Archive:Whitney Inn, Jackson, NH

The following factual story is from a friend describing her experience in 1946 with the Whitneys resort which was located in Jackson, New Hampshire and owned by a Whitney family. The author, Jeanne Nutter, lives near me in the Caney Fork Community near Cullowhee, NC, and has given me permission to publish it here. She has fond memories of the Whitney family mentioned therein. This was also published by New Ground Press as part of a collection of works, called "And Then THE WAR Was Over" by Senior Writers at the Golden Age Center, Sylva, North Carolina.

Hope you enjoy it.
 Curt Whitney  --Curt 09:02, 18 June 2007 (CDT)

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                                         == JEANNE NUTTER ==

                                             SNOW TRAIN

The Snow Train left New York City's bustling Grand Central Station one December day in 1946, carrying me away from the sophisticated, cosmopolitan Big Apple to a far different environment. The Snow Train ran once a day to Boston and then on to the small White Mountains town of Intervale, New Hampshire, literally the end of the line.

Encumbered with three large suitcases, a small cosmetics case, figure skates and skis with boots attached, I found a seat and settled myself for the long ride. My destination was Jackson, New Hampshire, where I would be the secretary-hostess at a well-known resort, Whitneys. The enticement was that I would work mornings and have afternoons free to ski. The thought of skiing every day boggled my mind; I'd even refused a job at the famous Sun Valley Lodge in Idaho. My only regret was having to spend my first Christmas away from home.

Excited and anticipating a wonderful winter ahead, I wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Whitney would be nice to work for; would the Inn be as New England as I imagined; would I meet any new friends and how about the apres ski life?

The slow Snow Train chugged on through a bucolic countryside, and I succumbed to the train's sleep-inducing motion. I closed my book, Gone with the Wind, and thought about the past year.

Even though my graduation in '45 was a milepost for me, the ending of World War II was an event I'll never forget. I was working in New York City when wild, unrestrained jubilation erupted in Times Square and all over the city. Peace at last! American soldiers would be returning! No more bomb scares, blackouts, rationing or sadness!

An earsplitting screech of metal to metal suddenly jolted me to the present. The train was screeching to a halt. Nowhere near the end of the line, those of us in my car were concerned. The hills and fields outside the windows were covered with a light dusting of snow but no train station was in sight.

Opening the sliding door to our car, the conductor announced, "Due to the 42 degrees below zero weather, the train has frozen to the tracks. Just as soon as we can get help to loosen her, we will be on our way again." He left us all wondering how such a thing could happen. The longer the train sat idle, the more frigid the car became. Even the restroom floor had a sheet of ice on it. After two long hours the train gave a jarring clank and amid clouds of steam, chugs and creaks, we were once again headed north.

The Snow Train's terminus was a quaint old station where I was met by my new bosses, the Whitneys. Although they'd waited over two hours, they were friendly and made me feel welcome.

Jackson was reached through a red covered bridge, and as we approached it, Mr. Whitney said, "This bridge has been the entrance to Jackson as long as I can remember." In strong New England accents the Whitneys kept up a running commentary about each place we passed. The village looked like a Currier and Ives picture, right down to the small ice skating rink in the center of town. The road to the Inn followed the picturesque Wildcat River with water thrashing wildly against huge rocks encrusted with icicles. We stopped briefly to view "Mount Washington, the highest and coldest place in the northeast," boasted Mr. Whitney. The snow-capped giant was an awesome sight, only six miles away. When we drove up to the sprawling Inn, I was impressed by the Norman Rockwell-ish atmosphere. Since only a light snow had fallen, everyone prayed for snow. The ski instructors vowed not to shave until snow fell. Could I have guessed that the bearded ski instructor, just back from Europe, would become my husband? Probably not.

When a heavy snowfall finally came, the Christmas season glistened in its pristine white wrapping, bringing gaiety to the Inn. Guests poured in, ski instructors shaved, ski lifts cranked up and a huge Christmas box from home arrived for me. The winter flew by, my skiing improved and I shared camaraderie with my new friends. Then late one March night the unthinkable happened.

A fire spread throughout the building with amazing speed. The wooden building became a tinderbox. One minute fire licked the floorboards and the next we were fleeing for our lives.

French Canadian chambermaids leaped out windows. Hattie, the large cook, screamed as she fled that her teeth and life savings were still under her bed. The rest of us, waitresses who were all Smith College graduates, the ski patrol, ski instructors and I, escaped by placing our hands on one another's shoulders as we groped our way down the pitch-black, smoke-filled stairway and out into the freezing night.

Outside we met guests standing in their nightgowns, barefooted in the snow and freezing cold. The wind was fanning the flames into a blazing inferno. We stood in shock.

The sub-zero weather caused havoc with the fire department's response. The first truck wrecked on the way, and the second truck's pump froze-up. A third truck, which had to come twelve miles over winding country roads, arrived too late. The building was completely engulfed in red-hot flames shooting skyward and we could do nothing but watch it burn to the ground. When daylight arrived, all that remained was a pile of smoldering ashes.

Within a couple of days, everyone—the help and guests—left. My only two possessions were pajamas and the fur coat I had grabbed from the foot of my bed. To be without even a comb or toothbrush was beyond belief, but with money wired from my father I bought something to wear and a ticket home.

The Snow Train left the quiet beauty of the snowy White Mountain town and headed towards Grand Central Station. Although the fire had been traumatic, I was most grateful to be alive, but there was no excitement this time, only an emptiness. Totally unencumbered except for many memories, I watched the countryside pass into oblivion as the Snow Train carried me home.

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Jeanne Nutter, mother of three sons and five grandchildren, has lived with her husband, truing, in Cullowhee, North Carolina, for the past ten years, coming from Sarasota, Florida. Her hobbies include travel, crafts, skiing and writing. This year two of her stories won first place in the Literary Arts category of the Smokey Mountain Senior Games.