Old Crow Skiers

In the heart of Vuntut Gwich’in territory, a story began that would change northern sport forever — a story built by a community working together to raise strong, resilient Youth. This is the story of the Old Crow Skiers, beginning in 1955, the spark that ignited a northern legacy.

Seventy years ago, our communities lived entirely from the land. There were no government houses, no welfare programs, no outside supports. Everything came from our own hands, our own knowledge, and our relationship with the land. Outsiders who travelled this far north were stunned by the strength of the people — healthy, tough, thriving in one of the harshest climates on earth. It was our people who taught newcomers how to survive here.

This physical, mental, and cultural strength is what made the Old Crow Skiers possible.

In the mid‑1950s, RCMP Constable Paul Robin saw something special in the Youth — strength, discipline, and a hunger for challenge. He approached the Elders with an idea:

What if we cut out an area for downhill skiing?

The Elders agreed. The community went to work.

Families, Elders, and Youth cut out a ski hill by hand. Brush cleared. Slopes shaped. Trails opened.

Old Crow had decided: this would be their ski club.

In 1955, Father Jean Marie Mouchet arrived in Old Crow. When the community learned he was a skier, they asked him to help. That summer, two downhill trails were fully cut out — still with no skis, no boots, no poles. But the community believed in the idea. They believed in their Youth.

Ski equipment began arriving from across the North — from Alaska, from Yukon and NWT communities, from Calgary ski clubs. Oil exploration companies hauled donated skis to Eagle Plains Area. From there, Chief Charlie Peter Charlie, Special Constable Peter Benjamin, and Constable Paul Robin travelled by dog teams to bring them home.

When the downhill equipment arrived, the community gathered around it like a treasure.

Father Mouchet later said:

“I can’t name one person who was key to getting the ski program started without naming everyone.”

Halfway up Crow Mountain, the community built a tent frame with a wood stove — the heart of the ski hill. Elders and families travelled by dog team to watch the Youth. There were no lifts, no machines. After every run, the teenagers climbed the hill again — step by step, breath by breath — building the strength that would later shock southern coaches.

It was tough. Injuries happened. Some broke legs. The community stood behind them. These challenges became part of the story.

In 1956, Old Crow held its first downhill race — unlike anything else in North America. Wool hats, parkas, donated skis. Willow poles marking the course. Elders and families gathered by the tent frame, warmed by the stove. Dog teams resting nearby.

It was a moment of pride.

In 1957, Old Crow skiers raced downhill in Alaska. Isaac Thomas and Irwin Linklater finished first and second.

Then they were introduced to cross‑country skiing — something neither had ever done before.

The next day, they finished 1st and 2nd in the 10‑kilometre race.

Generations of snowshoe running had prepared them. Their legs, lungs, and minds were already trained by the land. Their success wasn’t surprising. It was a continuation of who they were.

Training didn’t stop in summer. They built an outdoor circuit from whatever materials they could find — land‑based, simple, and effective.

Some Old Crow skiers raced across Canada and into the United States. A few took on the high‑altitude challenges of Colorado — racing on mountains far taller and steeper than anything at home.

One skier in particular stood out: Ben Charlie, whose talent and endurance caught the attention of coaches far beyond the North. Ben was invited to train with the United States National Biathlon Team in Anchorage, where he spent two months learning and competing at an elite level. He raced downhill, then cross‑country, then biathlon — mastering three demanding disciplines, and then later coached.

But Ben was not alone.

In 1963, Martha Benjamin travelled south with him, representing Old Crow and the Vuntut Gwich’in with extraordinary strength and determination. That year, she shocked the Canadian ski world by becoming the Canadian National Senior Women’s Cross‑Country Ski Champion — the first Indigenous woman to do so.

Her endurance, shaped by a lifetime on the land, was unmatched.

Together, Martha Benjamin and Ben Charlie shocked North America, winning and placing at major championship races.

Ben was invited to the Canadian men’s training camp for the 1964 Olympics in Innsbruck, Austria — the first time a northern Indigenous athlete was considered at that level, he did not make the team, yet proved he was among the best. Martha was invited to the women’s training camp for the 1968 Olympics in Grenoble, France, but with no funding and children to care for, she had to decline.

Their performances proved what the people of Old Crow already knew:

Gwich’in strength belongs on any stage — national, continental, or global.

In 1958, something extraordinary happened. Researchers, led by Dr. Irving and Dr. Bolstad, arrived in Old Crow to conduct a physiological study. What they discovered confirmed what Dinjii Zhuh had always known.

The study showed that the Dinjii Zhuh of Old Crow met the same physiological standards as elite athletes from Norway and Sweden — the world’s dominant cross‑country skiing nations.

World‑class endurance. World‑class strength. World‑class potential.

For the Dinjii Zhuh, this was no surprise. Strength was measured in distance, endurance, and survival — not in laboratories.

But what happened next was silence.

Despite clear evidence of world‑class potential, governments did nothing.

No investment. No training programs. No northern athlete development. No recognition.

The study was ignored.

Instead of supporting Old Crow’s community‑driven success, governments invested heavily in residential schools — institutions designed to control Indigenous children and replace Indigenous governance with outside systems.

And when support finally came, it did not go to Old Crow.

It went to the Inuvik residential school children, gathered under federal control. They received equipment, coaching, and eventually the Territorial Experimental Ski Training (TEST) Program.

For many of those children, skiing became a rare source of pride and escape inside an institution built on harm.

But while Inuvik gained, Old Crow lost.

The Youth who had built a winning program — supported by their families, their land, and their community — were left behind. The very teenagers who had shown the North what was possible received nothing.

Their community‑driven program, which had produced champions and transformed lives, was allowed to fade, although Father Mouchet continued working with the next generation sparingly.