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By William D. Frank

The winter sport of biathlon combines rifle sharpshooting and cross-country skiing. The name itself is a neologism derived from the pentathlon of the ancient Greek Olympics. Although many well-meaning biathlon promoters in the decades following World War II tried to make the sport more palatable by suggesting prehistoric antecedents in hunting or this link to ancient Greece, such impressions are a red herring: throughout the twentieth century and into the twenty-first, the conflation of sport with warfare, especially at the Olympics, has informed the very concept of biathlon and its prior iteration, Military Patrol

Since 1993, the International Biathlon Union (IBU) has administered biathlon competition worldwide in association with sixty-one national federations. Today, biathletes compete in eleven separate events, each with its own rules and regulationsthe Individualthe Short Individualthe Sprintthe Super Sprintthe Pursuitthe Mass Start 30the Mass Start 60the women's 4 x 6km Relay; the men's 4 x 7.5 km Relaythe Mixed Relay; and the Single Mixed Relay. These intriguing competitions—devised for compelling television coverage—have attracted ever-increasing viewership, elevating biathlon into the ranks of the most popular winter spectator sports. 

From its tenuous introduction to the Olympics in 1960 through its current status as one of the world’s premier winter events, the nations of Scandinavia and central Europe have monopolized biathlon, most significantly Norway, Sweden, France, Germany, Finland, and Russia. Why these nations in particular have dominated the sport for over half a century stems from the significance of nationalism, militarism, and winter warfare across the northern reaches of the Eurasian landmass during the late-nineteenth through twentieth centuries. During the Cold War, state-sponsored athletes of the Soviet Union, East Germany, and the eastern-bloc countries used biathlon as an international stage upon which to promote a purported communist superiority to the west. In the twenty-first century, this militarized notion of east-west confrontation still holds sway at biathlon venues: as a result of Russia’s rampant violation of IBUregulations through a decades-long, state-sponsored drug enhancement program and its invasion of Ukraine in 2022, athletes of the Russian Federation and Belarus have been banned from all IBU-sanctioned competitions, including the Olympics. 

Early History

A sixteenth-century engraving showing soldiers armed with bows and arrows skiing on wooden shoes with long pointed toes; three riders mounted on reindeer draw bow and arrow; two riders brandish clubs, one of whom wears a crown representing Tengild, King of Finnmark.An illustration from Olaus Magnus’s 1555 edition of History of the Northern Peoples depicting Saxo Grammaticus’s twelfth-century story about Finns on skis and riding reindeer who attacked forces allied with Denmark in the ninth century. The Italian artist commissioned for this volume, published in Rome, obviously had never seen skis. These fanciful renditions of the ski (resembling a wooden clog with an enormously elongated toe) are visual interpretations of the term “snowshoe” (Schneeschuh in German, or soulier à neige in French), a common descriptor used throughout Europe until the early twentieth century. Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Olaus_Magnus_-_Tengild_and_his_men.jpg

Millennia-old rock carvings of skiers and wooden remnants of skis themselves substantiate prehistoric use of skis along the northern tier of the Eurasian landmass. The indigenous peoples required skis for the basics of life, travel, work, and hunting, because of the region’s harsh winter conditions. As territorial defense grew in importance on either side of the Arctic circle, nations whose climate produced snow during the winter months developed the use of skis for military purposes (Allen, 2007; Frank, 2013; Frank and Allen, 2019). 

The first written reference to combat carried out on skis dates from the twelfth century. In his Gesta DanorumSaxo Grammaticus documents how Finns "gliding on slick logs" attacked Ragnar Lodbrok and the Danes in a region Grammaticus knew as Bjarmia during the ninth century (Figure 1). By the middle of the sixteenth century, the militarization of skiing increased dramatically, due especially to the efforts of Sweden’s King Gustav Vasa. Vasa formed Scandinavia’s first mobile ski units in 1555, boasting in a letter that his troops could travel 185 kilometers in a single day. That year, during the Russo-Swedish War, five hundred Swedish and Finnish ski troops routed a far superior Russian army of five thousand in Finland at Joutselkä.  A decade later, combined Swedish and Finnish skiers invaded the province of Ingria, at the time ruled by the Tsardom of Russia; as the Russians swept back in 1590, six hundred Finnish farmers on skis thwarted a potential invasion in Karelia. By the end of the decade, during Russia’s struggle over dynastic succession from 1598-1613 (the Time of Troubles), Mikhail Skopkin-Shuiskii led five divisions of skiers to Moscow against the cavalry of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth at the siege of Troitse-Sergieva Lavra, one of the watershed events of the Polish-Muscovite War (Frank, 2013). 

During the modern period (circa 1500), rapid improvement of firearms influenced changes in military strategy, which in turn led to incorporating skis for rapid troop movements during winter campaigns among nations occupying the Scandinavian Peninsula and northwestern Russia. By mid-eighteenth century, the Norwegian army had established regular ski detachments: as part of their training, troops began to engage in military ski competitions formulated by Schach Karl Rantzau in 1767 (Holm, 1965). In Russia, Catherine the Great’s commanders deployed ski troops near the Ural mountains during Pugachev's Rebellion. Throughout the Napoleonic Wars, these Russian ski troops served both in Aleksandr Suvarov’s campaign in the Alps and against Sweden’s own ski detachments during the Finnish War at the battles of PuhäjokiRevolax, and Pulkkila (Frank, 2013; Frank and Allen, 2019). Russia’s annexation of the Grand Duchy of Finland during this period had significant impact on the Russian Civil War and the Winter War in the twentieth century.

The 1815 Treaty of Paris ended twelve years of European-wide warfare and, as a result, skiing gradually fell by the wayside in the military. By 1826, ski troops were no longer part of the army in either Sweden and Norway, now conjoined in an uneasy union. Nonetheless, patriotic Norwegians banded together in 1831 to revitalize skiing as a means of national self-defense; in 1861, the foundation of the Trysil Rifle and Ski Club further bolstered the military aspects of the sport by combining it with sharpshooting. (Frank, 2013; Stegan, 2019). These developments led to a revitalization of ski exercises in the Norwegian army, resulting in Oscar Wergeland’s publication of an up-to-date ski drill manual in 1863 and a history of military skiing in 1865; nonetheless, skis were only in common use among Norway’s general public in thinly-populated interior and northern regions outside of major towns. During the period between 1880 and Norwegian independence from Sweden in 1905, skiing revived all across Norway and provided the basis for a national sports identity known as idræt: “striving to perfect the individual soul as well as the body” and “develop the physical and moral strength of nations” (Allen, 1993; Allen, 2007). 

This concept of idræt defined an amalgamation of sport, militarism, and nationalism already on the rise all across the globe by mid-nineteenth century. Most significantly, idræt informed the polar exploration of Fridtjof Nansen: his successful crossing of Greenland on skis in 1888-1889 and attempt to reach the North Pole from 1893 to 1896, propelled skiing into the consciousness of people all around the world. (Allen, 1993; Goksøyr, 2002; Allen, 2007; Frank, 2013).

Cavalry

With saber drawn, a German army officer on skis leads a team of eight ski troopers with rifles ready at the hip out of a forest into a clearing. All members of the platoon wear Prussian-style Pickelhauben rather than appropriate winter headgear. Neither the officer nor troopers have ski poles. Exercises du patin dans l’armée Allemande. Manœuvres d’un peloton du 82e hessois, aux environs de Goslar, dans le Hanovre [Ski exercises in the German army. Platoon maneuvers among the 82nd Hessians in the Goslar region of Hannover].” An imaginative 1892 rendering of German soldiers drilling in ski formations by Louis Bombled for the French magazine L’Illustration. At the time, the Norwegian term “ski” did not exist in French: patin [ice skate] or patin à neige [snow-skate] often served as a descriptor. This image captures the late-nineteenth century notion of a cavalry-style winter attack carried out on skis. Source: E. John B. Allen Collection. L’Illustration No. 2599 (17 Décembre 1892), 509.

Modifications in the tactical use of cavalry during the nineteenth century played a crucial role in the militarization of skiing in the twentieth. With antecedents stretching back to ancient warfare, European armies emphasized the frontal cavalry charge to “shock” and soften enemy positions for a follow-up by infantry. During the American Civil War, the wide-open countryside traversed by both Union and Confederate armies encouraged some cavalry units to morph into mounted infantry with the ability to undertake long-range raids behind enemy linesreconnaissance, and  screening. These lessons were not lost on European military theoreticians in the latter half of the century when the armed forces of most nations transformed cavalry regiments into mobile and stealthy field units. By the time of the Second Boer War, both the Boers and forces of the British Empire used horse-mounted riflemen rather than traditional saber-brandishing cavalry. Still, the romanticized notion of the cavalry charge lingered well into the twentieth century. (Hamilton, 1908; Stuart, 1971; Frank, 2011). 

However, military maneuvers conducted on either side of the equator differed significantly from those carried out at higher latitudes. The disastrous invasion of Russia by Napoleon in 1812 and experiences nearly six decades later during the Franco-Prussian War indicated that in winter, mounted troops and horse-drawn vehicles faced limitations from heavy snowfall and icy roads. Recalling that French dragoons had been unable to pursue ski troops of Prussia’s Swedish ally during the Pomeranian War earlier in the century, some in the European press suggested that the Prussians would have had more success in winter combat against the irregular troops of the French army had they been equipped with skis in northern France. (Frank and Allen, 2019) (Figure 2). By the end of the century, Alpine nations were incorporating skiing and mountaineering into the military (Figure 3). 

Four skiers pose with skis and ice axes on snow beside a steep rock outcrop. The leader, Wilhelm Paulcke, points with his right hand into the distance.

The first ski ascent of a 3,000-meter peak, 5 January 1896: (left to right) Victor de Beauclair, Peter Steinweg, Erwin Bauer, and Wilhelm Paulcke on the Oberalpstock. The following year, de Beauclair and Paulcke with three other companions completed the first ski traverse of the Bernese Oberland, generally acknowledged as the birth of ski mountaineering. A life-long ski enthusiast, Paulcke had an inadvertent yet profound impact on Military Patrol, biathlon, and competitive ski mountaineering, an optional sport at the 2026 Winter Olympics. Paulcke integrated the German Turnen concept of physical fitness as military preparation and team building into the organization of Germany’s first ski unit attached to the Eighth Jäger Battalion in 1898. During World War I, he served with German mountain troops in the Vosges and on the Italian Front as well as teaching skiing to the Ottoman army. During the inter-war years, he helped establish the German, Austrian, and Central European ski clubs while promoting the military value of skiing and mountaineering. Source: Landesarchiv Baden-Württenberg, Generallandesarchiv Karlsruhe, F-S Paulcke Nr. 8085 

Russo-Japanese War

Concurrent with the Boer War in southern Africa, the Boxer Rebellion in northern China—a reaction to European meddling at the height of the age of imperialism—involved multi-national military intervention. Russia’s refusal to remove troops from Manchuria after the rebellion clashed with Japan’s own imperial ambitions in the region. Emboldened by a military alliance with Britain signed in 1902, the Japanese navy attacked and sank Russian battleships at Port Arthur in February 1904. The ensuing Russo-Japanese War proved to be an unmitigated disaster for the Russian Empire (Allen and Frank, 2020) and a game-changing success for Japan (Koda, 2005). Contemporary advancements employed during this war, such as large-caliber artillery, rapid-fire machine guns, railroad transportation, and communication via telephone and telegraph, altered warfare’s organization and tactics, foreshadowing the world-wide hostilities that followed one after another as the century progressed (Salik, 2020). In addition, the Russo-Japanese War was the first intercontinental confrontation to witness combat at high latitudes in the middle of winter which sparked further interest in Military Patrol and biathlon in the twentieth century.

This early twentieth-century clash of empires attracted world-wide attention. Some on-the-ground military observers considered Pavel Mishchenko’s raid behind Japanese lines at Yinkou from January 9-16, 1905 the most significant cavalry operation in the history of modern warfare in Europe, comparable to those undertaken during the American Civil War (German General Staff, 1910). Equally important were the severe winter conditions endured by both sides during the battle of Sandepu (or Heikoutai), January 25-29, 1905. Temperatures during the day peaked at -12 °C and at night dropped to -28 °C. Although there was only a thin layer of snow at the beginning of the battle, a blizzard on January 26-27 impeded a 25-kilometer night-march of the Japanese Fifth Division. Similar conditions hampered the winter-hardy Third Siberia Corps prior to the battle of Mukden at the end of February. All of these details were duly noted by international observers (Vaissiere, 1910Gripenberg, 1910von Tettau, 1911avon Tettau, 1911bGerman General Staff, 1913Committee of Imperial Defense, 1920). Contemporary publications and photographic evidence from Russia indicate that okhotniki had skis on the ground there (Figure 4). Medics of the imperial army employed skis to transport the wounded across the snow and ice, a popular subject for illustrations in the European press during the war (Komets, 1904; Meshetich, 1906). On the other hand, these same Russian skiers became the object of ridicule for artists in Japan (Allen and Frank, 2020).

Conclusions drawn by the Russian General Staff in the war’s aftermath changed the imperial army’s perception of military tactics prior to World War I and led to major reform. Turn-of-the-century advances in the technology of ammunition and firearms made frontal attacks more lethal. This put a premium on an aggressive offense: seizing the initiative while both sides were still maneuvering into battle positions while engaging in flanking operationsrear attacks, and envelopment to displace the enemy from potential defensive deployments. In addition, carrying out a war far from major supply centers and in the harsh climate of the Russian Far East meant that geography, weather, and lines of communication would all factor into a successful campaign; and that training for combat in winter conditions would be an essential component of military preparation (Martynov, 1906; Menning, 1992; Frank and Allen, 2019). Although these notions played only a minor role in World War I they were crucial in the Russian Civil War, the Winter War, and the Soviet Union’s counteroffensive to Germany’s Operation Barbarossa during World War II (Frank, 2013).

Okhotniki

A soldier of the Russian Imperial Army with rifle and attached bayonet slung across his back skis downhill in greatcoat and papakha hat.

An okhotnik of the Russian Imperial Army circa 1891. From Vladimir N. Danilov and V. Polzikov, Uchebnik dlia soldata-okhotnika [Handbook for the Soldier-Okhotnik] (1896). Source: Courtesy New York Public Library

As the Norwegian revival of skiing spread across Europe’s northern tier in the late-nineteenth century, the Russian imperial army began to incorporate skiing into the training of troops posted to regions inKarelia, especially among soldiers from the Grand Duchy of Finlandwho filled the ranks of the Finnish Rifle Battalion (Frank, 2013; Frank and Allen, 2019). For service among all brigades comprising the Russian imperial army, the General Command established okhotnich'i komandy (hunter-scout teams) in 1886. Originally designated as only four men per group, by the time of the Russo-Japanese War these elite teams could consist of up to a dozen or more specially-trained okhotniki or “hunter-scouts” for each infantry and cavalry regiment. They were tasked with independent assignments that required resourcefulness and courage operating unsupported by the main army along enemy flanks and rear. These individuals were trained in reconnaissance, surveillance, communications, skiing, riding (both horse and bicycle), swimming, rapid multi-day travel, foraging and hunting, and all manner of specialized military skills (Figure 4) (Danilov and Polzikov, 1896; Meshetich, 1906). Despite the widely-despised Russification program imposed on Finland by Nicholas II and the dissolution of the Finnish Rifle Battalion in 1901, many Finns, already experts in a hunter-scout lifestyle including cross-country travel by foot, horse, or ski, volunteered to become okhotniki at the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War (although several hundreds of ex-pat Finns living in the United States intended to join Japan in their war effort). Okhotniki served throughout the conflict in all aspects of scouting and skirmishing; they also undertook clandestine raids and sabotage targeting railroad lines, bridges, and other structures, prompting Japanese searchlight teams to operate nearly every night from defensive positions to thwart them. After the Battle of Mukden, during which intense Japanese artillery barrages increased the distance between battlelines, the Russian imperial army blended the okhotnich’i komandy reconnaissance model with cavalry to form 100-horse konno-okhotnich’i komandy attached to each infantry regiment for long-range scouting (Taburin, 1904Talin, 1904; Girs, 1906; Meshetich, 1906; Toepfer, 1910Committee of Imperial Defense, 1912Sytin, 1913Sytin, 1914). Although the introduction of horse-mounted hunter-scouts came too late to help defeat Japan, the concept proved beneficial for the Bolsheviks during the Russian Civil War.

Eleven okhotniki pose in formation standing on skis, poles in hand, with rifles slung over their backs; the team commander, sword sheathed at his side, stands on skis a step forward, poles in hand, with a dog facing him.Title page of A. Meshetich, Polnoe Rukovodstvo dlia okhotnich’ikh komand [Complete Handbook for Hunter-Scout Teams](1906). The double placement of an image of skiers on both the title page and cover of this handbook, published immediately after the end of the Russo-Japanese War, indicates the importance of skiing for okhotniki training: it is the only photograph included among sixty-five hand-drawn or linotype illustrations, maps, charts, and tables in the 104-page booklet. Source: University of Calgary Archives and Special Collections, Calgary, Alberta, CAN

The okhotniki provided a template six years after the end of the Russo-Japanese War for ski units that could operate in place of cavalry in winter, a notion proposed by Finland’s Carl Bror Emil Aejmelaeus-Ãimä (Figure 7) in a ski treatise written for the Russian imperial army. He details essential techniques of skiing along with a few lessons learned from okhotniki experiences in the Russo-Japanese War. As a warning to the Russian General Staff, Aejmelaeus-Äimä bemoans the loss of the Finnish Rifle Battalion and catalogues the growth of ski training in the military forces of Sweden, Norway, the Austro-Hungarian and British Empires, France, Switzerland, Spain, Italy, Japan, and Germany just three years prior to the outbreak of World War I. Okhotniki-style sabotage forays carried out behind enemy lines also foreshadowed similar actions by Russian partisan ski brigades during Operation Barbarossa and World War II (Frank, 2013; Frank and Allen, 2019).

Nationalism and Sport

During the long nineteenth century (1789-1914), the rise of nationalism permeated nearly every aspect of politics, economics, and society with profound influence on sports. Beginning in mid-1800s, world fairs and international exhibitions occasionally included sideshows featuring the breaking of records for national prestige and athletic championships. Based on these examples, Pierre de Coubertin in 1894 proposed the modern Olympic Games as a venue for promoting internationalism through national rivalry. Early on, this idealistic notion mutated into the usurpation of the Games for political and ideological ends as nations vied with one another to showcase their strength and vitality: the armed forces in turn promoted fitness among youth in order to establish a basis for military readiness. Prior to World War I, Sweden and Germany began to invest government funds to enhance athletic performance: other nations soon followed suit. By the early decades of the twentieth century, Olympic events were already morphing into a metaphor for war. (Krüger, 1995; Rider and Llewellyn, 2015). 

De Coubertin modeled his Olympic vision on the ancient Olympics but with many updated events, one in particular of his own devising: modern pentathlon. Introduced in 1912 at the Stockholm Games as a contemporary version of the ancient pentathlon, this contest epitomized a turn-of-the-century conflation of nationalism, militarism, and sport. De Coubertin intended that the five events—fencing, swimming, pistol shooting, equestrian steeplechase, and cross-country run—would showcase the pre-World War I skillset necessary for a cavalry officer caught behind enemy lines: as such, military personnel dominated the sport in its early years. Military observers bestowed tremendous prestige on the modern pentathlon medalists even as results from all Olympic events were parsed carefully by military staffs from around the world. (Frank, 2013; Frank and Allen, 2019). 

A decade prior to de Coubertin’s foundation of the International Olympic Committee (IOC) in 1894, the Norwegian Association for Promotion of Ski Sports had sponsored local and national ski competitions, culminating in their flagship event held in the neighborhoods of Norway’s capital, Kristiania. In 1891, organizers moved the ski events to Holmenkollen in the hills outside Kristiania. This transfer coincided with the rise of skiing’s popularity resulting from worldwide infatuation with the polar exploration of Fridtjof Nansen. Soon, non-Norwegian competitors were allowed entry and, by the turn of the century, the Holmenkollen Ski Festival had become the most important ski event in Europe, attracting huge international crowds. In 1901, Sweden organized the Nordiska Spelen to counterbalance the Norwegian Holmenkollen Festival as a celebration of all winter sports. These events were soon dubbed “Olympic” and were, in fact, the precursor to the first Winter Olympics held in Chamonix in 1924. Just as de Coubertin’s Olympics embraced the militarized modern pentathlon, so did Nordiska Spelen include a special team event, the Military Patrol race, a combination of rifle shooting and cross-country skiing. (Jönnson, 2001; Allen, 2007; Terret, 2011; Frank, 2013; Frank, 2017).

Polar Exploration

Two figures on skis with two poles of unequal length (the longer one fitted with a small ice axe head) pull a fully-loaded supply sled across the snow; following behind are four similarly-equipped skiers pulling sleds.“We trudged along for weeks over an endless flat snowy desert.” Fridtjof Nansen’s ski traverse of Greenland in 1888-1889 propelled skiing into a world-wide phenomenon. An Andreas Bloch illustration from Nansen’s book Paa Ski over Grønland published in 1890. Source: https://no.wikisource.org/w/index.php?curid=61807

Polar exploration was another venue that conflated nationalism and sport with militarism during the long nineteenth century. On the world stage, national prestige accrued with the discovery of the last unknown places, infusing points on a map from Congo to the Caucasus with immense geo-political significance. At high latitudes, the turn-of-the-century military utility of skiing factored into the successful attainment of the last frontiers at either end of the earth’s poles (Frank, 2013). Great Britain was preeminent among those nations exploring the polar regions during the nineteenth century. The British Royal Navy took control of the nation’s Arctic and Antarctic exploration resulting in expensive and unwieldy expeditions devoid of cold-weather savvy. Fridtjof Nansen’s ski across Greenland and attempt on the North Pole proved the catalyst for a sea-change in the practice of polar exploration (Figure 5). Nansendemonstrated that a small, nimble group of skiers traveling unencumbered could potentially reach the ultimate polar destinations. His exploits launched world-wide enthusiasm for the sport of skiing into the bargain. Nansen’s compatriot and protégé Roald Amundsen delivered a stunning blow to the British Empire’s national pride when he out-raced Robert Falcon Scott to the South Pole in 1911. Amundsen established unquestionably the utility of the Norwegian method of applying skis and dog-sleds to a quasi-military operation at high latitudes (Allen, 2007; Frank, 2013; Frank and Allen, 2019).

World War I

World War I spanned a confounding four-year period during which warfare’s conventional wisdom based on nineteenth-century practices from the American Civil Warand the Russo-Japanese War collided with the realities of twentieth-century industrial modernization. Improvements in the lethality of machine-guns, long-range artillery, and magazine-fed rifles suggested that infantry on the attack would be vulnerable on the modern battlefield. Nonetheless, tactics at the outbreak of World War I evoked those at Vicksburg and Port Arthur with construction of complex trenchworks; massed artillery barrages preceding attacks on enemy positions; railways providing rapid deployment of troops; and cavalry maneuvering to encircle and pursue. However, as the German advance ground to a halt in the fall of 1914, the Western Front stabilized for the next twenty-seven months into a narrow line of trenches bristling with machine-guns and barbed wire from the North Sea to the Swiss border. There were no flanks around which to send cavalry units and no opportunities for envelopment; for vulnerable cavalrymen, frontal assaults were suicidal. On other fronts, however, the extremes of trench warfare did not apply. In Africa, both sides carried out wide-ranging maneuvers across vast swaths of territory: cavalry played a crucial role in the first Battle of Gaza and the Battle of Aqaba. On the Eastern Frontbattlelines stretched from the Baltic Sea on the north to the Black Sea on the south. The tactical element common to both sectors was the ability of cavalry to outflank and surprise the enemy (Allen, 2007; Frank, 2013).

The Italian Front (or White War) offered a different set of circumstances. Most of the border between Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire straddled high alpine regions demanding an alternative method of warfare altogether. Because of the extraordinary topography, troops assigned to this region had to be well-versed in mountaineering and cold-weather travel and survival. In the pre-war years, alpinists had found skiing a useful skill for negotiating mountainous snow-covered terrain (Figure 3): the erstwhile winter sport thus became required training for specialized troops on either side of the conflict manning the region’s high-altitude peaks and passes. (Wachtler and O'Toole, 2006; Allen, 2007; Frank, 2013; Frank, 2022) (Figure 6).

Three German ski troopers pause on an Alpine overlook. A kneeling figure peers through binoculars as his companions observe.“Schneeshuhläufer-Patrouille [ski patrol],” a painting by Albert Singer featured on this German fund-raising postcard published in Dessau, postmarked 2 December 1916. Source: E. John B. Allen Collection

Russian Civil War

Although it was part of the training for troops on World War I’s Italian Front, skiing only factored marginally into actual warfare in this theater due in large part to the fixed nature of the mountainous battlelines. On the Western Front, German and French ski troops, sharing a fraternal mountaineering bond, faced off on occasion in the Vosges (Allen, 2007). Skiing truly came into play as a dynamic military activity following the expansion of the Eastern Front into post-Revolutionary Russia’s wide-open spaces. 

When the Bolsheviks seized power from tsarist rule in 1917 and disengaged from the war in Europe, they refused to acknowledge any kind of shared, multi-party socialist government. The outcome was a contentious, three-year-long Civil War, most notably against the White Army. Running concurrently, a civil war in Finland and privately-organized raids (Heimosodat) into Russian Kareliacomplicated winter warfare and year-round politics along the Russian-Finnish border from 1918 to 1922. During this time, the Bolsheviks struggled to consolidate national control and establish a functioning government; one early success, however, was Leon Trotsky’s innovation in creating and organizing the Red Army. Especially effective was his application of wide, circumambulatory cavalry raids behind the White Army’s far-distant lines in Siberia and Ukraine. By 1919, mobile mounted units evolved as the mainstay of Red Army operations, symbolizing in the Civil War’s aftermath the might of the Bolshevik enterprise (Trotsky, 1921; Weiner, 2001; Frank, 2011).

Nonetheless, just as snow and ice had hampered European cavalry in the nineteenth century, so did the severity of the northern Russian winter limit horse-mounted reconnaissance and pursuit early in the twentieth. In 1918, White forces travelling on skis from Finland during the early stages of Heimosodat attacked Pechenga, presaging allied intervention the following year in the Murmansk-Arkhangel’sk region while the Bolsheviks were embroiled with their Civil War. These early wintertime successes by the Whites and allied troops prompted the Red Army to introduce ski training into its regular military regimen. The Bolshevik government tasked the Central Board of Universal Military Training with preparation of combat skiers, specifically for the coming winter campaigns of 1919-1920. 

On the northern and eastern fronts, the Red Army consistently lacked enough cavalrymen; and military planners already understood that deep snow would limit the range and capabilities of mounted troops. Thus, the Russian cavalry’s fundamental functions of reconnaissance and pursuit would fall to the ski divisions. This conflation of cavalry with skiing both in military and sport (“winter cavalry” or "snow cavalry")—a concept already established in the western press in reference to Norway’s ski troops in the 1870s (see Figure 2)—carried over well into the Cold War era (Allen, 2007; Frank, 2011). 

But skiing was much more than a substitute for cavalry operations: the sport was imbued with proletarian significance bolstering fundamental Marxist-Leninist theory. According to Trotsky, aristocrats and the wealthy had filled the cavalry ranks for centuries: now it was imperative that communists become cavalrymen (Trotksy, 1921). This meshed with a socio-economic dichotomy that had developed in sports around the turn of the century: European sporting organizations considered anyone who had received money or prizes in competitions, or wages for work as a sport instructor or coach, a professional and therefore ineligible for events meant only for amateur athletes. This rule eliminated most working-class athletes, allowing those from the upper-class to dominate high-profile events like the Olympics. 

This class distinction spilled over into winter sports as British elites flocked to Swiss spas after World War I. These wealthy tourists preferred tobogganing (or bobsleigh) and exhilarating downhill ski runs to the more mundane aspects of cross-country skiing. Tobogganing was included for the first time at the 1922 Nordiska Spelen, raising a furor when sledders received better prizes than skiers. As the Scandinavian press pointed out, tobogganing was a pleasurable diversion for the leisure class whereas skiing was the sport of the proletariat. As more well-to-do vacationers visited the Alps in the years leading up to the 1924 Chamonix Games, a further rift developed between bourgeois Alpine and working-class Nordic branches of skiing (Allen, 2007). In Bolshevik and Soviet Russia, Nordic skiing was the preferred discipline for socialist citizens: Trotsky himself emphasized the important roles both skiing and rifle sharpshooting played in the army and among the general population. Throughout the era of the first Five-Year Plans, the government urged members of the Russian collectives to learn how to ski. Thus, the future sport of biathlon embodied the very soul of the Marxist-Leninist project from the early decades of the twentieth century (Frank, 2013).

Aejmelaeus-Äimä seated in Russian Imperial cavalry officer’s uniform in 1913, shako in his right hand, saber in his left.

 

Toivo AntikainenCarl Bror Emil Aejmelaeus-Äima (1882-1935) and Toivo Antikainen (1898-1941). The divergent lives of these two Finnish military skiers illustrate the fluid political situation along the border with Russia during the early twentieth century. Aejmelaeus-Äimä (left, in Russian Imperial cavalry uniform) was born in Porvoo and attended Russian military schools in St. Petersburg prior to World War I. As a cavalry officer in the Russian Imperial army, he survived the war and returned to Finland after independence to serve in the administrations of the nation’s first two presidents. His 1912 book on skiing, prepared for the Russian Imperial army, was the first to incorporate photographic montages of a skier in motion. Antikainen (right, in Red Army officer’s greatcoat and budenovka hat) was born in Helsinki and fled to Moscow at the end of the Finnish Civil War in 1918 to help establish the Communist Party of Finland in exile. He served as an officer with the Red Army in East Karelia during the Russian Civil War. Antikainen’s 1922 ski raid on Kimasozero took on legendary status in the Soviet Union. Source Museovirasto, Historian kuvakokoelma, HK19740427:3 https://finna.fi/Record/museovirasto.DC5C25A16DAAD06394D5423F7B26831A?sid=5103246439

As the Whites consolidated power in Finland after its civil war, a group of Finnish nationalists attempted to wrest control of East Karelia from Russia during a five-month period spanning the winter of 1921-1922. Because of the exigencies battling the White forces in winter, the Bolshevik government ordered the Petrograd Military District to establish ski battalions. Among those recruited to serve was Toivo Antikainen (Figure 8) whose 1,000-kilometer ski-reconnaissance maneuver behind White lines to capture the railway station at Kimasozero became legendary in Soviet film and book prior to World War II (Frank, 2011).

As soon as possible after Finland declared independence at the close of 1917, former Russian Imperial cavalry officer Carl Bror Emil Aejmelaeus-Äimä returned home to serve in the new Finnish government’s administration (Figure 7). In 1919, he was assigned to south Kareliato reform cavalry instruction at Lappeenranta. For his troops, Aejmelaeus-Äimä included the lessons he had formulated in his 1912 ski handbook, bolstering the efforts of Lauri “Tahko” Pihkala to establish biathlon-style competitions among the Finnish Home Guard during the 1920s. In this period of turmoil between the world wars, similar ski training was taking place in NorwaySweden, and the Baltics (Hautamäki, 1975; Frank, 2013; Mainla, 2017; Frank and Allen, 2019; Stegen, 2019; Kanerva, 2021). Outside Scandinavia and Finland, Military Patrol, the pre-cursor to modern biathlon, had become a feature of international competition at the beginning of the twentieth century.

Military Patrol

Four skiers in military uniform skiing together, three with rifles slung across their backs.

Switzerland’s Military Patrol team, gold medalists at the Chamonix Games on 29 January 1924 (left to right): Denis VaucherAlfred AufdenblattenAnton JulenAlfons Julen. The 30-kilometer course was a continuous loop from the stadium in Chamonix (1037m) through Argentière to Charamillon (1810m) and back: the shooting range was located near Les Chosalets at around the 20-kilometer mark. This was the first Olympic military patrol race and the only one designated as a medal event. Source: Courtesy International Biathlon Union www.biathlonworld.com

 

Perhaps even more so than modern pentathlonmilitary patrol encapsulated the amalgamation of nationalism, sport, and militarismat the Olympic Games. Because it was a team event restricted to the armed forces, military patrol provided an obvious method of comparing the level of physical conditioning and military training of each nation’s army within a sporting environment. The sport’s first iteration took place in Germany in 1902 and gained inclusion in Nordiska Spelen in 1922 (Jönsson, 2001; Frank, 2013). Similar in configuration to the original four-man okhotniki teams of the Russian imperial army, military patrol teams consisted of an officer and three enlisted men who skied together on a 25- to 30-kilometer course, often over more challenging terrain than encountered on regular cross-country ski tracks. Although rules varied over the years, for the most part enlisted men, dressed in military kit, carried rifles, ammunition, and rucksacks with a total combined weight of 24 kilograms; the officer was either unarmed or carried a pistol; three competitors shot in the range with an option that the officer could substitute for one of the enlisted men; a penalty accrued for each shot missed on the firing line; and the final time registered when the last team member crossed the finish line. Military patrol was a medal event at the Chamonix Games of 1924 (Figure 9), then an Olympic demonstration sport in St. Moritz in 1928 and 1948 (Figure 10) as well as in Garmisch-Partenkirchen in 1936; the event was discontinued after 1948 because of strong international anti-military sentiments following World War II. (Jönsson, 2001; Frank, 2013; Stegen, 2019).

A range official crouches in the foreground as three skiers shoot from the prone position; an officer competing in the race observes on the left.

On the shooting range at the last Olympic Military Patrol race in St. Moritz, SUI, 8 February 1948. Competitors are firing at three balloons over a distance of 150 meters. Source: Courtesy International Biathlon Union www.biathlonworld.com

 

Winter War

The Winter War was the single-most important event leading to development of biathlon during the Cold War era. All of the hostilities in Kareliafrom 1918 to 1939 came to a head when Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union signed a non-aggression pact in August 1939 that included a secret agreement establishing mutual spheres of influence in eastern Europe. This prompted both nations to invade Poland from opposite directions in September and demarcate a new borderline separating Germany from Russia. Joseph Stalin and his government subsequently strong-armed Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia into pacts allowing the Soviet Union to establish military bases fronting the Baltic Sea and Gulf of Finland. Turning their sights on Finland for a similar agreement, Soviet ministers experienced stubborn intransigence from their Finnish counterparts throughout protracted negotiations. 

On 30 November 1939, the massed forces of the Soviet Union rolled across the Finnish border expecting to burst through Finland’s defensive Mannerheim Line and reach Helsinki within a matter of weeks. Finland’s asymmetrical guerrilla tactics over the course of three months thwarted these plans: and Finnish soldiers draped in white camouflage captured the imagination of the world while showcasing their adept use of skiing as a means of lethal warfare (Chew, 1971; Trotter, 1991; Frank, 2013; Kotkin, 2017). In a manner harking back to okhotniki teams of the Russo-Japanese War, small Finnish ski detachments used mobile guerrilla stratagems to decimate the Soviet flanks and rearat Suomussalmi, the most famous battle of the Winter War. It is worth noting that a Scandinavian volunteer infantry corps fought against the Soviet Union alongside Finland up to the war’s conclusion and beyond. Thus, Russia, Finland, Norway, and Sweden—the four main proponents of post-war biathlon—were simultaneously on the ground in  Kareliathat winter. 

In its aftermath, the Winter War sparked military ski training all around the world. Conventional wisdom at the end of World War I held that mountain warfare would be inevitable in future land battles; many nations continued to train mountain troops in the technical details of mountaineering just as they had prior to the war, most notably in the alpine regions of Austria, Germany, France, and Italy. The Winter War brought about a different perspective on this type of training with greater emphasis placed on ski combat. From Germany to Japan; from the United States to France, New Zealand, and Great Britain; from Denmark to Switzerland: belligerents as well as neutral nations established military ski training programs inspired by Finland (Frank, 2013; Frank, 2022).

Although the Soviet Union eventually prevailed in March 1940, Finland’s stout resistance to the Soviet mechanized onslaught proved a humiliation to the vaunted Red Army, prompting a re-assessment that spring of winter combat readiness by the Soviet general command (Glantz, 1998; Frank, 2013). Based on the debacle in Finland, many agreed that preparing skiers for the army was a priority; and in October 1940, mobilization efforts began in earnest. Newspapers promoted skiing throughout the winter of 1940-1941 urging readers “na lyzhi [to skis]!” just as Trotsky had urged potential communist cavalrymen “to horse!” during the Civil War. During the winter of 1941, Komsomol, in conjunction with the armed forces, arranged a nation-wide series of cross-country ski races for soldiers and citizens alike, all with a military bent. Within one year of subduing Finland, the Soviet government elevated skiing from a winter pastime into a primary building block of socialism integral to national defense (Frank, 2009; Frank, 2013).

Operation Barbarossa

The largest invasion of its kind, Operation Barbarossa involved blitzkrieg-style warfare in an attack against the Soviet Union along a 2,900-kilometer front in June 1941. A massive onslaught of personnel and ordnance divided into three areas of advance mirrored the Soviet Union’s own 1939 invasion of Finland although on a much broader scale. Even though the German army replaced horses with tanks, airplanes, and armored personnel carriers, cavalry tactics remained relevant: outflank the enemy to attack from the rear. The Russians retreated as rapid encirclements of the Red Army eliminated nearly half of the Soviet Union’s troops. Expecting to reach Moscow easily, the German army halted just 40 kilometers from the city’s outskirts as autumn turned to winter. The Soviet Union mounted a winter counter-offensive in December that expanded from the outskirts of Moscow into a front stretching from Leningrad to Crimea. During this campaign, the lessons of winter warfare dearly acquired in Finland bolstered the maneuvers of the Red Armyacross the vast spaces of the Russian steppe (Frank, 2013).

Red Army ski battalions were especially effective in the initial counter-offensive to Operation Barbarossa. Soviet ski detachments, just like their okhotniki predecessors, employed tried-and-true cavalry tactics in the form of swift raids across battlelines to attack the rear of harassed German troops mired in severe Russian weather throughout a vast theater of war. An early deployment that gained renown in January 1942 involved the demise of a small detachment of  twenty-seven ski troopers who made a nighttime cross-country trek to battle over 400 Germans and four tanks at the battle of Khludnevo. One of the deadliest and hardest-fought campaigns stretched from December 1941 to March 1942 along the German supply route south of Smolensk. Marauding ski divisions, partisans, and Soviet paratroopers sought to cut supplies to the German Fourth Army on the outskirts of Moscow: by mid-winter, the Russians were successfully overwhelming German defensive attempts in temperatures that had plummeted to a range between -35 and -45 °C until the spring thaw in March turned the region into a corpse-strewn bog. Reports from this region as well as others across the frontlines throughout the war made wintertime news all around the world with images of Soviet skiers in action featured in newspapers and flickering in movies and newsreels. (Pospelov, 1960; Frank, 2013; Smirnov, 2016). Throughout the war, the Red Army continued to integrate horse-mounted troops with tank divisions; but during the winter, ski troops replaced the cavalry. As the war progressed, skiers rather than cavalrymen came to represent the military strength of the Soviet Union on a par with tanks, artillery, and airplanes, a notion still prevalent in twenty-first-century Russia (Frank, 2013).

Continuation War

Two German soldiers in white camouflage hold at gunpoint a Russian prisoner with arms above his head; two bodies lie in the snow; a pair of skis extends into the foreground from outside the picture’s edge.

 “. . . der letzte wird durchsucht [The last one is searched].” One of thirty-eight pencil illustrations by Kurt Kranz from Winteralltag im Urwald Lapplands [Daily Winter Life in Lapland’s Forest]This 1944 propaganda collection was published in Berlin but printed in Porvoo, FIN (where the artist was serving with the army) for distribution in Germany. Kranz’s sketch shows German mountain troops in the act of capturing a Russian along the Soviet-Finnish border late in World War II. The prisoner wears a greatcoat and the budenovka headgear closely associated with the Red Army from the Russian Civil War through the Winter War but less frequently in use at the time of this fictional vignette. Source: E. John B. Allen Collection

Because of virulent anti-Soviet sentiment after the Winter War, and wedged between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, Finland agreed to allow German troops to operate on Finnish soil after its defeat. As Operation Barbarossa unfolded in June 1941, the Soviet Union labeled Finland a German ally which brought about repeated bombing of Helsinki and a declaration of war on the part of Finland. Finnish troops along with some Swedish and Estonian volunteers crossed back over the border into Karelia, eventually reaching the outskirts of Leningrad and MurmanskThe resumption of war lasted from 1941 to 1944 and engendered further hostilities between the two countries (Figure 11). To be sure, this final iteration of the Soviet-Finnish Wars lacked the clear-cut moral divide of the previous conflict in 1939-1940. The subsequent peace settlement between Finland and the Soviet Union led to a Cold Warstalemate known as Finlandization that generated a wary truce, a sense of unease in the rest of Scandinavia, and athletic rivalries all across the region, reflecting the ideological divide that separated east from west during the Cold War era.

Cold War

From the Bolshevik Revolution to the end of World War II, the Soviet Union refused to take part in nearly all international athletic events. The Soviet government considered these competitions elitist and bourgeois, preferring to establish a sports system based on cooperative physical culture. Post-war, the Soviet Union rivaled the United States as one of the world’s two superpowers, prompting a radical change of perspective. Now the two nations were battling for supremacy in politics and society, pitting communism against market capitalism. In this new era, international sports became a surrogate battlefield (Guttmann, 1988; Coates, 2017; Parks, 2017).

In the immediate post-war years, the Soviet Union continually promoted physical fitness programs around the nation with special emphasis on activities that had explicit military application as viewed through the filter of recent war experiences: cross-country skiing and target shooting were among the principal disciplines. Skiing especially evolved as an all-encompassing Soviet metaphor as teams from Russia began to attend international cross-country ski races, ideal platforms for celebrating the victory over Nazi Germany (in self-referential Soviet terminology, The Great Patriotic War) as well as demonstrating national strength and the superiority of communism. A ski event with shooting would elevate these notions to another level altogether (Frank, 2013).

After a war-induced twelve-year hiatus, IOC awarded the 1948 Winter Olympics to neutral Switzerland. Exhausted by World War II, the organizers banned Germany and Japan; the Soviet Union sent observers rather than participants. Military Patrol was a demonstration sport along with winter pentathlon, a five-event contest open to civilians and modeled on modern pentathlon, with Nordic and alpine skiing replacing swimming and running. The Union Internationale de Pentahlon Moderne (UIPM) established in 1948 to promote and administer both the winter and summer versions of pentathlon, was unable to keep both: because of its complexity, winter pentathlon was discontinued along with military patrol for the 1952 Winter Olympics. However, enthusiasm at IOC for some form of multi-event winter competition remained.

In the mid-to-late 1940s, Swedish defense forces had developed field shooting with a format resembling military patrol but open to all athletes competing individually: with Sweden’s input, the International Military Council devised a 20-kilometer individual time-trial event in 1948.  UIPM accepted responsibility for developing this new event in 1953 and, three years later, put forth official rules of competition subsequently adopted all across Scandinavia and in the armed forces of the Soviet Union: in 1956, Norway and Finland sent teams to Sweden to compete, while the Red Armyscheduled its own intramural series. UIPMofficially assumed oversight of biathlon in 1957 and proposed to IOC that biathlon should gain a spot at a future Winter Olympics. IOC agreed; and, since bobsled had been cancelled for the next Olympics, allowed substitution of biathlon at the 1960 Winter Games. Continuation on the Olympic card would be contingent on observation, experiences, and feedback from this one-off event. (Hautamäki, 1975; Niinimaa, 1998; Heck, 2011; Frank, 2013; Stegen, 2019). 

Old Program

As a lead-up to the 1960 Olympics, UIPM organized two Biathlon World Championships in Saalfelden, AUS in 1958and Courmayeur, ITA in 1959. For these events, and all subsequent individual 20-kilometer biathlon races through the 1965 Biathlon World Championships in Elverum, NOR, competitors followed a format now known as Old Program. Biathletes left the start-finish area in staggered starts of one- or two-minute intervals and skied a single continuous loop, stopping to fire large-bore, open sight rifles at four separate shooting ranges along the way. Skiers took five shots prone at each of three ranges over distances of 250, 200, and 150 meters, and then five shots from standing position at the fourth and final 100-meter range, for a total of twenty shots. Cardboard or paper targets measured 30, 25, 20, and 30 centimeters in diameter respectively. Every shot missed added a two-minute penalty to the ski time for each individual. (Hautamäki, 1975; Frank, 2013). 

Compared to biathlon racing as it has evolved in the twenty-first century, Old Program provided a more equitable balance between shooting and skiing. The two-minute penalty placed a premium on marksmanship as a counter to sheer speed on the ski track. Biathletes had to contend with multiple variables at four separate ranges of varying lengths: at the first Biathlon World Championship and at subsequent early races in the 1960s at subsequent early races in the 1960s, competitors sometimes were even forbidden from practicing at the ranges: they were given a sketch of the ski-course and range locations only forty-eight hours before the start of the race. Shooting high-recoil rifles at paper targets on rudimentary and unstable firing lines, biathletes had to have confidence in their own abilities: they did not know their degree of accuracy until after the race, when targets were removed, gathered together from all four ranges, and scored by a panel of judges. 

However, Old Program had significant disadvantages. It required a huge amount of space to set up the entire 20-kilometer loop and then staff the start-finish area and each shooting range. Compiling the shooting scores and adjusting the overall times of every competitor became a logistical nightmare. The most significant drawback was that spectators could not view the race in a coherent way: assessing the staggered starts in real-time was confusing; action at each of the separate ranges was far removed from the start-finish area; and waiting for results as judges tallied scores could take hours. Just as problematic was the biathlon team event, a medal-winning opportunity included at each Biathlon World Championship (excluding the Olympics) from 1958 through 1965, determined by combining individual times of a nation’s four-man team (Figure 12). Ideologically, this was a significant factor during the Cold War indicating the strength and depth of each nation’s squad, but, as an event, devoid of any possibility for spectator viewing (Frank, 2013).

Three four-man teams stand at attention on a medal podium while saluting in military boots, overcoats, berets, and peaked caps.

Team competition podium at the first Biathlon World Championships in Saalfelden, AUS in 1958 on 9 February: 1) Sweden; 2) Soviet Union; 3) Norway. This photograph illustrates how aspects of Military Patrol carried over into the new sport of biathlon. Competitors from the armed forces filled the ranks of biathlon until the switch from large-caliber rifles to .22 rimfire rifles in 1977, making the sport more accessible to civilians. Team competition continued at biathlon world championships through 1965, after which it was replaced by the 4 x 7.5-kilometer relay. In the twenty-first century, four variations on the relay format are part of the World Cup and Olympic biathlon schedules. Courtesy International Biathlon Union www.biathlonworld.com

IOC found these details concerning and, even before the first Olympic race took place in 1960, cut biathlon from the 1964 Games on the pretense of being too militaristic. At the next IOC Congress, held prior to the Summer Games in Rome, the Soviet Union made an unsuccessful bid to re-introduce biathlon as an Olympic event. At the next meeting in 1961, UIPMpleaded for reinstatement: IOC relented, but only if converted to some type of winter pentathlon to make it more spectator-friendly. To satisfy this demand yet retain the essence of biathlon, UIPMdevised a new format to replace Old Program after the 1964 Innsbruck Games, only the second yet final Olympic Old Program contest. The very last Old Program race took place at the Sixth Biathlon World Championship in Elverum, NOR in 1965, the sport having survived yet another vote taken to discontinue it at the IOC Congress at Innsbruck the year prior. In an attempt at self-preservation, UIPM held a test run of a new event in Elverum, the 4 x 7.5-kilometer relay which initiated changes in biathlon that had profound impact on the future viability of the sport (Frank, 2013; Stegen, 2019).

New Era

At the 1965 World Biathlon Championship in Elverum, instead of four separate shooting areas, the four different-length ranges of the Old Program 20-kilometer individual time-trial were laid out side-by-side with three prone and one standing stage: starting in 1966, the different lengths were consolidated into a single 150-meter range with two bouts of prone alternating with two standing, inside a stadium with the start-finish area nearby; and rather than a single 20-kilometer loop, smaller 3- to 5-kilometer loops connected the ski course to the stadium and shooting range: this allowed spectators to follow a biathlon race from a single vantage point. A new scoring system allowed either a one- or two-minute penalty to accrue for different distances from the center of the target. Reducing the penalty for a “pretty close” shot by a minute made the race more competitive and exciting, even though the 20-kilometer staggered starts and delayed final results from analyzing paper targets still dampened spectator enthusiasm. However, the relay format introduced at Elverum revolutionized the relationship of biathlon spectators to the sport. This new event, essentially Military Patrol in a different guise, gained immediate relevance with the often-partisan crowds on either side of the Iron Curtain at the height of the Cold War (Frank, 2013).

In the relay, each team fielded four members who skied a 7.5-kilometer course in succession with two shooting bouts at 150 meters, one prone and one standing. Each biathlete shot at five targets at both bouts; the targets were hung in a frame with cutouts the size of the regular paper targets, behind which were balloons (in subsequent years replaced by glass discs) that would burst (or shatter) when hit. For each unbroken balloon (or disc), the competitor had to ski a 200-meter penalty loop (later reduced to 150 meters) before returning to the course. Competitors could fire at the five targets at each stage with eight (originally ten) bullets (five loaded into a magazine cartridge plus five, later three, loose). Rather than staggered departures from the start-finish area, the relay featured a mass start with racers skiing and shooting head-to-head, the winner of the contest determined by the first team across the finish line. This proved to be a successful formula for attracting huge crowds, replacing the moribund team event of world championships prior to 1966 with an exciting new spectacle. 

Success in the relay depended on speed: fast on the track and fast on the range. This was a far different sport than the 20-kilometer individual time-trial which placed a premium on the mental control necessary for maintaining a proper pace and having confidence in the ability to place shots onto a paper target. The relay was more visceral: each stage was a flat-out sprint from start to finish over a short 7.5-kilometer course against other racers, with immediate feedback from the bank of breakable targets at each shooting bout. This breakable-target-style short race was so popular that a 10-kilometer individual time-trial based on the relay format was introduced at the 1974 Biathlon World Championships in Minsk

Another concerted effort to eliminate biathlon occurred during IOC deliberations at the 1972 Sapporo Winter Games by limiting the number of teams allowed to participate at the following Olympics in Innsbruck. To counteract these measures, UIPMB (the “B” for biathlon added io UIPMin 1968) eliminated large-bore rifles in favor of .22 small-caliber, rim-fire rifles for use on a 50-meter range with proportionally smaller targets, for implementation after the 1976 Winter Olympics. This switch to more accessible rifles and ammunition proved to be the sport’s saving grace because it broadened the world-wide pool of potential biathletes and opened opportunities for women by the late 1970s. The 10-kilometer sprint became an official Olympic event at the Lake Placid Games in 1980 with knockdown (or silhouette-style) targets replacing breakable glass discs in both the sprint and relay. The following year, this type of target replaced paper in the 20-kilometer race and the two-minute penalty was reduced to one minute, making the 20-kilometer individual time-trial more competitive (Frank, 2013; Stegen, 2019). By this point, biathlon—a recurring theme in books, cinema, and magazines behind the Iron Curtain for decades—began to seep into popular culture in the west: an East German biathlete/assassin becomes the main antagonist during the ski chase sequence in the 1981 James Bond film, For Your Eyes Only.

Biathlon’s administrators began to reconfigure their sport with an eye toward the future. In 1984, women competed in the first Biathlon World Championships with women’s individual, sprint, and relay events introduced at the 1992 Olympics. UIPMB stole the march on the International Ski Federation in 1986 by officially allowing biathletes to use a new technique that mimicked speedskating rather than traditional striding in tracks for all events. By the turn of the century, the International Biathlon Union, the new governing body for biathlon as of 1993, introduced pursuit and mass start races at World Championships in 1997 and the Olympics of 1998 and 2002, setting biathlon on the path to becoming one of Europe’s most popular winter spectator sports.

German biathlete Laura Dahlmeier shoots her rifle at a bank of targets from the standing position in Kontiolahti, FIN prior to a world cup race in March 2017.

Laura Dahlmeier of Germany zeros her rifle from the standing position prior to a 2017 World Cup race in Kontiolahti, FIN. Dahlmeier (1993-2025) was a bronze and double gold medalist in biathlon at the 2018 Winter Olympics. After retiring from competition in 2019, she took up climbing and high-altitude mountaineering. In 2025, Dahlmeier lost her life in the Pakistan Himalaya at the age of 31. From the 1950s through the early 1980s, official world championships in biathlon were restricted to men only; but during that time, women were participating in biathlon competitions in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union with a smattering of involvement in Scandinavia and North America. In 1970, the German Democratic Republic, Bulgaria, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and the Soviet Union held the first international women’s biathlon competitions known as Za druzhbu i bratstvo [For Friendship and Brotherhood]. The first Biathlon World Championships for women took place in in Chamonix, FRA in 1984. IOC finally included three women’s biathlon events at the 1992 Olympics in Albertville, FRA. Source: William D. Frank photographs

 

Television and Spectator Sport

Television has played a significant role in boosting biathlon’s profile due to increased interest worldwide in all aspects of the Olympics. The first broadcast of the Winter Games from Cortina in 1956 featured easily-filmed events like figure skating, ice hockey, and ski jumping. As Olympic viewership grew, money from sponsors flowed to events like alpine skiing and bobsled that were flashy, fast, and simple to follow. Less-telegenic events such as cross-country and biathlon had to reconfigure their sports to attract similar audiences. The addition of pursuit and mass start biathlon was a particularly brilliant move on the part of IBU.

In mass start, skiers leave the starting line together to fire two bouts prone, then two standing, with a penalty lap for each miss at the range, a psychologically-demanding scenario. Pursuit incorporates the Gundersen start method from the two-day Nordic Combined: results from a 10-kilometer sprint time-trial on one day determine the pursuit start order on the next. The winning skier from the previous 10-kilometer race starts first followed by competitors according to their order and time-gap behind, with a penalty lap for each miss at the range over four shooting stages. In both mass start and pursuit, the first skier across the finish line is the winner. 

These events along with new relay formats are ideal subjects for live television. Viewing mass start and pursuit with the aid of technical advancements in cameras, electronic scoring, split-screen formatting, and knowledgeable color commentary makes it easy to follow the racers with exciting action on the shooting range thrown into the mix: a disaster on the firing line can dash the hopes of the race leader in a heartbeat. Biathlon’s on-line streaming services have mushroomed viewership figures in the twenty-first century, outpacing nearly all other winter sports: for the 2021-2022 Biathlon World Cup season, European television broadcast 608 hours; by 2023-2024, the number of hours had increased to 2,332 (Frank, 2013; Morton, 2018; Stegen, 2019; IBU, 2025; Herz and Kershaw, 2025; Niinimaa, forthcoming).

Team Sport, Nationalism, and NATO

From its inception, nationalism has been woven into the very fabric of the Olympics as well as world championship competitions (Coates, 2017). Although nations certainly celebrate individual medals, the team events have held particular importance as a method of gauging national fitness and preparedness as well as the depth of a nation’s program throughout the Cold War and into the post-Cold-War era. The biathlon relay has been a prime example of this notion. From 1966 through the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, the Soviet Union won every gold medal in the biathlon relay over six consecutive Olympics, and eighteen out of a possible twenty-eight at the world championships. This event evinced an extraordinary relationship to Soviet national self-perception, as the mythology of Operation Barbarossa and the Great Patriotic War displaced that of the Russian Civil War and its iconic connection to cavalry. The joint memory of World War II and 27 million Soviet casualties outlasted the Soviet Union (Weiner, 2001) and remains a potent force in a revanchist Russian Federation. 

Similarly, a reciprocal notion applies to Finland and the Scandinavian countries as a reflection of their shared experience fending off the Soviet Union during the Winter War and Continuation War, then maintaining a defensive posture in the decades following World War II. From the very first biathlon competitions in the 1950s, the idea that Scandinavian countries bordering the Soviet Union employed biathlon as a surrogate display of national defense has been a hallmark of international racing (Frank, 2013). This concept, still viable in the twenty-first century, underscored the decision by both Sweden and Finland to join NATO in 2023 after Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022. Memories of the Winter War among modern-day okhotniki infuse defensive training throughout NATO’s new northern expanse. 

It is worth noting that just weeks prior to Vladimir Putin’s seizure of Crimea in 2014, Russia won the men’s biathlon relay at the Sochi Olympics after a hiatus of over two decades, a major anti-Western propaganda coup for Putin and the Russian regime. However, the extent to which Russia had engaged in corruption and clandestine cheating for years leading up to and during Sochi came to light in 2016: the scandal engulfed biathlon in 2021 following a two-year investigation into illicit ties between Russia and IBU’s longtime Norwegian president, Anders Besseberg. In 2025, IBUstripped Russia of its first-place relay finish at Sochi after the Biathlon Integrity Unit, the Court of Arbitration for Sport, and the Swiss Federal Tribunal all judged relay team member Evgenii Ustiugov guilty of anti-doping rule violations after a years-long appeals process. At the 2026 Cortina Olympics, IOC redistributed biathlon medals awarded at the 2010 Vancouver and 2014 Sochi Winter Games based on these investigations.

Eighty years prior to this final judgement in the Ustiugov case, George Orwell wrote: “Serious sport . . . is war without the shooting.” Orwell’s phrase is still apt, even in a sport like biathlon where, quite to the contrary, the contest has always included both.

Bibliography

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Goksøyr, Matti (2002). “Skis as National Symbols, Ski Tracks as Historical Traits: The Case of Norway.” 2002 International Ski History Congress: Selected Papers From the Seminars Held in Park City, Utah, January 20-24, 2002 International Ski History Association, 197-203.

 

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By John W. Lundin

The Forgotten Era of Ski Jumping

Sun Valley opened in December 1936, and the next spring it hosted America’s first international Alpine competition, the combined event that became known as the Harriman Cup. Dartmouth’s Dick Durrance made national headlines by beating the top European racers.

Photo top of page: From left, Olav Ulland, Gustav Raaum, Alf Engen and Kjell Stordalen in formation at Ruud Mountain, 1948. Ulland and Engen were at the end of their jumping careers; Raaum and Stordalen, Norwegian exchange students, were newcomers.  National Nordic Museum photo

Alpine skiing was a fledgling sport. For most Americans of the era, ski competition meant jumping. Norwegian immigrants had made ski jumping into a popular spectator sport, with a successful professional circuit. The best-respected racers were Skimeisters—men who could compete in four-way events featuring jumping, cross-country, downhill and slalom. Sun Valley founder Averell Harriman knew that to make Sun Valley the country’s center of skiing, he needed a ski jumping hill.


Alf Engen and Sigmund Ruud at the 1937 U.S.
National Championships. Marriott Library

Two famous Norwegian ski jumpers competed in the first Harriman Cup: Sigmund Ruud (1928 Olympic silver medalist) and Alf Engen (Professional Ski Jumping Champion 1931­–1935 and holder of five world professional distance records). Harriman asked Engen (whom he later hired as a sports consultant) and Ruud to locate a ski jumping hill on Sun Valley property. They selected a site between Dollar and Proctor mountains, with an elevation of 6,600 feet and a 600-foot vertical drop. Taking advantage of the hill’s natural slope, they helped design a 40-meter jump, intended for distances of up to 131 feet, For major jumping competitions, an 80- or 90-meter jump would have been necessary, but the 40-meter hill offered “splendid competition for all classes of competitors” and was particularly suited for four-way competitions. Named for Sigmund, Ruud Mountain became the resort’s center for jumping and slalom events and was used for freeskiing. Sun Valley was the country’s only ski area eligible to host FIS-sanctioned four-way competitions.

The term J-bar didn’t yet exist, but Sun Valley had one built in 1936, called a drag lift, to take skiers over level ground from near the Sun Valley Lodge to the Proctor Mountain chair. This was converted into a rudimentary chairlift for Ruud Mountain, without so much as a backrest or a place to rest one’s skis. This gave Sun Valley one of the first lift-serviced slalom courses on the continent.

Ruud Mountain was inaugurated during Christmas 1937 at Sun Valley’s first intercollegiate ski tournament, between Dartmouth (Eastern champions) and the University of Washington (West Coast champions). During a jumping exhibition, Walter Prager (Dartmouth’s coach), Alf Engen and Otto Lang (Washington’s coach) each jumped more than 40 meters, exceeding the hill’s design limit. Prager said the hill offered “one of the finest and toughest slalom courses he had ever seen.” Engen said Sun Valley’s jump “for its size comes nearer to perfection than any yet developed.” And Lang said the jump was “impeccably engineered and groomed... virtually fall-proof… the neatest layout I had ever seen” (The Valley Sun, January 11, 1938) .


Ruud Mountain jump, judging tower and 
lift. Community Library.

In 1938, women were invited to compete in the Harriman Cup for the first time. Grace Carter Lindley from Seattle, a 1936 Olympian, won the women’s Harriman Cup. She said “Ruud Mountain is the perfect slalom hill. Having the tow available for unlimited rides, one can become thoroughly familiar with the contours of the hill, the general layout of the slalom, and most important, one can gauge the conservative speed one can hold without tiring...”

The 1938 Open Jumping Tournament attracted some of the best jumpers in the world, including the famous Ruud brothers from Kongsberg, Norway: Birger (the 1932 and 1936 Olympic gold medalist) and Sigmund. The hill, with its lift, delighted the competitors, “who had been climbing for their skiing all season or jumping off rickety scaffolds on artificial snow” (American Ski Annual, 1938–39).

Before the event kicked off, Engen jumped 50.5 meters. It didn’t count for the competition but stood as the official hill record. Birger Ruud jumped 48 meters to win, and seven jumpers exceeded 40 meters. Norway’s Nils Eie (world intercollegiate champion) placed second “in beautiful form,” Sigurd Ulland (1938 National Ski Jumping Champion) was third, and Alpine ace Dick Durrance finished fourth.


Sun Valley, 1938. Community Library

In 1939, Sun Valley hosted the nation’s first National Four-Way Open Tournament. Based on his downhill and slalom results, local ski instructor Peter Radacher won both the Harriman Cup and the Four-Way Open. Engen won the jumping event and finished fourth in the open.

In 1940, an invitational meet attracted 18 jumpers from 10 clubs. Engen made two flawless leaps to win. He turned aside the “keen challenge” of 21-year-old Gordie Wren of Steamboat Springs, who would go on to be a star of the 1948 U.S. Olympic jumping team and become the 1950 National Nordic Combined Champion. “Following the regular competition, the spectators were thrilled by double jumps, particularly the pair leap by Engen and Wren. ... The tournament was unlike others, where the contestants must make laborious climbs uphill to the scaffold, the chair-lift eliminating such strenuous going” (Sun Valley Ski Club Annual, 1939). In 1941, Engen beat Wren again in the third National Four-Way Open Tournament. Engen “displayed his supremacy in the air overwhelmingly” and “demonstrated his all-around skiing proficiency today by soaring to first place in jumping and winning the national four-event combined championship for the second consecutive year” (Sun Valley Ski Club Annual, 1941).

Alf Engen’s Legendary Battles with Torger Tokle

Torger Tokle emigrated from Norway in 1939. Before World War II he won 42 out of 48 tournaments and set three American distance records. Tokle was a power jumper. According to Harold Anson in Jumping Through Time, “his powerful, and precisely timed takeoffs provided him with a sufficient distance point to capture victories over more stylish jumpers.”


1942 annual report of the Sun Valley Ski
Club showcased Art Devlin, Alf Engen and
Torger Tokle. Community Library

Engen won the 1940 National Ski Jumping Championships, while Tokle finished fourth. At the 1940 National Four-Way Championships at the Milwaukee Ski Bowl, east of Seattle, Engen competed in all four disciplines, while Tokle competed only in jumping, where he made the longest distance. Engen won the jumping event on form points and the four-way title.

In 1941, at Iron Mountain, Michigan, Engen jumped 267 feet to break the North American distance record. Two hours later, at Leavenworth, Washington, Tokle set a new record of 273 feet. At the 1941 National Jumping Championships at Milwaukee Ski Bowl, Tokle jumped 288 feet to set his second North American distance record in less than a month. Engen was second. In 1942, Tokle bumped the record up to 289 feet at Iron Mountain.

The 1942 Harriman Cup/International Downhill and Slalom Tournament was won by Barney McLean “after a stiff battle with Alf Engen.” They tied at 268 points, but under Harriman Cup rules, the winner in case of a tie was the downhill victor. Dick Durrance was third, and Tokle did not enter.

Sun Valley’s jumping event that spring showed the skills of Tokle, Engen and a rising new star, Art Devlin of Lake Placid, New York. Devlin went on to become one of the country’s elite jumpers as a member of three U.S. Olympic teams (1948, 1952 and 1956) and the 1946 National Ski Jumping Champion.


From left, Art Devlin, Alf Engen and Birger Ruud, off the Ruud Mountain jump in 1938.
Community Library

Ruud Mountain’s jumping hill was designed for 131-foot jumps, but in 1942 the takeoff was moved back 25 feet to allow for longer distances. Tokle’s “prodigious drive” set a new hill record of 188 feet, leaving “far behind the mark of 164 feet set by Engen, who reeled off a 175-foot jump.” Tokle “is a most powerful jumper and is constantly improving. Undoubtedly he has not yet reached his ultimate peak. ...” Afterwards, the competitors jumped in group formations, from two to eight in the air at one time. The Sun Valley Ski Club Annual, 1942, contained pictures of Engen, Tokle and Devlin demonstrating their skills.

On May 3, 1945, Sgt. Torger Tokle of the 10th Mountain Division was killed in Italy by an artillery shell.

Ruud Mountain after WWII

During WWII, Sun Valley served as a Naval Rehabilitation Hospital, where 6,578 Navy, Marine and Coast Guard patients were treated. The resort reopened in December 1946. Ruud Mountain saw less ski jumping, although it continued to be Sun Valley’s primary site for slalom events until 1961, often featuring side-by-side slalom courses for men and women.

In 1947, final tryouts for the 1948 U.S. Olympic Alpine teams for the St. Moritz Games were held at Sun Valley. Friedl Pfeifer’s slalom course on Ruud Mountain was “a championship course, typical of those in European competition.” Walter Prager and Engen were named co- coaches of the 1948 U.S. Olympic Ski Team. A ski jumping exhibition featured visiting Norwegian skiers Arnholdt Kongsgaard (1947 National Ski Jumping Champion), Fagnar Raklid, Harold Hauge and Gustav Raaum (an exchange student at the University of Washington), as well as established stars Engen, Durrance and Wren. The U.S. Olympic Jumping Team was selected at the Milwaukee Ski Bowl. The team then went to Sun Valley for two weeks of intensive training on Ruud Mountain.

The following year the jumping hill hosted intercollegiate meets and regional interstate meets, plus a junior championship and a Christmas jumping exhibition.

After the 1950 FIS World Alpine Championships at Aspen, racers came to Sun Valley for the National Downhill and Slalom Championships. Otto Lang set two side-by-side slalom courses on Ruud Mountain. A crowd of 400 turned out for a jumping exhibition, featuring University of Washington exchange students Raaum, Gunnar Sunde and Jan Kaier.

In 1951, Sun Valley hosted the final tryouts for the U.S. Olympic Alpine team for the 1952 Winter Games in Oslo, Norway. Side-by-side courses for the slalom events on Ruud Mountain had 32 gates for women and 40 for men. Chris Mohn and Sunde each jumped more than 150 feet in another exhibition of exchange student talent.

By this time, jumping had faded as a spectator draw, and the Ruud Mountain jump was used only for the annual American Legion Junior Three-Way Championships. The last jumping competition there came in 1956.

The 1961 Harriman Cup slalom race was the last held on Ruud Mountain, and it had special significance. Seventeen-year-old Billy Kidd won the slalom when Buddy Werner, winner of the downhill, fell but scrambled up to finish. Jimmie Heuga, also 17, won the Harriman Cup, with Kidd second and Werner third. Dick Dorworth said the 1961 Harriman Cup “will go down in history as the tournament in which youth manifested its right to compete on even terms with the elite of ski racing, as young American racers dominated the events.”

Ski Jumping at Ruud Mountain Ends with a Movie

In 1965, "Ski Party" was filmed at Sun Valley. A lightweight musical-comedy knock-off of beach party films, it starred Frankie Avalon and Dwayne Hickman, with an appearance by Annette Funicello, and musical appearances by Leslie Gore and James Brown. The absurd plot included Frankie Avalon going off the Ruud Mountain jump wearing an inflated clown suit and soaring like a helium balloon. This was the last recorded use of the ski jump. Maintenance records show the Ruud Mountain chairlift was last serviced in 1965, likely for the movie. 

John W. Lundin has won four ISHA Skade Awards for books on the history of Pacific Northwest skiing and Sun Valley.

 

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In Brattleboro, Vermont, ski jumping remains a popular tradition.

In 1909, Dartmouth junior Fred Harris, of Brattleboro, Vermont, founded the Dartmouth Outing Club. That same winter he leaped from a primitive ski jump for the first time, according to the new book Harris Hill Ski Jump, the First 100 years.

Photo above: Some 10,000 spectators encouraged 160 athletes at the 1951 National Championships.

“Broke my skis to pieces,” Harris wrote in his diary. He grabbed another pair and tried again. “Fell twice,” he recorded. “Tried several times, and at last made it. Hurrah! Twice. Oh, ye Gods!”

That tenacity led to the construction of the Brattleboro Ski Jump, which Harris organized (and paid for) in 1922. The jump cost $2,200 to construct and was completed one week before its first competition, during which Bing Anderson, of Berlin, New Hampshire, set a New England distance record, at 48.5 meters (158 feet). Later that year, the hill hosted the Vermont State Ski Jumping Championships, followed by the National Championships in 1923. Over the century, the hill has hosted 18 national and regional championships.

In 1924 the wood-trestle inrun was increased in height and Henry Hall raised the hill record to 55 meters. Improvements in 1941 brought the hill up to the 90-meter standard, and Torger Tokle jumped 68 meters. Structural improvements, including a steel tower, followed in the post-war years.

The jump was rechristened the Harris Hill Ski Jump during the 1951 National Ski Jumping Championships, which drew a crowd of 10,000 spectators cheering more than 160 jumpers. In 1985, Mike Holland jumped 186 meters for a new world record. The following year, with the help of Mt. Snow, the hill got a snowmaking system.

By 2005, the hill no longer met international standards for profile or structural integrity and shut down. Over the next three years the community raised $600,000 to upgrade and meet FIS requirements for 90-meter Continental Cup events. In 2011, Harris Hill hosted the first FIS ski jumping tournament in the United States.

Over its long history, Harris Hill has considered itself a progressive operation, looking to promote ski jumping for everyone. For instance, it took the International Olympic Committee until the 2014 Sochi Games to allow female jumpers. The Brattleboro-based jump beat that by 66 years; Dorothy Graves competed there in 1948.

The hill record stands at 104 meters (341 feet), set by Slovenian Blaz Pavlic in 2017. The centennial competition is scheduled for February 19-20.

“The jump provided heroics for all to see,” winter sports historian and Skiing History contributor John B. Allen notes in the 100th anniversary book. “It really did seem that a man could fly.” 

 

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By Jay Cowan

Skiing predates establishment of the first national park, in 1872.

The unique spectacles of Yellowstone National Park are as engraved on the collective American consciousness as Mount Rushmore, the Grand Canyon and West Coast redwoods. Incredibly, the park’s sights in winter are even more rare and evocative.

Photo above: Skiers from the Haynes Mid-Winter Expedition break trail, circa 1887-1901, in the Obsidian Cliff area, with
several hardy souls pulling fully loaded supply sleds.


Frederic Remington's 1886 painting of a U.S.
Army officer patrolling Yellowstone. For 32
years, cavalrymen from Fort Custer,
Montana Territory, enforced park regulations.
By 1910, 325 troopers were stationed in the
park. Courtesy New England Ski Museum.

Geyser plumes and steam rise through the brittle-cold air like smoke from hundreds of scattered campfires. Ice-rimed bison look impossibly stoic and noble. Eagles and ravens glide just above rivers warmed by hot springs and floated by trumpeter swans. Elk and moose plow through chest-high drifts, mountain goats the color of the snow roost on sunburned cliffs, and scattered bear paw prints start appearing in the early spring. The rumble of myriad waterfalls are muted when they freeze into stunning ice stalactites, domes and walls. And the visibility stretches across half a dozen mountain ranges and three states.

It’s a big slice of the classic Wild West, literally frozen in time about six months out of every year. In Paul Schullery’s excellent book Yellowstone’s Ski Pioneers, he says that people were probably skiing in the area before it became the world’s first national park in March 1872. The earliest written reference is from a journal by A. Barr Henderson, a miner who started prospecting in the Yellowstone Valley in 1866.

Around Christmas of 1871 Henderson left his camp near present-day Emigrant, Montana, and “went to Bozeman on a pair of 15-foot snow shoes.” At that time his route should have taken him near or through the northern reaches of what would become the park a few months later.

Another likely early skier was Henry Maguire, author of The Coming Empire: A Complete and Reliable Treatise on the Black Hills, Yellowstone and Big Horn Regions (1878). He made numerous winter trips into the park starting in 1873, and while his book makes no mention of skis or skiing, Schullery feels that Maguire would have had to ski, at least sometimes, in order to see what he wrote about.

On an attempt to get to Yellowstone Falls and the geyser basins in December 1873, Maguire was turned back by deep snows and avalanche conditions. Upon reaching Mammoth Hot Springs, he wrote, “I felt amply repaid, however, for making the trip that far. It seemed as though the torrid and frigid zones had met at the spot, and flung together the phenomena peculiar to each. Bright-green ferns, and other water-plants, grew in rank profusion, along the rims of the myriads of perpetually boiling springs, in


Professor Bosse, illustrator for the
Haynes Mid-Winter Expedition, sketches
near the Norris Geyser Basin. Photo:
FJ Haynes, Montana Historical Society.

the hot breath of which descending snowflakes were converted into water before they reached the earth; while hard by were colossal icicles and trees thickly encased in frost, the surrounding landscape being deeply buried in snow.”

Poachers invade

Unfortunately, most of Yellowstone’s early skiing didn’t center on exploration and sightseeing, but on wholesale wildlife poaching and efforts to prevent it. The harsh winters forced bison, elk and deer into valleys where they could become trapped in deep snow. Hunters on skis had been overwhelming them for years, and that didn’t end when the area became a national park.

“The 1870's was a time of incredible waste and destruction among western wildlife populations, and Yellowstone Park was no exception,” writes Schullery.

General W.E. Strong, who explored Yellowstone on an expedition in 1872, wrote, “In 1870, when Lieutenant Doane first entered the Yellowstone Basin, it was without a doubt unsurpassed on this continent for big game… During the past five years the large game has been slaughtered here by professional hunters by thousands, and for their hides alone.” The meat was left to rot.

Ten years late in coming, an 1883 change in the park regulations prohibited “absolutely” the killing of most wildlife. Yellowstone ski patrols became a big part of the anti-poaching efforts, since the bulk of the damage was done in winter.


Haynes Expedition gearing up at the
Norris Hotel. FJ Haynes, MHS.

Between the poachers, army ski patrols, various expeditions, the mail delivery system, a growing string of small lodges and ranger stations that were inhabited year-round and increasing numbers of skiing tourists at Mammoth Hot Springs, early Yellowstone was one of the most active ski sites in the country.

Schwatka-Haynes expedition

When a much-ballyhooed 1886–87 winter expedition was launched by the Arctic explorer Lt. Frederick Schwatka and newly-appointed official Yellowstone photographer F. Jay Haynes to catalog the “mysteries” of that season, locals scoffed that it was no new thing to ski around the park in the winter.

“As well talk of ‘exploring’ Central Park, New York, as the National Park. The National Park is a well known country, everything worth seeing is mapped out,” declared seasoned Yellowstone skier Thomas Elwood (“Uncle Billy”) Hofer in a series of stories for Forest and Stream magazine titled “Winter in Wonderland, through the Yellowstone Park on snowshoes.”

No one minimized the risks of a deep dive into winter in country where nighttime temperatures could plunge to -50 Fahrenheit, and the days weren’t always much warmer. Blizzards could strike any time, it was easy to become disoriented and lost, and you had to carry enough food and warm weather gear to survive if that happened. The list of hazards was long, and some seriously hardcore Revenant-style hardships were regularly endured when any untimely mishaps could quickly become life threatening.


The Haynes-Hough party encounter a
poacher carrying furs. FJ Haynes, MHS

Consider the well-documented story of the biggest poacher bust in the park’s history. Edgar Howell was one of the region’s most notorious and rugged wildlife killers and in 1893 still operated with impunity. But army scout Felix Burgess managed to arrest him on March 12, in the Pelican Valley, for killing some of the last bison in the park. Catching Howell in the act was daring and difficult. But getting him back over the course of two days to Fort Yellowstone at Mammoth Hot Springs was Jack London material. Transporting a dangerous criminal through harsh conditions cost Burgess parts of one foot to frostbite.

As Schullery notes, it would be hard to say when skiing in the park became less about this kind of daunting work and more about recreation. “Indeed it probably always was,” he writes. “Skiing was certainly a popular local activity by the time Fort Yellowstone was built in 1891.” Accounts in 1894 mentioned children skiing at the fort regularly, with skis of all sizes stacked outside many houses, “just as in the park today,” observes Schullery.

In April 1902, President Theodore Roosevelt, who had been instrumental in the park’s creation, went skiing out of Mammoth with nature writer John Burroughs.


Staff member Lucy at the new hotel at Mammoth
Hot Springs, c. 1896. Photo: Fred Bradley,
University of Montana Mansfield Library.

Alpine skiing, 1941

By 1941, according to Stan Cohen’s comprehensive book Downhill in Montana, a Yellowstone Winter Sports Association was founded “for the purpose of purchasing a ski lift for the use of Yellowstone Park residents and for the promotion of other winter sports activities.” That winter a rope tow was installed on the north side of Mount Washburn. The next season a thousand-foot tow, rising 250 feet, operated east of Mammoth Hot Springs near Undine Falls.

For 50 years the tow furnished regular recreation for park employees and Gardiner and Mammoth residents. Lessons became part of the curriculum at local schools. Then, in 1994, several public controversies over safety issues and possible ski area expansion erupted, and the National Park Service pulled the plug on the ski area. In the meantime, lift-served skiing had sprung up all around the park, in Cody, Jackson Hole, Grand Targhee and Big Sky.

Today cross-country skiing within Yellowstone and Grand Teton is flourishing to the point where conflicts have arisen with snowmobilers and snowcoaches—not to mention concerns about the effect of traffic on the delicate winter ecosystem.


1928 guidebook for
automobile tourists. Mohawk
Rubber Co., University of
Montana Mansfield Library.

Yellowstone under snow poses a harsh enough challenge to flora and fauna without adding increasingly high levels of human interaction to the mix. The average frost-free period is barely more than a month. Annual plants, and even perennials, have a tough time some years, and that directly affects wildlife populations that are already under stress.

Winter can be deadly for many of the park’s species, especially bison, which get scalded by geysers and hot springs and mired in thermal bogs, and sometimes fall through the ice on rivers. One winter, 39 bison broke through on the Yellowstone River and drowned.

Over-winter survival rates among the newborn of most large fauna are often less than 50 percent. Moose calves spend their first two years with their mothers, who protect them from predators and guide them to foraging areas. Deer, elk, moose and bison sometimes team up to take turns breaking trail.

The geothermal areas offer oases of green and blooming plants in midwinter, so temperate that they maintain insect populations. Mosquitoes in January may be annoying, but they’re a small price to pay for making it through another bitter winter.

With all of its brutal challenges for flora, fauna and humans, Yellowstone in winter remains a place of exceptional beauty and wonder that can verge on the spiritual. As all 139 square miles of Yellowstone Lake freeze over, the transformation of water to ice produces “music,” sometimes described as sounding like a great pipe organ or the ringing of telegraph wires. “Sometimes the music plays throughout the night—melodious, vast and harmonious. It stops within a few days when snow begins to accumulate on the ice,” writes Steve Fuller in Snow Country: Autumn, Winter & Spring in Yellowstone. Add to that a full-moon night with a chorus of wolves and coyotes joining in, and the experience can be fully transcendent. 

Frequent contributor Jay Cowan wrote about North American snowfall records in the July–August issue of Skiing History.

Yellowstone: Few Set Tracks, But Lots of Space to Wander


Over-winter survival rates for elk and
bison calves may be just 50 percent.

Though tracks are only set on a few trails, nearly all unplowed roads and trails in Yellowstone are open to cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. You may find yourself sharing the road with snowmobilers, and there’s always a possibility of wildlife encounters. Some visitors prefer to take a snowcoach from the town of West Yellowstone into Old Faithful or the Upper Geyser Basin and ski on marked trails from there. You can also drive through Grand Teton National Park from the Jackson side, then ski to Yellowstone from there. Mammoth Hot Springs is one of the park’s biggest winter centers. The road is plowed and open all winter to Cooke City, at the park’s far northeastern corner. —J.C.

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By Rick Eliot with John Caldwell

Top: Early trail prep was achieved by snowshoeing first, then skiers next. Elizabeth Paepcke follows that format in 1956 in Colorado’s Ashcroft Valley. (Aspen Historical Society, Durrance Collection)


Decades later, in the Ashcroft Valley, a
skier enjoys the benefits of modern
track setting. Aspen Historical Society,
Russell Collection

For any sport, the condition of the playing surface is vital to success. For that reason, ski-touring centers strive to provide guests with well-designed trails groomed to perfection. Over the last half-century, setting and maintaining cross-country tracks has progressed from an arduous process requiring many workers to an efficient, machine-reliant method that uses just one person to operate the levers, buttons and switches.

Before the 1960s, trail preparation required significant effort. Trails could be created simply by snowshoeing, then skiing over the route. But prepping for major events or competitions required trail crews to shovel, rake, pack—and then set parallel ski tracks. It took a lot of time and effort. Consider the early staging of the annual 50-km Holmenkollen race in Oslo, which first started in 1888. Two 25-km laps translated into roughly 15 miles of snow that needed to be shoveled, packed and prepped.

Leading up to the 1960 Winter Olympics in Squaw Valley, two young American Nordic coaches, Al Merrill and Chummy Broomhall, started experimenting with a new grooming method. Both New Englanders with farming backgrounds and a Yankee knack for problem solving, they were familiar with the fine-toothed rotary tillers used to grade soil, leaving it soft and workable. Attaching a rototiller behind a Tucker snowcat, they realized, did the same for snow. Just one person operating a tiller could roll out
kilometer after kilometer of smooth, snow-carpeted trails.

Although the gyro-groomer, as it came to be known, was a major advance, other work was still required; skiers had to follow the groomer to stamp in a ski track. At Squaw Valley that job was done by the race forerunners and post-runners—skiers who had just missed the Olympic team cut.


Sven Johansson, US biathlon
coach, engineered a crude but
effective tracksetter: a wooden
box with runners on the bottom.

But help was not far off. Enter Sven Johansson, who raced for the United States at the Squaw Valley Games, then took the job of US biathlon head coach. Starting in 1961, the team was stationed in Fort Richardson, Alaska, which regularly received snowfall that filled in the ski tracks. Partly out of desperation, Johansson devised a remarkably easy and effective solution to track setting: a 28-inch by 36-inch wooden box with two runners on the bottom that simulated skis. When pulled behind a snowcat, with a cinder block or two added for weight, the sled created parallel ski tracks for the afternoon’s training session—likely one of the first mechanical track setters.

Thanks to this breakthrough, the days of strenuous and time-consuming snow shoveling, snowshoe packing and stamping in ski tracks were on their way out.

Johansson sent me a hand-drawn copy of the track-sled building plans. (We had become good friends during a three-week Olympic training camp in Idaho, where I was a coach.) At the time, I was working with the Lyndon Outing Club in Vermont, and we built a prototype sled to set tracks for a race in December 1963. Afterward, a group of high school and college coaches swarmed around the sled, asking for plans, which I later mailed out.


Box with runners, widely copied
from Johansson's device.

A similar scenario was unfolding in southern Vermont. John Caldwell, a former Olympic skier and a coach at the Putney School, had recruited a skilled carpenter to help him invent a comparable track-setting sled. Just as in Lyndonville, at the end of each race, coaches gathered around the new contraption, asking questions and taking measurements. Mechanical track-setters began cropping up at other schools and colleges, and at Eastern-sanctioned races.

Around this time, Ski-Doo snowmobiles became popular, and these machines turned out to be perfect for pulling a track setter. A typical Nordic setup in the mid-1960s consisted of a Ski-Doo pulling a homemade box sled with a clothesline. It got the job done, but it was still a far cry from what we use today.

Soon, modifications improved the design of track-setting equipment. Wooden sleds

were outfitted with metal blades to cut ski tracks in frozen show, and then polycarbonate bottoms were added to the sleds to reduce friction. Side runners could raise the frame in places where tracks were not wanted or for road crossings. Metal sleds replaced the wooden ones.


Snowmobile pulling a roller 
remains a low-cost constant.

As commercial versions of the devices became available, the whole cross-country scene took on a new look and feel. Ski-touring areas could now offer wide, smooth trails with perfectly straight, machine-set tracks, and their guests loved these beautifully prepared surfaces.

In Scandinavia and the rest of Europe, the evolution of trail preparation seems to have progressed much more slowly. According to Caldwell, the Norwegians were still shoveling snow to prepare the tracks at the 1966 FIS Nordic World Championships in Oslo. He recalls skiing behind a large snow machine at the 1968 Olympics in France—eight years after the more efficient methods of trail preparation had been used at the Squaw Valley Winter Games. But eventually, the Europeans caught up. In 1971, for example, Harry Brown imported an all-metal heavy frame sled from Sweden that produced good tracks in hard-packed and frozen snow.


Modern groomers can create
multiple tracks in a single pass.
Photo: Pisten Bully

Want to see what enables a modern ski-touring center to weave its trail magic? Next time you are at Craftsbury Outdoor Center, the Trapp Family Lodge or any other major cross-country operation, take a look through the window of the maintenance shop. You will probably see a wide-track Pisten Bully with a hydraulically controlled snowplow up front and a multi-purpose groomer/grader/track setter behind. This rig can lay down kilometer after kilometer of corduroy, with twin tracks for classic skiers.


The goal: Smooth classic track
and skate-ski option on the
same trail.

Picture the modern-day trail worker who drives the machine. Replacing dozens of workers on snowshoes, he or she simply hops into the cab, turns on the heater, and switches on the stereo. A press on the ignition switch, and the 250-horsepower engine roars to life. Hit the horn twice, slip into first gear, and roll out into the winter to begin an hour or two of grooming. 

Rick Eliot is a former collegiate racer and coach who lives in Massachusetts. Thanks to John Caldwell for his help with this article.

 

 

courtesy Pisten Bully

courtesy Pisten bully

A typical track-setting rig in the mid-1960s consisted of a Ski-Doo pulling a homemade box with a clothesline.

Modern groomers are high-tech, multi-use masters that can pack, smooth and create tracks in one pass. Groomers can now customize trail prep, for instances by varying the number of tracks and the width between tracks.

Top: Improved grooming provides classic tracks and skate-ski options on the same trail. Left: A snowmobile pulling a roller remains a low-cost constant at many cross-country centers.

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By Peggy Shinn

The first American to win a World Cup cross-country race, this pioneer has remained an advocate for women for five decades.

Photo above: Alison at the U.S. Nationals in 1977. Courtesy Alison Owen Bradley.

Trivia question: Who is the first U.S. racer to win a FIS cross-country World Cup?


As a member of the Pacific Northwest
Division, Alison bashed the gender
barrier at age 13, at the 1966 Junior
Nationals, Winter Park. AOB.

Kikkan Randall, or maybe Jessie Diggins? Nope. The answer is Alison Bradley (née Owen), who won the first-ever women’s FIS World Cup in December 1978. A member of the U.S. Ski & Snowboard Hall of Fame Class of 2020—to be officially inducted at some point in a post-pandemic world—Bradley is only the second female cross-country skier to be inducted into the Hall of Fame (her former teammate Martha Rockwell was in the HOF Class of 1986).


Bradley, with teammate Trudy Owen (no
relation) at the 1968 Winter Park training
camp. AOB.

“Having spent so much of my life devoted to excellence in the sport of cross-country skiing, and then to be recognized and honored for it by the Hall of Fame, is icing on the cake!” Bradley said by phone from her winter home in Bozeman, Montana. She lives with her husband, Phil Bradley, on a small hobby farm near Boise, Idaho, during the summer months.

It’s been a long time coming for Bradley, a pioneer of women’s cross-country skiing in the United States. Since retiring from competition in 1981, Bradley has coached and promoted women’s cross-country skiing. Most recently, Bradley, Randall, and 1984 Olympian Sue Wemyss started U.S. NOW—U.S. Nordic Olympic Women—a group of all the American women who have competed in cross-country skiing at an Olympic Winter Games.

“There are 53 of us, and we’re all still alive,” Bradley, 68, said. “How can we pass on what we learned to upcoming skiers?”

As a way to support current skiers, U.S. NOW has a “grit and grace” award.

First called the Inga Award—named after the unheralded mother of Crown Prince Haakon Haakonsson who was carried to safety by Norwegian Birkebeiners in 1206—Bradley presented it to Rosie Brennan at U.S. NOW’s first reunion in 2019.

“You always see the two Viking guys carrying the prince,” said Bradley, explaining the birth of the award. “You never hear about the boy’s mother. That’s kind of like women’s skiing. It really spoke to me that she would be a good example for us to persevere and be strong.”

Bradley’s aim is that U.S. NOW continues to inspire upcoming generations of female cross-country skiers. “We have a lot of passion for skiing and ski racing, but there hasn’t been a real big way to put ourselves back in,” she said. “Now we have a structure to work within.”


The U.S. women's XC team debuted
at the 1972 Sapporo Olympics. AOB.

The Early Days

Bradley had no female role models when she began cross-country skiing in the mid-1960s. Born in Kalispell, Montana, and raised in Wenatchee, Washington, Bradley was the second of five children in the Owen family, and like her father, she loved the outdoors.

One day, her father saw an ad in the Wenatchee World newspaper for a cross-country ski club. Herb Thomas, a Middlebury graduate and biathlete, had moved back to Wenatchee to work in his family’s apple business and wanted to teach area youth how to cross-country ski. Bradley, the only girl on the team, loved it. The next year, she beat several boys and qualified for a meet in Minnesota. But she was not allowed to compete.

“I couldn’t go because I was a girl,” she recalled, recounting an era in which female athletes were often ridiculed for competing, which was considered unattractive and even dangerous. “I was devastated.”

The next year, when she was 13, Bradley was one of nine Pacific Northwest Division skiers to qualify for the 1966 junior nationals in Winter Park, Colorado. This time, they let her go. But once she arrived, officials were not sure what to do with her. They finally allowed her to compete, but an ambulance was ready in case she succumbed to the effort (she didn’t).


First American, man or woman, to win a
World Cup XC race, eight-time U.S.
champion flashes a victory smiile. AOB.

Bradley does not remember the hoopla (she made laps on alpine skis at Winter Park while the race jury was deciding her fate), nor much about the race itself. For a 13-year-old, it was “just fun to be out of school and to have made the team.”

But Bradley had opened officials’ eyes. The following year, 17 girls qualified to compete at junior nationals, and they had their own race. By 1969, 40 girls participated in junior nationals, and the first senior national cross-country championships for women were held that year. Bradley had shattered her first glass ceiling.

‘First’ World Championships and Olympics

In 1970, the U.S. Ski Team sent its first women’s team to a FIS Nordic World Championship. A junior in high school, Bradley qualified for the team and left school for several weeks to travel behind the Iron Curtain to Czechoslovakia. Again, she remembers little from the 5k race, just that she was wide-eyed at the sights, so different than rural Washington.

American women made their Olympic debut in cross-country skiing at the 1972 Sapporo Winter Games. Galina Kulakova, a 29-year-old Soviet skier, swept the 5k and 10k individual races and anchored the Soviets to the relay gold medal—finishing more than five minutes ahead of the Americans, who crossed the line in last place. Bradley had just graduated from high school the previous spring and finished far back in both races.

Bradley asked U.S. women’s coach Marty Hall if she could just go home and taste success at junior nationals. “He would say, ‘Do you want to be a big fish in a little pond, or do you want to be a little fish in a big pond?’ I was getting eaten by the bigger fish, but it did wake me up to what I was working towards.”

Hall gave Bradley a training journal with Kulakova’s picture on the cover. “Someday you’re going to be right there with her,” he assured her.

But after 1974 world championships, Bradley had had enough. She was only 21 but felt as if her progress had stalled. She earned a scholarship to Alaska Methodist University (now Alaska Pacific University) and moved to Anchorage. She continued to compete domestically. But she was done with racing in Europe.

Then in 1978, the national championships were held in Anchorage. After winning the 7.5k and 20k races and finishing second in the 10k, Bradley found herself on another world championship team. “I’m not going back into that, I’m going to get my education,” she firmly told Jim Mahaffey, AMU’s ski coach.

Mahaffey persuaded her to try international competition again. She was good, he assured her. “Kochie had won an [Olympic] medal, ‘You know, maybe Americans can do well in this sport,’” she recalled thinking.

Physically and mentally more mature, Bradley was finally skiing near the front. In Europe, she finished top 10 in four races, including seventh at Holmekollen. It was like catching a touchdown pass in the Super Bowl.

In December 1978, Bradley made her mark. She had a good feeling at the Gitchi Gami Games in Telemark, Wisconsin—considered as the first FIS Cross-Country World Cup won by an American woman or man, though the FIS classifies it as a “test” event. “I knew in my heart I could win it,” she said. She just had to convince her body to go through the pain of racing. At that moment, Marty Hall walked into the lodge where Bradley was sitting. Hall was no longer the U.S. coach, but he looked across the room and pointed at Bradley. She looked back and thought, “Yes! I’m ready.”

Bradley won the women’s 5k that day and the 10k as well. With a handful of other top 10 finishes that season, she finished the World Cup ranked seventh overall. It was the best result by a U.S. woman until Kikkan Randall finished fifth overall 33 years later, in 2012.

The 1980 Olympic year was the best yet for Bradley. She won the Gitchi Gami Games again and finished on the podium in several World Cup races. In all, she made $35,000 in prize money—unheard of riches in a relatively unknown sport in the United States at that time. But at the 1980 Olympics in Lake Placid, she fell ill and finished 22nd in both races (5k and 10).

A year later, she won the last of her 10 national titles, then retired. “I was so discouraged by how up and down results would be,” she explained. “I could be right in there for some races, then people I had beaten were beating me at the big events. We wondered why our coaches couldn’t get us to peak.” She now recognizes the impact of performance enhancing drugs (PEDs) on the sport. In 1979, five of the six women ahead of Bradley in the World Cup rankings were Soviets and are strongly suspected of PED use.

“In hindsight, I give myself a lot more credit,” she said. “The doping scenario was confusing for racers like us because we had this attitude that we weren’t that good. But we friggin’ were that good!”

After Racing

Bradley moved to McCall, Idaho, after she retired and started a family. Her son, Jess Kiesel, helped the University of Utah ski team win an NCAA title as a freshman in 2003. Daughter Kaelin Kiesel was a two-time All-American and student athlete of the year at Montana State University (class of 2011).

After moving to Sun Valley in the mid-1980s, Bradley coached both Jess and Kaelin with the Sun Valley Ski Education Foundation, where for 14 years she helped several young skiers reach the world junior championships. Coaching at the world juniors, she once again confronted dominating males who weren’t good listeners. She knew more than most about training, ski prep, technique and, unlike her peers, had an impressive World Cup record. But she liked to concentrate on the mental approach to competition, and all the complex factors that lead to speed. “My style was very much about the person,” she said.

Then in the late 1990s, she saw a need for a program to help collegiate women make the national team. She founded WIND—Women In Nordic Development. Several WIND skiers competed in the world championships and made Olympic teams. But balancing the burden of fundraising, coaching, and raising her own kids, Bradley could not keep the WIND blowing for long.

In the mid-2010s, Sadie Maubet Bjornsen called Bradley out of the blue. The U.S. women’s team, led by coach Matt Whitcomb, wanted to learn more about the pioneering skiers who had laid tracks for the current women’s program. “I was in tears when Sadie emailed me,” said Bradley. “Really?! Someone remembers me?”

Bradley, Randall, and Wemyss ran with the idea, founding U.S. NOW. When Rosie Brennan received US NOW’s first award—and $1,000 to go with it—she was shocked. “I’ve had a lot of challenges in my whole career,” said Brennan, who was dropped for the second time from the U.S. Ski Team after she contracted mononucleosis during the 2018 Olympic year. “To be awarded this award from this group of people who have also gone through their own challenges means more than any race could ever mean to me.”

Two years after Randall and Jessie Diggins won America’s first Olympic gold medal in cross-country skiing (Team Sprint) at the 2018 PyeongChang Olympic Winter Games, Bradley was nominated to the U.S. Ski & Snowboard Hall of Fame, and several women on the 2018 U.S. Olympic team, plus Coach Whitcomb, penned a letter in support of her nomination.

“We are thankful for all Alison has done to further our sport, which gave us all something to dream about as young women,” read the letter. “The gold medal this winter has not only been an achievement for our team, but for the larger ‘team’ that Alison truly championed… all of (this) started with a leader who wouldn’t take ‘no’ as an answer.”

The hurdles Bradley-Owens and her colleagues faced in a male-dominated sport—and world—are in sharper focus now, but she’s pragmatic about the quest: Don’t blame the men, who deserve credit for organizing all the sports in the first place, she says, but step up yourself instead. “It’s been a slow change, but it is changing,” she says. 

Peggy Shinn is a senior contributor to TeamUSA.org, has covered five Winter Olympic Games and is a regular contributor to
Skiing History.

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From Olympic racing to elite coaching, this once-and-future family has had a powerful impact on the sport.

By Peter Oliver

The Caldwells are America’s first family of cross-country skiers. As elite athletes, coaches, ski technicians, organizational founders, retailers and advisors, the family and the sport have formed a multi-generational bond that goes back 70 years. In U.S. skiing, only the Cochrans come close. 

On a breezy June day in Peru, Vermont, three generations of Caldwells—grandfather John, son Sverre, granddaughter Sophie and her husband, Simi Hamilton—gathered on the porch of Sverre’s home, with its sweeping view south to Stratton Mountain. They pieced together a family history that begins with John’s journey from the Putney School to Dartmouth College to the 1952 Olympics, stretches through Sverre’s seminal coaching gig at Stratton Mountain School, and strides into the present with Sophie and Simi’s leadership on the U.S. World Cup team. 

The family legacy has humble roots in late-1940s Vermont. Although a gifted downhill skier, John was a cross-country neophyte as a high-school athlete at Putney. In his first nordic race, he borrowed his sister’s clunky alpine skis (because they were smaller and lighter than his) and “basically ran around the course on skis,” he recalls. He finished in the top 15. Yet by the time John reached Dartmouth, his skills—and equipment—had improved sufficiently to enable him to compete as a four-event skier, in cross-country, jumping, slalom and downhill. He was named to the 1952 Olympic nordic combined team...

 

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By Peter Oliver

From Olympic racing to elite coaching, this once-and-future family has had a powerful impact on the sport. 

Above: John Caldwell at home in Putney, Vermont, where he first started competing as a high-school student in the late 1940s. By 1951 (right), he was training with the U.S. nordic team for the 1952 Winter Olympics in Oslo.

The Caldwells are America’s first family of cross-country skiers. As elite athletes, coaches, ski technicians, organizational founders, retailers and advisors, the family and the sport have formed a multi-generational bond that goes back 70 years. In U.S. skiing, only the Cochrans come close.

On a breezy June day in Peru, Vermont, three generations of Caldwells—grandfather John, son Sverre, granddaughter Sophie and her husband, Simi Hamilton—gathered on the porch of Sverre’s home, with its sweeping view south to Stratton Mountain. They pieced together a family history that begins with John’s journey from the Putney School to Dartmouth College to the 1952 Olympics, stretches through Sverre’s seminal coaching gig at Stratton Mountain School, and strides into the present with Sophie and Simi’s leadership on the U.S. World Cup team.


John’s wife, Hep, worked alongside him at Putney School and at home as they raised their skiing and coaching clan together.

The family legacy has humble roots in late-1940s Vermont. Although a gifted downhill skier, John was a cross-country neophyte as a high-school athlete at Putney. In his first nordic race, he borrowed his sister’s clunky alpine skis (because they were smaller and lighter than his) and “basically ran around the course on skis,” he recalls. He finished in the top 15. Yet by the time John reached Dartmouth, his skills—and equipment—had improved sufficiently to enable him to compete as a four-event skier, in cross-country, jumping, slalom and downhill. He was named to the 1952 Olympic nordic combined team.

Grand as it might have been to go to the Games, he didn’t exactly receive the gilded Olympic treatment. Cross-country was little more than a blip on American skiing’s radar screen. “Not many ski clubs were promoting cross-country skiing,” John says, and the team essentially had no budget. Preparation for the Games in Oslo was an on-the-fly affair. Relegated to the margins, John and his teammates self-funded an impromptu camp in Sun Valley, where they didn’t always maintain an intensive focus on training. Enticed one day by fresh powder, they were spotted by a photographer who was so impressed by their downhill talents that he took publicity shots for the resort’s marketing campaign.


John Caldwell offers son Tim some advice on the World Cup circuit in 1980. In the 1960s and early 1970s, John coached several U.S. Olympic and World Championship teams.Caption

Not surprisingly, John’s Olympic performance in Oslo was less than stellar. “I never felt so unprepared for an athletic event in my life,” he says. He remembers making 11 jumps from the legendary Holmenkollen and falling six times. One inelegant but successful jump enabled him to qualify for the 18-kilometer cross-country event, in which he was 73rd among 75 finishers. More than 24 minutes behind the Norwegian winner, he managed to beat just one Australian skier.

That ignoble performance motivated John to embark on a long campaign to upgrade the stature of—and support for—cross-country skiing in America. In 1953, he launched a three-decade career of teaching and coaching at Putney while he and his wife, Hep, started a family (or, as Sophie teases her grandfather, “popping out kids”). Tim, Sverre, Peter and Jennifer formed the next generation to carry the family name forward. Meanwhile, John continued to burnish his own legacy.

In the 1960s and early 1970s, he was back on the national-team scene, coaching several Olympic and world championship teams, becoming the nordic representative on the U.S. Ski Team board, and writing a book, The Cross-Country Ski Book, the only one of its kind in the U.S. at that time. (The book’s success “kept me out of the poorhouse,” John says.) He was also founder of the New England Nordic Ski Association, whose prestigious annual award now bears his name.

Despite these efforts, acceptance of the sport was slow in coming. “Nobody paid attention to cross-country,” John says, and he remembers another USST board member telling him: “If you weren’t such a nice guy, we wouldn’t even have a cross-country program.” For the 1966 World Championship team, it took a $1,000 gift from a friend to pay for top-quality equipment for team members.


Tim Caldwell carried the family banner into elite racing. Between 1972 and 1984, he competed in four Winter Olympics, finishing sixth in the 4 x 10 km relay at the 1976 Games in Innsbruck. His best World Cup finish was second in a 15 km event in 1983. He’s now an attorney in Lebanon, New Hampshire.

That was the world Sverre and older brother Tim entered in the late 1960s and early 1970s as they rose through the nordic ranks. Tim carried the family banner into elite racing, competing in the first of four Olympics as an 18-year-old in 1972. (Peter was also a successful XC racer, building an impressive collegiate record, while Jennifer would win the prestigious American Birkebeiner race in 1983.) During Tim’s 12-year Olympic run, between 1972 and 1984, respect for cross country finally began to take root. “A lot of things changed,” Tim says, and by 1984, “we were treated like kings compared with our predecessors.”

That was all relative, of course. By alpine standards, the American cross-country program was still a bare-bones operation. Team coaches “wore many hats,” says Tim—waxing skis, making travel arrangements, cooking meals, devising fitness programs. “In 1972, you never heard the term ‘wax tech.’ And even in 1984, we were doing a lot of waxing ourselves.” That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “There was something to be gained by getting a feel for your skis by waxing them.”

And in the absence of official support, says John, U.S. skiers might have had a few advantages over well-financed Scandinavian and Russian programs. Freed from sponsor obligations, for example, U.S. skiers could use any wax brands and combinations that they wanted. “We knew more about waxing than anyone else,” John says of the 1960s and 1970s. “We tried waxing innovations that might have given us an edge.”

Health issues—pneumonia and back problems—slowed Sverre’s athletic development. He stayed connected to the sport by dabbling in coaching as a Dartmouth student in the 1970s. But he found that coaching and athletic development hadn’t advanced much since John’s Olympic struggles in 1952.


Sverre Caldwell took over the nordic team at the Stratton Mountain School in the 1970s and turned it into the best secondary-school program in the country. Over 40 years, 16 Olympians and more than 30 national members have had SMS roots.

When Sverre took over the nordic program at Stratton Mountain School in the late 1970s, he was hired not because of his great expertise but simply because there wasn’t much competition. “There just weren’t that many experienced coaches,” he says. After all, there were no technical manuals for guidance (except perhaps for The Cross-Country Ski Book) and no great American mentors. The concept of the ski academy was essentially birthed with Burke Mountain Academy, founded in 1970, followed by Stratton Mountain School in 1972 and Green Mountain Valley School in 1973. But the academies’ focus was almost entirely on developing alpine athletes. Like John flying blind in preparing for the 1952 Olympics, Sverre had no template to guide him.

Left to his own devices, Sverre managed to turn the SMS nordic program into the best secondary-school program in the country. In a 40-year span beginning in the late 1970s, 16 Olympians have had SMS roots, and Sverre produced so many national-team members that the best number he can put on it is “30ish.” Among those elite skiers are Sophie and Simi, as well as Sophie’s cousin (and Tim’s son) Patrick and recent Olympic gold medalist Jessie Diggins.


Olympians Sophie Caldwell and husband Simi Hamilton have been most successful as skate skiers in sprint events.
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As a third-generation standard-bearer for the Caldwell legacy, Sophie claims she felt no pressure to live up to the family name. (“I took the pressure off because I wasn’t a very good athlete,” jokes Sverre.) But there were decided advantages to being a Caldwell: Sophie could tap into a deep reservoir of wisdom and experience.


Sophie Caldwell, daughter of Sverre, is the third-generation standard-bearer. She finished third overall in the 2017–2018 overall sprint standings.

Thanks in part to John and Sverre, the national team has advanced by light years since the early 1950s. Both Sophie and Simi have been most successful as skate skiers in sprinting events. Sprinting wasn’t added to the roster of Olympic sports until 2002, and skating technique was just beginning to evolve in the early 1980s, when Tim was nearing the end of his competitive career. What Sophie and Simi are doing today was unimaginable in John’s time … or even in Tim’s. Sophie is a two-time Olympian who finished third in the 2017–2018 overall World Cup sprint standings; Simi, who grew up in Aspen, is a three-time Olympian who finished ninth in the overall sprint standings the following year.

Sophie and Simi are not alone in sustaining the family legacy. Sverre’s son Austin has followed his father into the collegiate coaching ranks. Patrick is now retired from the national team, but cousin Zach, proprietor of Caldwell Sports in Putney, is considered one of the best—if not the best—cross-country ski tech in the country. And when Sophie and Simi talk abstractly about having a family in the future, perhaps a fourth generation of Caldwells is preparing, prenatally, to carry the banner farther into the future.

They are, indeed, a once-and-future force of nature.  

 

From Skiing History, Sept/Oct 2020