipment to the desired locations.

Down below the clouds, the weather had taken a turn for the worse (I mean worst). The fog had turned to rain-not just ordinary driving mountain rain, but the wettest, peltingest rain that I ever saw. It came from all directions at once, and spattered lenses. It blinded us just at the moments when we wanted to see.

But the Arnold Lund race, postponed from week to week, was run. The boys came down through the trees. Sopped to their skins, knees shaking from the strain, many of them fell on the last schuss approaching the finish line-fell, and staggered up to pole their way across the line. Practically every racer took a few falls and several skis were splintered, but miraculously no serious injuries stopped the contestants.

In the meantime, Emery, of Universal, stood by his camera and turned blue with the wet, drizzling cold. He forgot that he should have been in bed, under a doctor’s orders.

The newsreel boys were witnessing one of the most courageous races at which they had ever aimed a lens. With rain soaked clothes that stuck to their bodies and with trickles of icy rain running up their sleeves, the camera brigade was having a good time. Hi. Ho! But when the race was over and a young lad named Gordie Anderson tied up the honors with a time of three minutes and eight seconds for the perilous run, the fun really started for the newsboys.

Gone were the contestants, gone were the ski patrol, gone was everyone, except about four high-minded fellows to volunteered to stay – and there, loaded on the dripping toboggan, were three entire Akeley set-ups, with batteries, extra magazines, tripods and what have you. Between the finish line and the Lodge was about a half mile of UP, with two feet of soupy snow underfoot.

If the camera boys had been cold up to this point, they surely took on bodily warmth in a hurry as they huffed and puffed around this toboggan. But, you know how it is with a cameraman. No matter what the circumstances, he sticks with his equipment.

At the bottom of every gully, we stuck, about ten minutes. Then, chanting the “Volga Boatman,” we heaved over the successive humps. (You can do a lot of heaving with “The Volga Boatman” to spur you on.) All we really lacked was the boat.

A word of advice to all other cameramen: When the snow is wet, take a boat – and a good motor to propel it.