Duxbury Studies and Observation Group, The Night Shift
The best $50 I ever spent was at the ski shop in Middlebury. The place was closing and was having an everything-must-go sale. I showed up after work to pick through the leftovers and the place looked like a den of bears had rampaged through it. Pairs of socks, mismatched XXL-sized outerwear, and hangers littered the floor. I picked up a pair of Black Diamond skins in a corner and thought, “Hey, maybe this’ll be fun.”
As I took my first awkward strides, I realized every winter was no longer the province of expensive lift tickets, long lines, bumper-to-bumper traffic and $7 slices of pizza. The elements simplified to my legs and lungs and a few pieces of adaptable equipment. Suddenly I could ski anywhere. Entire pastures, hillsides, and nicely spaced trees drew a curious second glance as I drove to work.
But the dirty little secret of this kind of skiing is that as much fun as it is to go off and explore the woods within driving distance, it’s just as much fun to head to the local ski hill and get in a few turns by headlamp. Such was the case last week when I joined up with A., J. and S. in the parking lot at Mad River Glen one evening. As what the ski areas call “uphill travel” has increased in popularity, management has made accomodations. Stick to the rules and have at it.
We hustled away from the lights of the base area, chased by a hard wind. In the shelter of the woods, the first indications of the evening’s conditions lay in drifts about the trees: not quite enough to venture deep into the woods, but enough for some gentle turns. We were encouraged and lengthened our strides as we emerged onto an open trail.
The pitch steeped as we climbed. J., with the most experience, picked a forgiving line for us to follow on the ascent: Porcupine to Easy Way to Broadway to Catamount and Upper Antelope. As we shuffled along, descending skiers silently glided by; headlamps shining down corridors of snow-encased pines. I imagined myself as a diver walking along an ocean floor with the darkness of the entire ocean drinking in the light from my lamp as I felt my way along. Later, the twisting frozen forms of trees and drifts of snow gave me visions of a space traveler exploring an alien planet.
Before I could get too far into the metaphor, the unmistakeable sound of a nearby snot rocket at launch velocity brought me back to reality.
We swapped climbing skins for helmets and goggles in the summit shelter of General Stark Mountain, drank water, donned layers and positioned lamps for the descent. As we stomped back into our bindings, scatterings of moonlight illuminated the much-revered single chair and further south along the spine of the mountains, lights from the mountain operations teams at work on Mount Ellen. Far below, the Mad River Valley and its pastures, hills and soft glow of its villages called us home.
