You know you’re an old-timer up here in Park City if you remember Mayor John Price. Old tired cars parked on Main. More free-running dogs than people. And half the store fronts boarded up, available just for the back taxes. Just ask a local.
A young crop of hippie ski bums moved into town every September, usually taking a room at the Alpine Prospector Hotel (now Grappa) waiting to see what seasonal rental they could snag. It was hard to find affordable housing, even back then.
An actual home with sturdy floors might cost the outrageous sum of $250 a month, necessitating a roommate. You could see the dirt and feel the wind under the houses between the floorboards. But they weren’t shanties by our standards, just a little rough. We didn’t need granite counters or heated driveways. We were just lucky to find someplace to live.
Parking and traffic were never an issue, as the hippies arrived here with no cars. Walking was the preferred method of transportation. There were no traffic lights in all of Summit County. In the silent snowfall, it sometimes felt like walking in a snow globe. Nobody biked in Park City except for Bicycle Jack, and there were no hiking trails. You had to bushwack up and back to Shadow Lake, where you could be accosted by a gaucho sheep herder tending his flock with his rifle and dogs.
Back then there were two grocery stores on Main Street: Days Market and the Mt. Aire Market, both within walking distance from everyone’s home. Art Durante’s “What can I do you out of today?” Hardware Store carried anything and everything needed to repair our modest miner/ski shacks. Since everything was within walking distance, you didn’t need a car.
Park City did have a good supply of bars from which to choose on any given night. The Handlebar, run by Handlebar Phil, where Cisero’s sits today, had live bands featured on the weekends. While Handlebar Phil served up beers, and handlebar rides, various bands served up mighty fine dance music, rattling the floors so badly we all expected to wind up in a pile when the flooring gave way.
The short-lived Night Club at Kimball Junction, other than the two gas stations, featured Leon Russell one night dressed in his white suit with his long white beard. He played his heart out for three hours while pounding away at his white baby grand. That was a night to remember, as we all stood around his piano, smothering him with our admiration.
Another great bar was The White Mule, which sat at the bottom of the ski area and featured Friday and Saturday night dancing, enhanced by the exuberant rugby team. The Muckers entranced the crowds with their immodest lyrics and mostly lewd dance steps and gestures. It was the best part of the evening. No one left until the Muckers, led by George-the-Hack in his red bandanna, performed for the crowd.
Some of the best restaurants have come and gone, but we remember that Utah Coal and Lumber, Mileti’s, Robbers Roost, and C’est Bon always served up the best food at affordable prices with other delicacies served behind the bar. Lines were drawn and bones were rolled, and no one really cared. Just ask a local.
The bump-ski competition on Thayne’s face brought out the best bump skiers in Park City, and the ballet skiing contests were eloquent and stylish. Clown day was a ridiculous collage of costumes with the perennial trio of apes on one pair of skis. The Snowhut (Blowhut) was the center of craziness.
The Fourth of July parades in the 1970s lasted all of 10 minutes. Then everyone assembled at the bottom of Main for the races. Fireworks were guaranteed at City Park, and you didn’t have to show your ID to buy a beer. Ernie the Breadman brought the rodeo to the Junction every Fourth of July. After the night riders rode their horses in the parade and after the demolition derby, the rodeo got under way with all the grit and glamour that a rodeo has to offer: a little bit of the wild west on a hot July day in Park City.
The two-lane highway out to Kimball Junction stopped twice a day for Osguthorpe’s dairy cows to cross from the west field to their milking shelter on the east side of 224. You learned not to hurry in our little town. That’s why we came here.
As locals, we have watched our town morph into a metropolis. It’s much busier with an exploding population and economy that we never imagined could happen to this sleepy little ski town.
If you have lived here long enough, you treasure the memories of this quiet, quirky and mostly unknown ski town, buried deep behind the Wasatch in Treasure Hollow. Everything evolves, but we thankfully have the legends and memories of this town before anyone knew of it as a ski mecca. The best memories are of former days of just living for the snow in a very small peaceful town when we were young and thought life would never change.
These memories of our town are the real buried treasures of our time here. Just ask a Local.
Kathryn Deckert is a longtime resident of Old Town Park City.