Russ LaChapelle: The Bard of Bearpen

I first crossed paths with Russ LaChapelle in the fall of 2010; though, like many people interested in New York ski history, I’d encountered him years earlier through his quirky, deeply personal website.

Jam-packed with information about vanished rope tows, forgotten slopes, and half-erased ski dreams, it was clearly the work of someone who cared more about getting the story right than making it look polished or easily navigable (as much as was possible with internet technology back then).

When we finally connected on the phone, I explained the pitch I’d made to Harvey, editor of the nascent NYSkiBlog.

I proposed a wide-ranging interview about the origins of Russ’s passion for Empire State skiing and a feature about Bearpen Mountain, a place about which I knew very little.

The first piece went fine.

I interviewed Russ for 90 minutes, during which we bonded about growing up in the snowy suburbs of Syracuse: he in Liverpool and I in Camillus. While the stories about the lift-served survivors were interesting enough, it was the ski areas that lived and then disappeared quietly that intrigued me – areas undone by unreliable snow, poor financing, oversized ambitions, unsuitable terrain, lousy locations, surging gas prices, skyrocketing insurance premiums, or any number of other forces. He loved sharing what he found with people who were genuinely curious.

Most of the time, it felt less like doing an interview and more like sitting in on an extended, passionate monologue – the kind where you mostly just try to keep up and only request the occasional clarification. Back then, I transcribed the recording made on my micro-cassette recorder, copyedited it for clarity and flow, got Russ’s approval, and we posted it.

The Bearpen Article

Little did I know what awaited me when I approached the center of Russ’s fascination with New York State skiing. By the time we talked in January 2011, Russ had decades of history wrapped up in this lost ski area: timelines, land disputes, nefarious local characters, and the many ambitions that once surrounded it. It felt like he’d already walked every trail, literally and figuratively. But what mattered most to him wasn’t trivia. He understood why Bearpen mattered: a glimpse into how raw and experimental skiing in New York once was, and how it might have altered the trajectory of skiing in the Northeast if circumstances had broken differently.

We both decided that the story would be best served by holding another interview, but this time I’d take his thoughts and create a more chronological narrative out of the mounds of Bearpen spaghetti he was throwing at the wall (me!). Russ was constantly connecting dots, viewing things in interesting ways, and correcting the record where necessary – and he did correct my record. I must’ve gone through a dozen drafts, some of which received very tart feedback.

Russ wasn’t nostalgic about lost ski areas.

He cared about accuracy. He cared about what happens when history gets simplified or misremembered. He was always thinking about how these places are used or not used now and how understanding their past shapes how we regard them.

It took five more years before we finally met in person, hiking Bearpen in 2015 with a group that included the founders of the ski area, the Lane brothers. Russ was exactly who I expected him to be: thoughtful, generous with his knowledge, and openly admiring of the men who willed the place into being. Walking with him made it clear that this mountain wasn’t just a subject or a research topic; it was a love affair built over time.

Russ recently passed away.

Because of him, many of us look differently at New York’s ski history. We notice old cuts in the woods, foundations with no buildings on top of them, faded signage, rusting lift infrastructure, and wonder what used to be there. We understand that skiing in New York didn’t just happen at the places that survived; it happened everywhere people were willing to haul rope tows uphill and dream big. The mountains he cared about are still there, and every time someone pauses on a grown-in Catskills mountainside or a Central New York molehill and wonders what used to be there, Russ is part of that moment.

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