Fifty years. Fifty times around the sun. For 50 consecutive years the most devoted, enlightened, fun-loving skiers in the history of the sport have come out of the woodwork to gather at film tour events for the ritual greeting of a new ski season. Any 50th anniversary is an immense statement that encourages grand speeches, amazing perspective and profound appreciation.

Choosing to avoid the speech, I'll proceed directly to perspective and appreciation via a story Warren Miller told me recently.

We were talking about the piece he was writing for this 50th anniversary issue of SNOWORLD and I was groveling to persuade him to unveil his feelings. I proposed that the past 50 years were an exquisite sonnet rather than an almanac of events.

His response: "Well, someone recently told me that his father hates me."

My response: "Tell me more."

Warren continued: "I was out skiing and someone stopped just below me and said, 'You're Warren Miller aren't you?' "Yes." 'I just had to tell you that my father hates you.' "This seemed to be a rather unusual way to start a conversation with a stranger, so I asked why."

'Let me ride on the lift with you and I'll tell you the whole story.'

"On the lift, this is what he revealed."

'My dad used to take me to your film in the Ford Auditorium in Detroit. You always showed up with the film the night before Thanksgiving and the first two or three times I went, I'd sit in my dad's lap and scream and shout like everyone else. I remember when you showed Vail on the screen the first year it was open and you advised getting out to discover it before everyone else did.

'Dad made Christmas reservations for us the next day and dragged the entire family to Vail. My brothers, my mom and I complained all the way from Detroit to Colorado while Dad drove nonstop in our station wagon.

'We discovered everything you said about it was true. The first time Dad skied down to MidVail, he had me between his legs. From then on, it was an annual family trip for the Christmas holidays and, after about three years, we added Easter week.

'It was tough on the family budget. We couldn't afford to fly because Dad was putting all the profits back into the big factory he owned that made automobile radiators back in Detroit.

'One Easter I got to be pals with the ski patrol and, when we got home, I got my first aid certificate. The next year, I started working part-time as a ski patrolman during Christmas and Easter week. By this time, I was in college.

'I got my degree and finally settled down and started to work full-time for my dad. He would constantly tell me how he could hardly wait to retire and turn the whole business over to me.

'Then it happened.

'I came back into the plant after a Christmas holiday of powder skiing, of full-moon nights with ten zillion stars shining, of skiing with fun people and enjoying great parties. Wandering around the factory, I thought, "Is this where I want to spend the rest of my life?"

'That day, I took my dad to lunch and said, "Pop, I just can't do it. Jane and I are going out to Colorado and I'll be a ski patrolman for a year or two and work construction during the summer while I look around for some business to get into. I'm sorry."

'He knew arguing was useless and with a tear in his eye he said, "If only I hadn't taken you to so many Warren Miller films. I really hate that Warren Miller! I wonder how many other people's lives he has messed up with those ski movies of his"?'

As Miller recalled it, that's when the lift ride ended. As the fellow walked away, he called out, "Warren, thanks for messing up my life."

Add my name to the list.

Steve Marcus,
Editor-In-Chief and Publisher