denigrate it. Moreover, I knew that if Frank and Dick were going to have a real chance of climbing even a few of these peaks, they were going to have to hook up with people who knew what they were doing. Although we didn't discuss it at the time, I had a notion I might just get a chance to become part of this crazy adventurous scheme.
Dick Bass stood on the sundeck of the Klein Matterhorn Restaurant Complex in Zermatt. Spreading his arms to encompass the view he exclaimed, “Just look at this, Hoopie. I’m telling you, we'll have the same thing at Snowbird and people will flock to it.”
Until then Hoopie, Snowbird's mountain manager, who was accompanying Dick on this tour of mountaintop restaurants, had doubted the possibility of a similar installation at Snowbird. But now, caught between Dick's contagious enthusiasm and the inspiring view of the Matterhorn, he was beginning to sway.
“I’ll admit, it's impressive.”
“I knew you'd come around,” Dick said. “You're just like the rest—always doubting me at first.”
It seemed to Dick he was always facing an uphill battle convincing people not only about the mountaintop restaurant but about most of the visions he had for Snowbird (just as he had had a hard time convincing people he could climb McKinley).
With so many nay-sayers it had been tough finding financing, and Dick had sunk every penny of his own money into the project. That had put a tight squeeze on his personal life, and even contributed to his first wife's leaving him, he thought. He was now married again, but the money pressures were still there.
He was absolutely convinced, though, that someday the ski area would not only stand on its own legs but be the greatest year-round mountain resort on earth. He was almost evangelistic about it. He would tell you that when he had gazed on the aspen- and evergreen-covered slopes in Little Cottonwood Canyon, outside of Salt Lake City, his mind's eye saw a system of chairlifts, gondolas, and aerial trams beyond what anyone thought possible. He knew it would probably take another twenty years to see Snowbird the way he dreamed it, but that was okay: he was only fifty-one years old.
Dick felt his tour of mountaintop restaurants in Europe had been such a success that he could put Snowbird out of his mind for a couple of weeks and turn to this mountain climbing project. He had just received word from Frank in California and learned that everything was “go”; Frank had given him instructions to meet at the Copenhagen airport en route to Russia and the Caucasus.
Dick had his twenty-five-year-old son Dan with him to go on the climb as well, and together they arrived in Copenhagen and spotted Frank and Jack Wheeler waiting at the neighboring baggage carousel. The clockwork-precision rendezvous was an auspicious beginning. Once they had Frank's and Jack's gear they could board Aeroflot to Moscow. When the baggage started down the conveyor, however, Dick got a little skeptical, thinking the luggage looked pretty fancy for a true climber.
Mostly that top-drawer Abercrombie and Fitch stuff, Dick thought.
Then a large metal case trundled down.
“What in the world is that?”
“The camera.”
“The camera? Look, Frank, we're here to climb a mountain, not lug something that big.”
“Let me explain. This isn't for the mountain.”
“Then what's it for?”
“My friend Clint Eastwood is making this movie about a navy pilot who dresses himself up as a Russian officer and sneaks into the country to steal one of their top-secret fighter jets. He's asked me to take a few establishing shots for him in Red Square.”
“Do you know how to use this thing?”
“Jack's had some lessons.”
“You've got a permit to do this, don't you?”
“No, we're going to sneak it.”
“Sneak it!? We'll be run out of Russia and never climb Elbrus!”
“Don't worry,” Frank said. “Nothing's going to happen.”
Dick didn't say more, but he hated this kind of
Dick Bass stood on the sundeck of the Klein Matterhorn Restaurant Complex in Zermatt. Spreading his arms to encompass the view he exclaimed, “Just look at this, Hoopie. I’m telling you, we'll have the same thing at Snowbird and people will flock to it.”
Until then Hoopie, Snowbird's mountain manager, who was accompanying Dick on this tour of mountaintop restaurants, had doubted the possibility of a similar installation at Snowbird. But now, caught between Dick's contagious enthusiasm and the inspiring view of the Matterhorn, he was beginning to sway.
“I’ll admit, it's impressive.”
“I knew you'd come around,” Dick said. “You're just like the rest—always doubting me at first.”
It seemed to Dick he was always facing an uphill battle convincing people not only about the mountaintop restaurant but about most of the visions he had for Snowbird (just as he had had a hard time convincing people he could climb McKinley).
With so many nay-sayers it had been tough finding financing, and Dick had sunk every penny of his own money into the project. That had put a tight squeeze on his personal life, and even contributed to his first wife's leaving him, he thought. He was now married again, but the money pressures were still there.
He was absolutely convinced, though, that someday the ski area would not only stand on its own legs but be the greatest year-round mountain resort on earth. He was almost evangelistic about it. He would tell you that when he had gazed on the aspen- and evergreen-covered slopes in Little Cottonwood Canyon, outside of Salt Lake City, his mind's eye saw a system of chairlifts, gondolas, and aerial trams beyond what anyone thought possible. He knew it would probably take another twenty years to see Snowbird the way he dreamed it, but that was okay: he was only fifty-one years old.
Dick felt his tour of mountaintop restaurants in Europe had been such a success that he could put Snowbird out of his mind for a couple of weeks and turn to this mountain climbing project. He had just received word from Frank in California and learned that everything was “go”; Frank had given him instructions to meet at the Copenhagen airport en route to Russia and the Caucasus.
Dick had his twenty-five-year-old son Dan with him to go on the climb as well, and together they arrived in Copenhagen and spotted Frank and Jack Wheeler waiting at the neighboring baggage carousel. The clockwork-precision rendezvous was an auspicious beginning. Once they had Frank's and Jack's gear they could board Aeroflot to Moscow. When the baggage started down the conveyor, however, Dick got a little skeptical, thinking the luggage looked pretty fancy for a true climber.
Mostly that top-drawer Abercrombie and Fitch stuff, Dick thought.
Then a large metal case trundled down.
“What in the world is that?”
“The camera.”
“The camera? Look, Frank, we're here to climb a mountain, not lug something that big.”
“Let me explain. This isn't for the mountain.”
“Then what's it for?”
“My friend Clint Eastwood is making this movie about a navy pilot who dresses himself up as a Russian officer and sneaks into the country to steal one of their top-secret fighter jets. He's asked me to take a few establishing shots for him in Red Square.”
“Do you know how to use this thing?”
“Jack's had some lessons.”
“You've got a permit to do this, don't you?”
“No, we're going to sneak it.”
“Sneak it!? We'll be run out of Russia and never climb Elbrus!”
“Don't worry,” Frank said. “Nothing's going to happen.”
Dick didn't say more, but he hated this kind of
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