Worley and I were up for two days of skiing. Though remote, Bohemia’s 1,465-foot peak — which boasts mile-long runs and 900 feet of vertical drop — regularly attracts skiers from as far away as Chicago.
Its history as a ski destination began, or tried to begin, in the late 1980s, when the raw hillside of Mount Bohemia was the speculation of a large resort-development firm. Condominiums, chalets and a convention center were part of a planned megaresort to be called Lac La Belle. “The developers were trying to construct the ‘Vail of the Midwest,’” said Lonie Glieberman, current president of Mount Bohemia.
But Lac La Belle failed to raise enough funding, Glieberman said, fizzling on the launch pad. The resort was never built.
In the late 1990s, Glieberman, a businessman from Detroit, purchased the area and began planning a ski resort far removed from the proposed luxury lodges and condos of Lac La Belle. “I wanted to make something that was a first-of-its-kind,” Glieberman said. “Bohemia would cater to an underserved market of skiers looking for adventure in the Midwest.”
The result was a bare bones ski hill that opened in 2000. Glieberman cleared a parking area and put up a warming hut. He hired workers to trim underbrush from half-mile-wide hillsides that autumn, then he waited for the snow, which dumps most winters by the foot from clouds off Lake Superior.
Today, Bohemia’s infrastructure is only slightly more complete. Yurts are used in lieu of a chalet at the base of the main lift. There are bunkbed-equipped cabins for rent. The spirit of the terrain — and Glieberman’s vision of an adventure-oriented resort — remains unchanged since opening day.
From the cliff above “Slide Path,” I could see clearly what Glieberman was going for. “Adventure” was in no short supply below. It’s now been five minutes. Murphy is yelling for me to jump. Worley is leaning on a tree to my left, a camera lens aimed my way.
“All clear!” comes the affirmation again. But my legs are jelly. It’s a big jump. And the chute drops fast from the base of the cliff, a white ribbon funneling through rock walls. “I’m moving down,” I yell, referencing a smaller drop into the same run.
A wave of snow washes over the ledge as I traverse. I see Murphy waiting far downhill. A final pause. Then I let go, gravity tugging me off the cliff — airborne at last.
A moment later, I land and snow explodes. No time to think, I’m moving fast. I’m in the chute, rock walls whizzing past. I hop-turn to move through the heavy snow. Edge. Lean. Hop. Turn. Stop. Breathe.
“Nice, man!” Murphy shouts. We’re standing at the bottom of the chute. My breath comes out in clouds. Little tendrils of snow are bouncing by.
The snow is knee-high through the trees now to the bottom of the mountain. Worley catches up. We leave first tracks in the deep white, launching off tree stumps where the terrain mellows out further down.
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