I’m a grassroots movement kind of guy. I love when you can feel the soul of a community in a place or thing – when something is by the people, for the people. The quality I’m describing eludes words, but you know it when you see it. Or rather, you know it when you feel it.
It is wholly unsurprising then that I would be predisposed to become a bit head-over-heels in love with Beaver Mountain in Logan Canyon, Utah.
I should first say that I’m a firm believer that of the 15 ski areas in Utah, 15 of them are fantastic and wonderful in their distinctive ways. We are spoiled with variety within our state borders, both in terrain, scale and vibe. I should also say that I fancy myself a bit of a connoisseur of these attributes. I appreciate sprawling trail maps and single-base area ski hills alike, fixed-grip chairs and high-speed six-packs, luxurious accommodations and ski villages as well as rowdy parking lot tailgates.
As such, it didn’t take much to get me to head north to Logan to see what all the whispers I’d been hearing about Beaver Mountain were all about – and I’m glad that I did. From the minute I was handed my wicket ticket and asked “do you know how to use one of these?” I knew what I had suspected would be true – that the Beav was going to make me believe.
Wickets, Triples and Volunteers: A Chat With Travis Seeholzer
In 1967 (at which point Beaver Mountain had been operating for 27 years) Bob Dylan released a song called The Times They Are A-Changin’. Indeed they are, and skiing is no exception. But some things never go out of style. In 2025, in its 85th year of operation, the mountain still uses metal wickets and foldover paper tickets for its day passes – something I find irresistibly charming. This is indicative of the type of place Beaver is, one where you can connect with the roots of the sport. There are four lifts – all fixed-grips, three triples and a double chair. There is one base area, built with sturdy wood and high-pointed ceilings. Both the patrol building and the Common Ground Adaptive building were crowdfunded by fundraising drives. There are 120 patrollers, all volunteers – unheard of in the West, who earn lifetime ski passes for their families through their continued service – many of whom are second and third-generation. At the time of this writing, there is barely any cell service, though that will be changing in the coming years as infrastructure improves in Logan Canyon.
I gathered all of this in a brief conversation in the lodge gift shop (which is also the rental shop, which is also the locker room) with… *checks notes* the owner of the ski area. That’s right – the Beav was founded by the Seeholzer family in 1939 and has remained under their ownership ever since. Third-generation owner Travis Seeholzer takes some time on a busy January Saturday to chat with me about its history, evolution, and what makes the place special. As a general rule, there aren’t many institutions in American life where the owner will take your call day-of, let alone come chat with you on ten minutes' notice. That alone tells you something about this ski area: it’s personal.
“My grandfather Harry was skiing Logan Canyon the year after it opened to winter travel and became a year-round roadway,” says Travis. “They used a milk truck to create a rope tow. And Beaver Mountain was basically born out of that. Harry’s Dream, the main lift, is named for him.”
We covered a lot of ground in 15 minutes. “The crux of it is keeping the essence of who we are even as things change,” he says. “Our skier visits have increased a lot in recent years, and I’m sure you saw the new lodge being built outside to meet that demand. Even as that grows, we want to stay true to who we are. That means listening to people who love this place and staying connected with our role in this community.” A prime example of Travis’s care for the experience of his community is the ski area’s designated uphill routes. “There was some disagreement from our dedicated uphillers on the route changes we made this year, so that’s something we can revisit to make sure it works for the regulars and our grooming team. We can strike a balance there.”
I ask him what he thinks makes Beaver Mountain unique. “You’re either local, or you have to go a bit out of your way to come here” he replies. “There are a lot of great places to ski closer to Salt Lake than this. If you’re coming to Beaver from out of town, it’s generally not an accident. You’re probably looking for something.”
If you're looking for a deeper dive into Beaver's history and the Seeholzer family, check out Lexi's article here.
Looking for Something: Learners, Legends, and Everyone In Between
Beaver Mountain is greater than the sum of its parts. It’s more than old-school lifts, rustic log cabin-style buildings, and a charming ticket office dispensing charming, printed paper tickets.
It’s more than long, loping groomers, leg-burning bump runs, and terrain gates giving way to powder fields, cliff drops, and sweeping canyon vistas.
Of course, it’s all of these things. But like most things in life, it’s the people who come together to breathe life into these inanimate objects and make them into something magical.
Skiing is such a wonderful sport because of its innate community component. In what other recreational undertaking are you placed on a metal bench with several of your closest friends, family, strangers or otherwise and made to confer for 10ish minutes between periods of collective exertion?
I share chairs with Jack and Cooper, students at nearby Utah State University, certified local senders with youthful energy and third-generation skiers of the Beav. They’re spry and full of vinegar (surprises me with an unprompted backflip), eager to take me through terrain gates and show me the goods. “The skiing and the skiers here are as good as anywhere,” says Jack. “There’s just such a tight-knit community feel to go with really great terrain. We love it.” The two say they often come to ski after class from Logan. Jack’s family has owned the beloved local ski shop The Sportsman for generations, which explains his propensity for aerial acrobatics. I politely decline his invitation to follow with a flip of my own. I wouldn’t want to pull a hamstring.
I ride with Eliza, an SLC-based skier who is new to the sport. “I wanted to come up here to get away for the weekend,” she says. “Lift tickets are $70 for the whole day. Where else can you find that?” She’s staying down at Bear Lake, a can’t-miss hidden gem of its own nicknamed “the Caribbean of the Rockies” for its clear blue water. “I just feel comfortable here. I love that I can ski all the lifts and that I can work my way up to that in a day. It makes me want to go skiing more often, which is a first for me” she adds, with a glowing smile.
Throughout my day, I see many folks and families enjoying the approachable progression of the terrain at Beaver, passing the sport to the next generation. “There are so many fun jumps here. Don’t you like jumps?” I’m asked by a particularly enthused grom. “Not as much as you do!” I reply.
There’s Jared, a former employee of the Beav and Common Ground Adaptive, and his wife Janessa, also in town for the weekend. “This is really where we became lifelong skiers,” he says wistfully. “It’s a skier's mountain… it’s infectious that way.” They recall fond memories – Janessa’s first time on skis (which happened to be a powder day), and an infamous story recalled as well by Travis, the owner, in which he became lost out of bounds in a blizzard. It’s all smiles and laughs now. “When I come back here it feels like I’m coming home.” And I can certainly tell this. Jared and Janessa whisk me around the Beav thoroughly, exploring bluebird boundary lines and traversing the best it has to offer. We drop off some dreamy cliffs and lose track of time. It’s wonderful.
While lapping the Harry’s Dream lift with them, I notice a pair of lanky skiers routinely cycling the moguls under the lift, dressed in old-school ski attire. They are the Glenn brothers, I’m told – local legends known for skiing the liftline run, all day, every day – clad in jeans and 80s ski gear. It’s tiring and skilled skiing, as all mogul enthusiasts know, and there’s a special place in my heart for this kind of repetition that literally carves the moguls deeper with every run. I’m lucky enough to catch a chair with them, too. “What makes you guys come out here every day to do this?” I ask. Their answer is uncomplicated and satisfactory: “We just love to ski. It’s that simple.” What other answer could there be?
At 4:02 p.m., I wonder where the day went. I pause at the lift line and debate taking a “two more, skip the last” run. A patroller skis up alongside me. “It’s now or never! We’re closing up, you hopping on?”
Of course I am.
What I Found: An Ethos That Never Goes Out of Style
I reflect on my day at the Beaver Mountain Grill, which is in the same building as the rental shop, gift shop, and locker rooms. I ordered the Double Bypass burger, which is huge and hearty and the perfect compliment to weary legs and the feeling of satisfaction of a day well spent.
I found that Beaver Mountain skis big, but is small enough that it feels like the kind of place where it’s only a matter of time until everyone knows your name. The triple chairs and community-style seating in the lodge have a way of inviting conversation if a lack of cell service isn’t enough. Everyone here is smiling like they’re in on some big happy secret together. I imagine that if you strolled up to the ticket office in 1955, 1995, or 2045… it would feel just about the same way. There’s something to that that you can’t put a value on – but it’s worth a lot more to me than a $70 lift ticket in the opinion of this happy customer. Beaver Mountain defies time and pretension – and that is priceless. It’s an ethos worth preserving and protecting – and I’m glad that the Seeholzer family plans to do just that.
I skate back to my car full of a sense of belonging to a place I’ve visited just once, and literally full of cheeseburger. I already look forward to when my travels bring me back here, whenever that may be because I know that I’ll always be a believer in places like Beaver Mountain. I have a trail sign hanging in my living room to prove it.
