Remembering Phil Johnsrud: Teacher, Paddler, Groomer, Volunteer

Befitting his Norwegian heritage, Phil Johnsrud’s other great outdoor passion was cross-country skiing. He completed 32 Birkies and told a half-dozen stories from each. During one, tired of waiting in line at the top of an icy downhill that folks were justifiably hesitant to descend, he took off his skis and jogged through the woods. When people started hollering at him for cheating, he yelled, “Save the prince, save the prince…!” thrusting his skis up in the air with each yell. Soon skiers on the hill joined the “Save the Prince!” chant, all mindful of the Norwegian crown-prince rescue the Birkebeiner commemorates.

Extraordinary Volunteer

Phil’s Birkie goals were like the rest of his life: more about helping others than promoting himself. He “raced” wearing a hip belt filled with a vise grip and screwdriver in case anybody needed bindings repaired, and Hershey’s with Almonds to revive bonkers over the last 10K. He rarely finished on Main Street without someone at Anglers Bar recognizing him and giving him a beer to power him through the final 100 yards.

To Shellie Milford, long-time Birkie Operations Director, Phil’s willingness to volunteer, even on days he raced, was astounding. Shellie recalled that before there was running water to Birkie feed stations, 300-gallon water tanks at each station had to be filled from a tank in the bed of Bill Analla’s pickup. “The blizzard the night before the 2014 race made that extremely difficult,” she said, “so Phil volunteered to help Bill clear snow for the truck to get close enough to the tank. Then he’d horse the huge hose over snow, connect it to the tanks, and get the heaters started underneath the tanks.”

Phil only got a couple of hours sleep after that freezing, wet, miserable job, but he showed up early at the start line to see if Shellie needed any more help. Indeed, she did. The blizzard had collapsed one of the warming tents and the blower for the heater had gone out at the other one. “I asked Phil to check the heater and blower,” she said, “so he hiked back to his car, got his toolbox, and in a half hour, he had the blower working again. Then he put on his skis and lined up to start in the last wave.”

Heart of the Iola Winter Sports Club

Phil’s greatest volunteer gig had been decades of grooming trails at the Iola Winter Sports Club (IWSC), which he referred to simply as “the ski hill.” Actually, “grooming” doesn’t quite capture his contributions. He maintained and repaired the snowmobiles, built and repaired grooming equipment, and monitored real estate adjoining the club so he could pounce on additional land before it hit the market. Then he fundraised to pay for the land, designed new trails, and recruited volunteers and equipment to help him build them.

In 1996, he pulled off a great feat. Trying and failing several times to get the IWSC board to fund lights on the trail, a frustrated Phil went vigilante. He shelled out his own money, recruited his own volunteers, and simply put up lights on his own, eventually lighting 6K of varied terrain. When I discovered what that cost, I asked, “Will the IWSC pay you back?”

“They won’t need to,” he replied. “This is a small community; as soon as folks see how many more kids join the ski team after we have lights, and more and more adults ski after work, people will be stuffing checks in my pocket.” That’s exactly what happened; plus, there was a bonus.

When Chet Krause, whose publishing company was the largest employer in the region, heard about what Phil had done, he had Phil sit with him at a Lion’s Club meeting. He asked, “Is there anything out there you need?” Phil was ready: “Well, we could sure use a Piston Bully to groom trails.” No problem. When the Piston Bully arrived, Phil wouldn’t let anyone touch it until Chet came to see it. Perceiving how large it was next to the one-story garage/shop for storing snowmobiles, Chet mused, “It looks like I need to buy you a garage, too.”

Snow Farmer

Grooming is a mixture of art and science, and Phil excelled at both. He liked to refer to himself as a “snow farmer.” Since climate change has made freezing temperatures and large dumps less frequent, Phil said, “When we get a few inches, I’ve got to knock it down, pack it, and preserve it. If it lasts a few weeks, that’s just like harvesting a crop.”

He never wanted compensation even though, in his mind, he was on call 24 hours per day. When he was teaching junior high school shop in Iola, he often showed up at work directly from the ski hill. If, for example, the snow was in a freeze/thaw cycle, he’d set his alarm for 3:00 AM and scarify the icy surface so morning skiers would have a perfect deck.

Completing 32 Birkies was an amazing accomplishment for Phil since his entire ski season was spent grooming. The only time people in Iola saw him on skis was when he carried a shovel or saw instead of poles so he could cover brown spots on the trail or take off a branch that had been threatening skiers’ faces. I once asked him how the hell he got through 52K after only being on skis for 10K all season. His reply was classic Phil:

“I train the first half of the Birkie, then race the second half.”

Living for Others With Dedication & Humor

Phil’s commitment to youth transcended his teaching job and parenting his kids, Lydia and Phillip. He initiated and helped run the Wisconsin Nordic Network program to pay entry fees for needy and deserving high schoolers to race the Kortelopet. “The more kids who ski,” he used to say, “the fewer kids get in trouble.”

Phil’s humor and stories went hand-in-hand. He loved the tale about two hikers on a mountain trail who spotted a bear coming their way. One turned to run while the other took his running shoes out of his pack and began changing from his hiking boots. “You can’t outrun a bear,” shouted the first. The other said, “I don’t need to, as long as I can outrun you.”

I first heard this when we were both single and camped on the North Fork of the Flathead River in Montana. Having decided to drive 20 miles to a bar that night, Phil built a little pool along the riverside, boiled water on the campfire, bathed, and changed into a clean shirt and jeans. “You must have high expectations for tonight, Phil,” I kidded, “trying to look so good.” He responded with the bear story, then added, “I don’t need to look ‘good,’ Charlie, just a little bit better than you.”

Phil Johnsrud’s life made a lot of people look better than they otherwise would have. The legacy he leaves for his kids, his community, and outdoor recreation in Wisconsin is, unlike some of his stories, impossible to exaggerate.