On a bright Sunday afternoon in January, a crowd of several hundred people gather in front of a small ski lodge at the base of Eureka Peak in the old mining town of Johnsville. They stamp their boots to live folk music, trying to stay warm, as they peer up at the silhouettes standing along the ridge of a groomed hill. From 500 feet above the crowd, skiers grip single poles—many constructed from crooked tree branches—and lean over the heavy 10-foot-long skis they’d trudged up the hill. They’re awaiting the sound of a hammer hitting an old sawmill blade, the traditional “go” signal of the Historic Longboard Revival Race Series, a 165-year-old annual competition held on the third Sunday of every January, February, and March.
Johnsville is widely considered to be the birthplace of downhill skiing in the Western Hemisphere, with evidence of longboard racing dating back to the mid-19th century. But the story stretches back centuries, into the deep history of the surrounding Lost Sierra.
For thousands of years, Washoe people moved along these ridgelines on snowshoes as part of their seasonal migrations, establishing pathways that connected to the Central Valley and the Great Basin. When gold and timber drew settlers to the Sierras in the 1800s, the newcomers adapted Washoe routes for their own use. To navigate the heavy snow, miners would fashion crude skis from the materials around them: vertical grain Douglas fir or barrel staves shaped into long, flat planks. The bottoms were coated with a handmade wax called dope—often proprietary combinations of pitch pine, beef tallow, cedar oils, and, when available, whale spermaceti that made the skis fast and slick.
The practice was described in a 1859 article for the Quincy newspaper Plumas Argus: “It may be a matter of wonder to some of your readers, how people get about where there is so much snow, but it is the easiest thing in the Mountains. Nearly all have Norwegian snowshoes, about nine feet long, four and a half inches wide, made of wood, shaved thin and turned up in front like a sled runner, and by fastening them to the feet about the middle of the shoe, and with a pole in the hands for a balance, a person can run over the light and new fallen snow at railroad speed.”
Within just a few years, locals began to see recreational opportunities in these utilitarian skis. On winter weekends, miners gathered on the nearby hills, which had been cleared of trees by timber harvesting. They each carried a single stick to be used as a brake and balance tool, essential as top speeds crept over 80 miles an hour. Racers tucked low, their faces windburned and wild-eyed, while crowds packed shoulder to shoulder at the base, placing wagers, drinking, hollering encouragement. Women competitors eventually adopted a racing crouch as well, recognizing that the position reduced drag from their long dresses.
Spectators made bets in bags of gold dust and silver coins; race winners often took home prizes equivalent to more than $15,000 today. When the races ended, people filled saloons, telling stories of daring runs and spectacular crashes. The best racers became local legends.
The races stopped after the Great Depression but were revived in the early ’90s by the Plumas Ski Club, a nonprofit dedicated to the preservation of skiing in the Lost Sierra. Today, each event attracts several hundred spectators and a few dozen racers. Admission is free for spectators; competition fees are $20. Modern skis, snowboards, and wax are banned. Period clothing from the 19th century is encouraged but not required of racers. Some spectators also dress up in wool trousers and suspenders, while others wear down jackets and trucker hats typical of contemporary ski-town fashion.
Despite its momentum, the future of longboard racing is precarious, as snow conditions become increasingly unpredictable. The Johnsville event is run entirely by volunteers, who shoulder the work of shoveling, packing, and preparing the course. There’s no ambition to become a commercial production; proceeds from entry fees and memorabilia sales go to local causes.
At the 2026 opening race, as racers finish their last heats and winners are crowned late in the afternoon, the sun dips behind the ridge and the course takes on a golden glow. The open wood-burning stove at the base lodge roars, and several flasks of whiskey are passed around. A few racers hike up for one last run. At the end of the course, they tumble into the snow, laughing, bruised, elated.
Skiing began here as a human impulse to move through snow with speed and joy. The miners who raced down these hills were chasing more than gold; they were chasing the feeling of winter. The Washoe, who traveled these slopes many generations before these settlers and whose land was stolen from them, established relationships with this place across all seasons. To stand beside the slope in Johnsville, to hear the thrum of wooden skis on snow and the laughter rising from the crowd, is to step into that same historical relationship with the landscape. A single line down a hill, repeated for generations, still has the power to carry us back.•
Dillon Osleger is a writer and public lands policy expert whose work is grounded in a decade of hands-on trail restoration and conservation across the West. His first book, Trail Work, published by Heyday Books, comes out in 2026.
