The topographical model was made of plaster of Paris, and it took several workers six weeks to finish. The finished article was praised and admired by everyone who saw it, and it alone made believers of even the most ardent naysayers.
It was near to Easter that Alex decided to go to Europe and appeal directly to some of the member countries. Every member country of the IOC had one vote and the majority of votes would determine who would be awarded the Games. While in Europe, Alex realized how stiff the competition would be. Garmisch and St. Moritz were world-renowned ski areas, but it seemed from everybody that Alex came in contact with that Innsbruck was the overwhelming favorite. Unlike the other two, Innsbruck and Austria had never hosted the Games and everyone was sure their turn had come.
On a visit to St Moritz, Alex ran into George Weller. Weller had been a well-known war correspondent and Pulitzer Prize winner in 1943. He was the first American reporter to visit Nagasaki a month after the city was leveled by the second atom bomb in August 1945. Now, ten years later, George Weller was the Paris bureau chief for the Chicago Daily News.
Weller and Cushing met in the bar of their St. Moritz hotel. They had both been at Harvard, but Weller was Cushing’s senior by four years. They exchanged niceties and stories of Harvard. In their conversation, it came to light that Alex was headed up to Garmisch and, by coincidence so was Weller. Alex offered George a ride in his car, and the two enjoyed each other’s company. On the drive up, Alex told Weller of his mission to drum up support for his Olympic bid. In Garmisch, the two Harvard men went their separate ways. After Garmisch, Alex drove down to Innsbruck and on to Cortina. Cortina d’Ampezzo, Italy, had been awarded the Winter Games of 1956, and it was natural that Alex should check in to see how Cortina was fairing with their preparations. While in Cortina, Alex ran into George Weller a second time. In fact, they were again staying at the same hotel.
George Weller joined Alex for breakfast and asked how his quest was going.
“Well, it’s been a bit of a mixed bag. Everyone is very agreeable, but no real commitments as yet. I am going to see the Cortina delegation today. Everyone seems certain Innsbruck will be awarded the Games. I don’t think they are taking me too seriously! I have agreed to leave the French to my native Frenchman Marrilac.”
“Marrilac? Jo Marrilac of the French Resistance?” asked Weller.
“Yes, he is my ski school instructor!”
“Your ski school instructor at Squaw is Jo Marrilac? At Squaw Valley. In California?” There was a tone of disbelief in Weller’s voice.
Alex laughed. “Yes, and he is convinced Squaw would make a great Olympic venue!”
“Well, why isn’t he here with you now? How can you leave such ace in the hole, in the hole?”
“Well, it’s our last big ski weekend of the season. I cannot spare him now. But I’ll have Jo come with me to Paris in June.”
“Alex, take my advice: get Marrilac out here as soon as you can. Some of the Europeans are still a little stuffy, and Marrilac will give the whole bid a respectability we couldn’t hope to match.”
“We couldn’t match? What do you mean ‘we’?”
Weller smiled. “Look, Alex, you can’t possibly be taken seriously as a one-man show. Do you mind if I come with you today? There may be at least a story in this, and maybe I could be of some assistance as well.”
Alex’s face broke into a big smile. “I would be honored to have your company!”
Alex felt the Italians were much more receptive than either the Swiss and Germans had been. After Italy, Alex went home to America, via London. In London, Alex looked up some acquaintances of his friend Marshall Hazeltine. The question the Brits most wanted to know was whether Ike was fully behind the Squaw bid. Alex enthusiastically said yes, but the truth was, besides signing an appropriation bill for some federal financing, Alex did not know the president’s personal feelings. Alex left London knowing the Brits would back any bid supported by Eisenhower. Back in the States, Hazeltine reassured Alex that the president and the country were totally committed to the bid. It was now time to persuade the world, particularly those outside Europe.
With the help of Marrilac and Hazeltine, an in-depth argument for Squaw was written in English, Spanish, and French. It was further agreed that Alex would return to Europe with Marrilac, Hazeltine, and Weller, well before the IOC meeting in June. IOC members were contacted outside Europe and offers made to pay for members to fly to Paris in time for the vote. A large proportion of the Latin America countries declared their support for Squaw Valley. With the Brits seemingly on board, it was possible that Australia and New Zealand would follow suit. Certainly, the Canadians were favorable. Still, Squaw would need support from enough European countries to win the bid. Marrilac’s appearance would be crucial. The French would be persuaded by him, and maybe some of the Scandinavian countries might be won over, too.
Cushing’s tack to declare that the Olympics belong to the world and not just Europe certainly struck a chord with those outside Europe. However, there was a lot of empathy inside Europe for the Austrians. Austrian skiers were always among the best in the world, and there was a determined feeling that the Austrians were overdue to host the Games. In Europe, it was inconceivable that Innsbruck would lose to the likes of Squaw Valley. Even the British felt their support of Squaw Valley was a token of their friendship for America; they really did not see Innsbruck losing the bid.
It was too finely balanced. Alex was already banking on Marrilac persuading the French and hoping that the Belgians or the Dutch might support the American cause following the liberation of Europe ten years earlier. Alex needed every advantage to squeeze the three or four votes that were unaccounted for. It was decided that Weller would go to South Africa before Europe.
Alex and Marrilac went back to Europe in late May. Marrilac was, as expected, greeted as a hero by the French, and his affirmation that Squaw was indeed capable of hosting the games was enough to win the support of the Federation of International Skiing.
The Germans were less enthusiastic and they asked Marrilac to compare Squaw Valley to any European ski resort. To their amazement, and ironically, he compared Squaw favorably to Austria’s best loved-ski area Kitzbuhel. The Germans eyed Marrilac suspiciously, but the Frenchman again showed his determined resistance and assured everyone within hearing that he spoke the truth. Still, Cushing felt his photographs of Theurkauf’s model did not do enough to show the whole hill and the facilities in relation to each other. Frustratingly, the photographs still needed explanation, and Alex rued not having the model so the IOC could see it personally.
Marshall Hazeltine joined Cushing and Marrilac in Paris in early June. Although there had been progress, it was certain that a better impression had to be made.
Alex turned to his friends and said, “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, we will bring the mountain to Mohammed. We have to have the model here in Paris for all delegates to see before the vote.”
“How is that possible? It must weigh a ton!” Marshall Hazeltine, looked at his friend Alex quizzically.
“Closer to one and a half tons. Sheer lunacy, I know. But we need every advantage, and I think it will improve our chances immeasurably.”
A cargo plane was hurriedly chartered to fly from Reno to Paris, and on board was the three-thousand-pound model. A delighted Alex met the plane at Le Bourget airport, with a rented truck to take the model to the Sorbonne University, where the IOC was due to meet. Sadly, despite several attempts, it was impossible to get the model inside the building. George Weller, who had come back to Paris to help in the final stretch, was able to persuade the American Ambassador to come to the rescue. The model was taken to the American Embassy and put on display inside the embassy entry hall. Fortunately, it was only a short walk to the American Embassy from the Sorbonne.
On the afternoon of June 15, 1955, the IOC awarded the 1960 Summer Games to Rome, beating out Detroit, Mexico City and Tokyo in the process. The choice of Rome, ju
st might have been a game changer, it probably won a few uncommitted votes over to the Squaw Valley, because Squaw was the only non-European bid for the Winter Games.
On the morning of June 17, Alex went for an early morning walk along the river Seine. It was a glorious sunny morning. On his way back to the hotel, he stopped at a typical Parisian café for coffee and freshly baked croissants. He sat at one of the tables outside on the sidewalk. The café was on a densely tree-lined boulevard with a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. After his coffee, he lazily walked back to the hotel. He wanted to experience the joy of this beautiful morning feeling a little longer, before he rolled up his sleeves for the final battle. Paris in all its glory made him feel good. All his lieutenants would be there with him, and the model was ready for viewing at the embassy. What had started as a flight of fantasy, for some extra publicity, had grown to within a hairbreadth of reality.
“It’s going to be Innsbruck!” They were the first words that greeted the three Americans and one Frenchman, as they walked into one of the many buildings of Paris’s best known and oldest university. It was the voice of German pessimism that Alex had heard for months now. “How can it not be Innsbruck?” the voice questioned.
Alex made a bee line for Avery Brundage and asked the IOC president if he might be permitted to take the voting delegates over to the American Embassy to view the model of Squaw Valley.
“Well, I guess I would not be welcomed back home if I ruled against it. Only the French delegates are not here yet, but I understand Mister Marrilac has already convinced them to support you. So I guess now would be as good a time as any!”
Everyone, including the IOC president followed Alex and his three partners, over to the embassy. Alex used the fifteen-minute walk to introduce himself to some of the delegates that he had yet to meet and to give a little boost to his presentation. At the embassy, the delegates encouragingly lingered over the model for longer than expected. Alex assured the members of the IOC that the model was an exact replica of the valley. The Squaw Valley quartet smiled at each other as murmurs of approval were audible from many of the delegates. Their concentration was interrupted by a sudden commotion at the door. It was the excited French delegates bursting into the embassy. Looking at the model, the Frenchmen went up to Marrilac and started planting congratulatory slaps on the back of their beloved compatriot. “Mon Dieu!” “C’est Manifique!” Their late arrival could not have been better had it been planned.
Not long after all the delegates had returned to the Sorbonne, and the first round of voting took place. There was no clear winner, so it was decided that the third and fourth place names - Garmisch and St. Moritz would be withdrawn and all delegates would choose between either, Innsbruck or Squaw Valley. It was an agonizing wait for everyone concerned. Alex looked at Hazeltine, Weller, and Marillac. He knew he had left nothing to chance and there was nothing left to do. Graciously, he walked over to the Innsbruck delegation and offered his hand and good wishes. Marrilac watched Alex shake hands with the Austrians, and he walked over and shook their hands, too!
Inside the IOC meeting room, the votes were being counted and Avery Brundage was getting really nervous. It looked like it might be a 31-31 tie and he would have to cast the deciding vote. It was the worst scenario he could possibly imagine. If he voted for Squaw he would be accused of favoritism. If he voted for Innsbruck he would be accused of betrayal. This was the worst moment of his presidency and for once he did not know what he would do. There was a recount, and after confirmation it was evident that Brundage’s deciding vote would not be necessary. The final vote was thirty votes for Innsbruck and thirty-two for Squaw! In less than six months, a casual whim by an individual had produced an extraordinary result for the ski business of Tahoe.
Alex made a trans-Atlantic phone call via the international operator…, after a few rings a voice came on the line.
“Hello.”
“Who’s that?” Alex asked
“It’s Chad,” the voice innocently declared.
“Is this the Squaw Valley Lodge?
“Yes, it is, but I don’t work here. I am just minding the desk while Rachel’s gone to collect the mail.”
“Chad, this is Alex Cushing from Paris, tell Rachel, to tell everyone our bid for the Olympics has been approved by the IOC.”
“Oh, is that good? Sorry, what is your name again?”
“It’s Alex Cushing, Rachel’s boss, from Paris. We have just been awarded the Olympic Games in 1960.”
“Well, that must be good,” Chad continued.
“Yes, it is. Chad, tell Rachel I’ll call her later.”
On a snowy winter’s night in 2006, the traffic was backed up on Highway 50 at a Caltrans chain control near the small community of Strawberry. Caltrans were checking vehicles to make sure that all non-four-wheel-drive cars had their chains fitted.
The traffic was backed up for nearly a mile as each car was individually inspected. It was, and still is, a common occurrence on the roads leading up to Lake Tahoe in the winter time. On this one occasion, however, many drivers waiting in the long line of vehicles were amused to see three young men dressed as pioneers slide on past them on longboards with long poles. Many car occupants honked their horns, and the three friends cheerfully waved back to the people as they slid on by. They were going to longboard across the Sierras as a 150th anniversary tribute to Snowshoe Thompson’s epic travails across the Sierra Nevada of the mid 1800s.
Unlike their hero, however, the three had no mail to carry, and each had packed a sub-zero thermal insulated sleeping bag. They also had the benefit of Highway 50, which they intended to use for the journey up to Sierra Ski Ranch before heading off into the wilderness. They expected to travel all night and camp after the sun had risen. They had flashlights, another thing their hero would have been without. There were no grizzlies or wolves as in Thompson’s day, but they felt it wise to be safe. Very few of the dangers that faced Thompson still existed. But still this was an unknown adventure, and the young men felt inspired to take on the all that nature might throw at them. As they pushed on up Highway 50, the snow fell at a steady rate as a fairly moderate storm closed in.
John A.Thompson was born in Tinn, in the Telemark region of Norway, on April 30, 1827. As a young boy he learned how to get around on the snow and ice by tying flat boards to his feet. Norwegians could skate, and schuss great distances on these flat boards. The boards were shaped from straight grained-wood, and how long they were depended on how tall the boy or man. The length was determined by how high you could reach above your head: for a four-foot boy, they might be six feet long; for a six-foot man they might be nine feet long. A pole became an essential part of the equipment for a long-boarder. It was used for balance, it was used to change direction, it was used to reduce speed, and it was used as a brake. The pole was held horizontally for balance, trailed to either side to change direction, and held in between the legs to slow or to stop.
Thompson’s father died when he was just two years old. When he was ten years old, he came to America with his mother and older brother. Originally, the family settled in the Mid-west, but two years after the Gold Rush in 1849, the young Norwegian came out to California. He was six feet tall, blond haired, with stunning blue eyes, and every inch an athlete. Added to his physique was a genuine caring nature for his fellow man. After trying his hand at gold panning, Thompson chose to become a rancher and settle near Markleeville, about thirty miles south of Lake Tahoe.
While living on his new ranch, the young Norwegian answered a call from the United States Postal Service. The US Mail needed help to deliver the mail over the Sierra Nevada Mountains during the winter months. The mail would arrive by ship in San Francisco and would make its way to Sacramento, but when the heavy snows came, the mail could not be delivered to those living beyond the foothills. Before the telegraph and the Transcontinental Railroad, communities on the eastern side of the Sierras, were cut off from the rest of civilization, until the snows melted. A
winter mail delivery was needed over the mountains from Hangtown (Placerville) to Mormon Station (Genoa) in the Carson Valley, a distance of ninety miles. When Thompson offered his services, and explained he intended to use wooden boards tied to his feet by leather straps, some people laughed, others were incredulous, but no one thought the Norwegian sane. When they told Thompson that some of his predecessors had never been seen again, he asserted he would be fine. Buoyed by his confidence, the US Postal Service decided to take a chance on the crazy Viking.
In was the winter of 1856 that Thompson first set off. Many of the townsfolk were there to see him go. The mail pack he was carrying weighed more than seventy-five pounds. Since the snow line was a few hundred feet above Placerville, Thompson’s long-boards were strapped to his back as he hiked out of town. The oak long-boards themselves weighed another twenty-five pounds, so the bemused townspeople watched Thompson disappear, carrying more than a hundred pounds on his back. For provisions he packed dried beef jerky, home-made biscuits, coffee, a small pot for melting snow, a small axe, matches, and his Bible. He took no gun and no blankets and as he hiked alongside the American River on his way east, many locals doubted they would see this brave young blond-haired man again.
Thompson hiked maybe eight miles before he saw enough snow to strap on his long-boards. He followed the river up until the first waterfall. He needed to travel north-eastward, so he kept the sun at his back as best as he could. In the sunshine, the snow cloyed to his boards. The snow hardened as the sun fell behind the mountains which made the going easier.
The Ghosts of Lake Tahoe Page 12