R.I.P. Klaus Walden

This past March, one of Wisconsin's true cross-country skiing pioneers quietly passed away, unnoticed except by a few close friends. Some of you might have known him as Klaus Milinski, a dominant age-group ski racer from the '70s and early '80s.

Klaus changed his name to Walden, honoring an uncle he admired, and gradually disappeared from the skiing scene as skating became popular. So it's no wonder that few present-day skiers know his name. But that's a shame, as his impact on modern cross-country skiing is still felt by everyone who skis on a groomed trail.

Klaus was one of the first skiers I met when I took up the sport in the late '70s. Klaus, Dave Harrison and Tom Mitchell were all huge influences on me then. Yet I didn't realize how much how much they had already contributed to the sport.

At that time, I just thought of groomed ski trails as something that had always existed. In fact, our family often skied with the "big three" both in southeast Wisconsin and on the Eagle River Trails, not realizing that we were in the company of those who made the groomed trails possible.

It was only later that I discovered that Klaus had built the first snowmobile-towed grooming sled in Wisconsin. Klaus was a tool and die maker who may have been the handiest tool man I've ever known. But even then, the path to groomed ski trails wasn't always smooth.

Klaus burned out many clutches on his snowmobile until he got the gearing right. He learned he needed lower gears for power and to go at slower speeds.

One particular equipment breakdown cost Klaus and Dave Harrison a night in jail. Why would harmless pioneer trail groomers end up behind bars? Well, like pioneers in many fields, their new upstart ideas weren't immediately accepted.

Klaus and Dave would head up to Eagle River Nordic, in its first year in business in 1977, to groom Bert and LaNora Kleerup's new ski trails. But back then, all mechanized vehicles were banned from the Nicolet Forest where the trails led. So Klaus and Dave were forced to sneak out at night to surreptitiously groom the trails.

Then on that fateful night, their snowmobile broke down yet again and couldn't be fixed in the dark. When they returned in the morning, with the parts needed to repair it, they found forest rangers waiting for them. Those guardians of the North Woods weren't very sympathetic. These "dangerous" cross-country ski criminals were given an expensive tickets and hauled off to jail.

Fortunately, the story had a happy ending. The cost of the tickets was greatly reduced and, more importantly, the forest rangers came to recognize a good idea when they saw one. They would eventually demand that Eagle River Nordic, as a condition to getting their contract with the U.S. Forest Service renewed, groom the ski trails.

So that's how the first groomed ski trails in northeast Wisconsin came into being. But Klaus's influence didn't stop there. Another avid skier from southeast Wisconsin named Errol Schluter was also the foreman for Minooka Park in the Waukesha County Park system. Errol borrowed Klaus' groomer and park mechanics used it as a model to build two more for use at the Minooka and Nashotah parks. From there other trail custodians followed suit, and the snowball effect (pun intended) led to the many groomed trails we enjoy today in southeast Wisconsin.

While there is no doubt that the "Klaus groomer" was the first in eastern Wisconsin, whether it was the first in the state is debatable. After all, this was the same time Tony Wise was developing ski trails around Telemark Lodge. But for eastern Wisconsin, there is no doubt Klaus broke new snow.

Then in the mid-80s, a revolution hit the cross-country ski scene. Yup, skating. Ironically, the kind of trail grooming Klaus pioneered led to his alienation from the sport he loved. Why? Well, skating, much more than striding, requires groomed trails, and the mechanized groomers Klaus constructed needed to be adapted so they could create smooth skating lanes.

And did Klaus hate skating! A German immigrant was born in Berlin in 1934, Klaus had very strong values. According to Klaus, there was a strict pattern to follow in the universe and skating destroyed that design. I can recall striding with Klaus on trails with perfect tracks on the edge of a wide skating lane. If an occasional skater had crossed over the striding tracks, even if it was only once a kilometer or so, Klaus would mutter, "Damn skaters, ruining the track. They should be banned."

In fact, somehow Klaus blamed me, not Bill Koch, for the whole skating revolution. I did contribute by writing The Central Division Grooming Guide, which advised groomers on how to make skating and striding on the same trails a noncombat experience, among other books and videos that embraced skating. But honestly, skating came on like a tsunami. I was mainly riding the wave and trying to make it a smoother ride for my fellow skiers. While there was tension, Klaus and I always got along. But more than a few barbed comments were thrown back and forth on the new state of skiing.

So sadly, it was the advent of skating that instigated Klaus's withdrawal from the sport. After a few years he became just an occasional skier.

About this time he met Jonnie, the love of his life. How he convinced her to "go out" with him in the first place gives more insight into the eternally patient and persistent Klaus than anything else I can think of.

At the annual office Christmas party, Klaus sat next to Jonnie and asked her to go with him to the symphony. Jonnie was holding down two jobs and taking some classes so she told Klaus she just didn't have the time. Two days later Klaus showed up at her desk and asked if she'd accompany him to a Beethoven concert at Summerfest seven months in the future. It was hard to say you were too busy that far in advance, so Jonnie said yes and the relationship slowly grew.

Klaus was a patient and persistent, slow-moving guy. The choice of a symphony also provides insight into Klaus' traditional approach and why he hated that upstart skating technique. To him, skating on a ski trail was like playing rock and roll at a Beethoven concert. It just wasn't right.

Over the next couple of years, Jonnie became his partner in just about everything. They biked and hiked together and even skied a little. One thing was for sure, Jonnie more than filled the void in Klaus' life since he stopped skiing and grooming ski trails.

But Klaus was not one dimensional. He was a canoeist, world-class rower, loved sailing and was a very strong biker. He advanced to the final trials for selection of the German Olympic Rowing Team for the 1956 Olympics in Berlin. Once in the U.S., he took to canoeing and rowing on Wisconsin's rivers and lakes. I even bought a racing canoe after trying out Klaus' Wenonah.

Klaus often went sailing with friends from the Milwaukee Yacht Club. His aptitude and inventive mechanical skills were well known and admired by other experienced sailors. (The only time I went sailing with Klaus, a fog rolled in and the wind died to zero. We spent about a half hour putt-putting around the harbor with limited visibility, trying to avoid damaging the vessel. We never did get the sails up.)

Indeed, Klaus had a crusty exterior that covered a heart of gold. He was steadfast, unwavering and loyal to the end. Solid is the word that comes to mind. He enjoyed fashioning little gifts for his friends. My wife Betsy and I have a pair of bamboo back scratchers that Klaus presented to us and that we treasure dearly.

Klaus called me about a year before he discovered he had prostate cancer and mentioned he'd like get together for some roller skiing and maybe - gasp - some skating lessons. So we picked out roller skis on which he could safely stride and skate - the V-2 900 series, with brakes and speed reducers.

Once his roller skis arrived, we began to meet about once a week. I'll admit that Klaus's experiment with skating didn't last too long. After a few minutes that first day, I heard Klaus's old familiar refrain "Damn skating ...." He had had enough of it, or so I thought.

Every once in a while during our weekly roller ski outings, Klaus would deliberately drop behind me. And out of the corner of my eye I'd catch him skating. When I mentioned that, he'd predictably mutter something like, "Baloney. I hate that damn skating." Then we'd both laugh.

The final time I saw Klaus was last October. I was roller skiing in his neighborhood when he pulled up next to me in his car. I said he looked good and he replied, "Looks can be deceiving." At 75 uyears of age, he explained in his matter-of-fact style and enigmatic smile that brought to mind the German actor Paul Henreid that his meds were no longer working. His wry smile and calm demeanor hit me right in the gut. I can still remember my exact thoughts: "What courage, I hope I can show half as much when my time comes."

We talked a little more and then said goodbye for the last time. That Klaus was one classy guy.