WHEN IS OLD NEW AGAIN? ​ OR...THIS AIN’T YOUR FATHER’S MAGIC...EXCEPT WHEN IT IS

There is a particularly large chunk of southern Vermont rock 2850 feet tall that has been the object of more rumor, neglect, devotion, confusion and unconditional love than any similarly sized mountain in the state, maybe anywhere.  The mountain, literally and often figuratively is Magic.

Driving east on Route 11 from Manchester you first catch sight of Magic Mountain from a dramatic vantage point near the foot of Bromley that also yields an unobstructed view of Stratton. The easternmost of this skiing “golden triangle,” Magic looks unimposing from here. However, ten miles further, driving up the short access road, brings you face to face with the startling realization: this rascal is steep! 

The ski industry is in the midst of dynamic change, ostensibly dictated by economic necessity. The new trend is conglomeratization, a two-headed monster gobbling up resorts at an unprecedented rate. Head number one comprises large corporations, whose primary businesses are not skiing, busily diversifying their portfolios. The other, major resort operators like Vail and Aspen who control a significant percentage of winter sport venues from Whistler, BC to the recently acquired Green Mountain resorts of Stowe and Stratton.

There are still a few small independent ski areas making a go of it with Mom flipping burgers and Pop running a rope tow or two, but none of them are like Magic. For one thing, Magic’s legion of supporters seems outsized and fanatically passionate in comparison to its neighbors.

Also, few resorts can boast such a unique and colorful history, dating back to its remarkable founder, Hans Thorner. A legendary ski instructor and filmmaker, Thorner moved to the US from his native Switzerland in 1932. He had a remarkable pre-Magic career which included running a ski school at Mt. Rainier, WA, opening a ski shop in Hollywood, teaching skiing on a borax slide at Saks Fifth Avenue and building the iconic Thorner House Inn near Cannon Mt., NH. Perhaps most impressive were a series of ski films he produced for Swiss Air including four skiing murder mysteries! His crowning glory as one of the first ski movie entrepreneurs was his production of the 1948 Winter Olympic Games which he took to audiences on the road, complete with a music soundtrack and live narration.

Moving to Manchester, VT in the early ‘50’s Hans dreamed of starting his own ski resort. His first attempt at Stratton failed, but nearby Glebe Mt. in Londonderry caught his eye, reminding him of his native Switzerland. In 1960 Magic opened with one t-bar lift and a totally original business plan: an alpine resort with a Swiss themed village complete with inns, restaurants and homes all in the shadow of the most challenging ski terrain in southern Vermont. There was nothing like it then and, nearly 60 years later, Magic remains unique. The ski area’s fortunes, however, have often been as rocky as its legendary cliff-studded terrain.

The Thorner family sold the mountain to Boston Concessions, the owner of neighboring Bromley, in 1983. In 1986 Magic took control of Timber Ridge Ski Area on Glebe Mountain’s east side, creating one large combined resort. However, consecutive lean winters coupled with a faltering real estate market forced Boston Concessions to close Magic in 1991.

For six years it became the largest of Vermont’s “lost” ski areas. Literally dozens of areas ceased operating in the decades following the high water mark of 1966 when Vermont boasted more than 80 ski tows. Sadly, few of these lost areas have reopened, but in 1997 Pennsylvania dentist and skiing ​devotee,​ Michael Boraski, brought Magic back from the dead. It has operated continuously under different ownership and management teams with wildly diverse effectiveness since that time. On several occasions Magic has teetered on the brink of foreclosure, but it became a resort too good to die.

Following several close calls with permanent closure in the early 2000s optimism began to build when Connecticut lawyer, Jim Sullivan, took over day-to-day operations in the fall of 2006. Sullivan grew up in Mt. Snow’s racing program and had skied events at Magic. He was driving a client to Ludlow one day in the mid-90s and remembered Magic’s uniqueness as he drove past. The nagging thought, “one of these days...” only grew as time went by. He finally contacted the ownership group and within six months was offered a lease for the ski area with a purchase option. Jim left his legal practice and moved his young family to Vermont. Uprooting a family and a lifestyle to be close to Magic is a common theme. The Sullivans were not the first, nor the last.

Geoff Hatheway, an athletic 57-year-old native of Chappequa, NY, is President of Ski Magic LLC, an ownership group of passionate skiers that finalized the purchase of the mountain in late November 2016. Geoff represents the latest chapter of devotion to Magic Mountain and the commitment to maintain the qualities that make it unique.

 

In the early ‘60’s his family embraced the warm sense of alpine community that predated Vermont’s mega resorts. They bought a ski home in the area and frequented the tows of southern Vermont, including Magic, every weekend. Geoff learned to ski on the backside of Magic, the rolling slopes of Timber Ridge, when he was five. A Dartmouth graduate with a career in marketing and entrepreneurship, Hatheway became reacquainted with the mountain when he started looking for a family ski experience reminiscent of the early ski culture he loved as a kid.

The Hatheways have been season pass holders since 2000 with Geoff and his wife volunteering for the Magic Alpine Club and their kids joining the race and freeride programs. In 2011 Jim Sullivan suggested that Geoff take charge of marketing and promotion for the mountain, allowing him to become more intimately involved in the day to day business of running a ski resort. When Magic’s ownership proposed selling in spring 2015 they approached Geoff to see if he was interested. Without hesitation he created a business plan and built an investment group that included a diverse mixture of the Magic community – both full time and second home residents, as well as old friends from Dartmouth. The closing culminated a two-year process confirming that Magic’s traditional virtues would continue to inspire new generations of skiers looking for something different.

Since 1960 thousands of kids have learned to ski and ride at Magic, later bringing their own kids, who in turn brought their kids. You’ll find them scouting their own lines through the woods or challenging the 45-degree steeps of ​Master Magician.  F​ew people realize that snowboarding took its tentative first steps here, just three miles from Jake Burton’s workshop. In the mid-80’s he was given permission to build a half pipe at Magic, long before other ski areas had even acknowledged the sport existed. Magic truly

is steeped in history and the beat goes on.

Sharon Wagner has been a passionate Magic skier since the 1990s. She has been among the continuing faithful who have supported the mountain through its darkest times and welcomes the new business plan with open arms. “In the past it was always the people who skied here who demonstrated all the love helping to bail it out again and again. It almost seemed like management was disinterested and out of touch, at times. Those of us who ski here never were. We’ve always loved it and finally a group of Magic skiers, people who get it, are in charge!”

                                                                                                          Craig Moulton is Magic’s food and beverage manager and a 30-year veteran of the ski industry. Moulton sums up the Magic mystique as he gazes at the lower slopes through the large windows of the comfortably retro Black Line Tavern. “Caring about this mountain connects you to so many people from so many backgrounds. Stockbroker, carpenter, chef and CEO, they’re all here. It doesn’t matter what people do for a living, we’re all part of a big extended family. Magic is a feeling, it’s addictive.”

Hatheway agrees. “Part of what makes Magic unique is the community involvement. People are interested in helping any way they can. There has always been a significant number of volunteers who show up on weekends to perform various tasks, but the number doubled when word of a sale was released.” Moulton adds, “people from all walks of life helping to paint, clean or cut brush, does that happen anywhere else?”

Why the love? It’s often said that Fenway Park, with its traditions, quirks and history somehow captures baseball’s soul. In much the same way Magic Mountain’s unapologetically slow lifts and much-cherished terrain seem to enshrine some true spirit of skiing. There is a freedom that has always existed here not readily found at other resorts. This is best exemplified by an official ‘border-to-border’ policy allowing skiers to use the entire mountain, named trail or not. Tree skiing was an accepted way of descent at Magic decades before more famous resorts dipped their toes into the woods. Mountain Operations Manager Matt Cote explains, “The idea has always ​been to encourage skiers to access as much challenge as they want; snowshoeing or skinning uphill, exploring the side country, skiing the trees. We’re here to maximize their enjoyment!”

This enjoyment is palpable on the mountain where shouts of joy and enthusiasm are everywhere on a powder day. It fills the base lodge where families enjoy a lunch that is often more picnic or tailgate than the food corral common at other resorts. And it is the beating heart of the mid mountain outdoor bar at a trail junction known as Sunshine Corner where Magic regulars and first timers gather on busy weekends to bask in the afternoon sun.

Love for Magic is evident in the folks who work there, as well. Mountain operations personnel work long arduous hours in difficult conditions. Their efforts are evident in the snow they make, the trails they groom and the lifts that keep turning. At Magic these are truly labors of love.

“I was hooked on the tree skiing right off the bat.” Tim Garvey worked in mountain ops at five different resorts before finding a home at Magic. “I used to live in Winhall Hollow and my porch looked out at Magic. I had a telescope and I would look around the mountain and realize, WOW, that’s really steep! There’s nothing like it. You go to a big resort and they’ll cut a glade, but spend as little money as possible doing it, just enough to get it on the trail map. We’ve got glades that aren’t on the map that have had 50 volunteers walk through them cleaning them up!” Barely in his 40’s Travis Richmond is Magic’s most experienced mountain operations employee. He understands the corporate mentality and finds its absence an important part of the Magic vibe. “Whether you’re skiing or working here you’re not just a number. It makes for a better work environment and you can actually make a difference here. That’s why I plan to stay and be a part of helping Magic sustain itself.”

Don Gillespie moved to Magic from Texas in 1999 learning to make snow and becoming a certified ski instructor. “I’ve dedicated 17 years of my life to Magic because it’s a beautiful mountain. You can’t beat the terrain. My goal is to help make Magic prosper and have lots of people want to come here and love the place.”

During Don’s tenure he has learned every aspect of mountain operations, as has the entire ops crew. This is vital to the profitability of a ski resort. Matt Cote, who moved from Massachusetts to work at the mountain he loves, says “everyone here is a swiss army knife.” Matt also acknowledges the importance of community in his department. “When we run into a problem we start networking for resources and invariably someone will say, ‘I know a guy...’”

Cote’s department has made the most of the new ownership group’s financial commitment by making repairs to existing infrastructure, as well as, focusing on new projects like a conveyor lift for the Learning Area. In addition, work continues on a mid mountain chairlift which will broaden Magic’s appeal by making beginner and intermediate terrain more accessible. As Hatheway explains, “We can attract younger families and have people who are not expert skiers enjoy Magic by providing access to terrain designed for them.”

The long-term goal is to double the current skier visit count (the number of people to ski a resort per year) to around 50,000. A modest goal when considering nearby Okemo records over 600,000 annual visits. Hatheway surveys the mountain from the expansive outside deck which is the main off-snow attraction on sunny days. “One of the beautiful things about Magic is the freedom you feel here rather than a place where you always have to watch out that you don’t get hit by someone on crowded weekends. We have a product that naturally disperses skiers around the hill, so slopes and trails will remain uncrowded.”

                                                                                    

The term “bygone” is often associated with Magic. The irony is that what makes Magic feel so fresh and different is exactly what causes it to be a magnet for anyone seeking the so-called bygone values of community, freedom, respect for the environment and enjoyment measured less by quantity of runs than by their quality. At Magic Mountain old has become new again.

WYOMING

 There are places I’ll remember

Some have gone but some remain...

I will always remember Sheridan, Wyoming.   I’ve never felt like I was coming home to a place where I had never lived before, until I came here.  When I think of northern Wyoming I find there is so much I could talk about:  histories, both indigenous and European, that speak deeply to me.  An incredible array of wildlife, from the occasional rattlesnake along the trail to high elevation clearings full of moose to huge herds of elk stopping traffic for minutes as they cross the highway to wild bison on hilltops framed by a crescent moon.  I could tell you about an amazing film festival that welcomed me to town or a lonely windy subalpine trail that sent me on my way.  And in between adrenaline filled days of skiing, hiking, biking, running and kayaking, to say nothing of the Wyo Rodeo, fantastic live local music and outstanding museums like the internationally renowned Brinton and cultural programs hosted by the Wyo Theatre and Sheridan College.

The natural wonder here is beyond description and made me feel like I was experiencing continual once-in-a-lifetime moments.  There were sunrises and sunsets that had to be seen to be believed, no words or photos could do them justice.  I’ve witnessed still oceans of cloud top-lit in brilliant sunshine stretching to the Dakotas broken only by islands of the highest distant peaks.  And it was my daily privilege to greet the morning from a vantage point a vertical mile above the city of Sheridan, surrounded by granite cliffs dating back to the beginning of time.  This is a place of indescribable yearning, so full of wonder and beauty it hurts.

 

There is moodiness in the light and weather; spiritual magic in the open plains and the tortured geology of the Bighorn Mountains that forms the backdrop for the incredible lives lived here.  Red Cloud, Jim Bridger, Plenty Coups and Bill Cody are just a few of the famous historical figures who called this region home.  Walking in their footsteps today are some of the best people I have ever met, friends for life.  I was made to feel at home by ranchers, rangers, cowboys and Indians whose honor, honesty and work ethic I recognize and celebrate.  As a proud liberal son of the Green Mountains we often held wildly differing political views, but without exception, we met and abided with kindness and respect. 

I’ve traveled from coast to coast to coast, greeted the morning under foreign skies and made my home in eight different states.  Each of these stops on my life’s journey has left indelible marks, helping to carve and mold me into who I am, and these are indeed places I’ll always remember.  But in my life, Wyoming, I love you more.

Snowsports and the Mothers of Invention

 Once upon a time it seemed like the ski industry was a bit wilder and less litigious.  In the days before  Deutsches Institut für Normung, the international standard organization that established a uniform system for boots and bindings known as DIN, it was pretty much anything goes.  Release settings varied by binding manufacturers.  The number under the plastic window on a Salomon toe or heel piece had no relationship to the same number on a Tyrolia or Geze.  Also, the depth, width and height of ski boot toes and heels were not standardized, so a Lange could fit into bindings differently than a Kastinger or a Henke or any other manufacturer's product.  

Speaking of bindings, it wasn’t unheard of for ski technicians to mix and match binding toes and heels to match the whims of fussy skiers.  “I need a Nevada toe with an Explodamat heel, please!’  Unlike the maintenance free bindings of today, shops of the past would often take them apart to lube and replace components, at the skier’s request.   This included replacing factory installed release/retention springs with fresher ones.  Remember when leg breaks were a common occurrence?  

Museum pieces from a generation or two ago included a host of plate bindings that dominated the domestic industry.  Names like Americana, Burt and Besser were as common in American skiing during the late 70s as Marker is today.  And there was a time when the rental shop at a local southern Vermont resort was completely outfitted with new Spademan plate bindings, arguably the safest, and perhaps most bizarre, design on the market.  Forget the Hanson revolutionary rear-entry boot design, how about Rosemount’s side-entry ski boots?  

A few visionaries saw the invisible and did the impossible.  An aeronautics engineer named Howard Head envisioned a world beyond wooden skis using aluminum laminates, continuous metal edges and polyethylene bases beginning a revolution in design and function that continues today.  Shane McConkey reversed the time honored concepts of sidecut and camber to usher in an entirely new era for skiing.  The Snurfer begat the snowboard and a new worldwide sport was born, midwifed by Dimitrije Milovich, Tom Sims and Jake Burton.   

In a time of step-in snowboard bindings, self-sharpening skis and piezoelectric dampening innovation drove the ski industry.  And you know what?  Even in these later days where liability and lawsuits might dictate conformity and playing it safe, snow sports continue to reinvent themselves.

Wearable technology currently orients skiers with GPS tracking and helps safeguard users against everyone’s worst nightmare with avalanche inflatable devices.  But how about ski gear that acts as an on-board coach, helping perfect technique or alerting the user to approaching trail conditions?  Smart protection in the very near future will also be used to help prevent spine injuries.

You can already purchase helmets and goggles featuring augmented reality that purportedly turn skiing into part computer game, part social event by seamlessly blending actual surroundings with virtual add-ons such as speed, route suggestion or altitude.  They also allow the wearer to communicate with friends via text, audio or video messaging.  If you think helmets and goggles are expensive now wait till you see the price tag on these babies!

The point is, the conditions that incubated critical thought and cutting edge technology in skiing’s earlier years still exist.  Despite some notable dead ends and occasional weirdness, fierce manufacturing competition that stimulated steady improvements in performance and safety continues to drive the industry.  Efforts to increase the number and diversity of people entering snowsports remains a growth industry.  The ski trains of the ‘30s and ‘40s have morphed into Epic and Ikon passes, snow coasters and off-season thrill zones.  And The Learn to Ski weeks of the ‘50s and ‘60s are today’s LBGTQ Snow Events and Black Ski Summits.  

I would encourage everyone who skis and rides to take a look backwards.  There are incredible places dedicated to the history of snow sliding, the Colorado Snowsports Museum in Vail and the Vermont Ski & Snowboard Museum in Stowe are two I’d recommend.  

Tickets are expensive, the selection of equipment overwhelming and the resort crowds, at times, insane.  But, thanks to the pioneering innovation of the past this is still the best time to be a skier or rider. 

Sometimes It Takes Sticking Around for Things to Work Out

Change is the nature of the universe.   Without it evolution would be as worthless as a globe to a Flat-Earther.  However, even as we yearn for a shiny new day, another chance to get things right, we need to take what does work along with us for the ride through time.  Conversely, we need to discard and wave goodbye to whatever holds us back.  Recognizing the difference and having the courage to choose defines the thin line between success and failure, or better, between opportunity and status quo.  Sometimes all you need is time.

This Saturday Magic Mountain is scheduled to open for the 2016-2017 season.  This will mark the 20^th year of continuous operation for the mountain.  It will also be the first season in that time with entirely new ownership and management. 

Over the years the resort has often stumbled towards bankruptcy and permanent closure.  Vision, hard work, generosity and good fortune have saved Magic several times during the past two decades and many good people have supplied the former to help produce the later.  The list is long and contains familiar names, but also contains many whose labor of love often went unrecognized.  It would be unfair to single out the shining stars I’ve known over the years, at the expense of many I never knew.  They would be just the tip of a very large iceberg of devotees who have loved Magic Mountain as their own.

There were heroes in the first days of reopening, working through long cold nights to restore lift ops and snowmaking that had been stripped away after Boston Concessions pulled the plug in 1991.  There were managers who stared down deadlines and debt with little more than an absolute determination to keep the resort open.  There were cooks and carpenters, mechanics and medics; and, of course, scores of season pass and daily ticket customers who knew this was more than just another ski area and acted passionately on that knowledge.  High on the list is the extraordinary effort of the people involved in Greg Williams’ Save Magic campaign that raised capital and stoked interest in the mountain during a time when both were in limited supply.  And, what about Jim Sullivan and Tom Barker who stayed the course through treacherous waters?  Ok, some people have to be mentioned, including the founder of the feast, Hans Thorner.

In the beginning it was Thorner’s bold vision that created the first Tyrolean themed ski village in North America and recruited the use of a helicopter to set lift towers on steep rocky terrain.   Magic is also where snowboarding took its tentative first steps.  Jake Burton built a half pipe here before other ski areas had even seen a snowboard.  Since 1960 thousands of kids have learned to ski and ride at Magic, later bringing their own kids, who in turn brought their kids.  There’s history here and the beat goes on.

With the vertical of Mount Snow without the glitz, the steeps of Killington without the show biz and Mad River’s off piste without the affectation, Magic is unique.  Especially now.  Our hill is cared for by Mountain Manager Matt Cote who, before becoming an employee this year, annually volunteered countless hours performing whatever improvement efforts were necessary. The new President, Geoff Hatheway, has a long relationship with the mountain.  He is also an owner and has a personal investment in the daily decisions he makes.  In addition to Geoff the new ownership group consists of long time Magic skiers and riders who have always understood and cherished the qualities that separate Magic from any other ski resort.

Magic’s journey has been a long, strange and memorable trip.  Its numerous struggles to survive are legendary, as is its stubborn refusal to succumb to them.    I join with everyone who loves the mountain, welcoming a new era that celebrates Magic’s past while at the same time recognizing a bright and shiny future.

Finally, it is my hope that someone someday writes a definitive Magic history.   It would be an amazing read.

  

Thoughts on a Dark Day

This is a shocking and unpleasant day for those of us who never believed that an individual with no experience as a civil servant could assume the title, “leader of the free world.”  At its core, what makes America singularly different from other nations is the absolute belief that our democracy requires the participation of its citizen to function.  We have a true sense of being in it together, whether that “it” be cataclysm or celebration.  The supporters of Donald Trump have much to celebrate, persevering against great odds to convince a majority of uncommitted voters that their candidate was different and a harbinger of change.

 Different, he is.  Unlike any previous president elect, until his improbable run for president, he has largely avoided participating in the democratic process.  To the contrary, he is proud of his record of using tax regulations to circumvent any financial obligation to his country.  Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should, any more than welfare or unemployment recipients should use loopholes to cheat the system.  When the rest of us have our shoulders to the wheel I certainly expect a billionaire, captain of industry and fellow citizen to be right there with us.  And, to the dazed, disillusioned and disgusted who never considered this day possible emigrating to Canada is not an option.  You, too, have responsibilities.  Now more than ever, we need you at the wheel.

As a difference maker Donald Trump has been lukewarm to the distinctly American concepts of equality and respect for those who don’t look like, worship like or share the same sexual orientation he does.  He has been openly anti immigrant, misogynistic and racially insensitive, reminiscent of a mid 19^th Century political party, the Know Nothings.   Abraham Lincoln offered this commentary regarding his concerns for the fragile belief in ‘liberty and justice for all’ found so abhorrent by many of his fellow countrymen:

”As a nation, we began by declaring that 'all men are created equal.' We now practically read it 'all men are created equal, except negroes.' When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read 'all men are created equals, except negroes and foreigners and Catholics.' When it comes to that I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretense of loving liberty – to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base alloy of hypocrisy.”

Remove the direct inference to "negroes," insert Muslim in place of "Catholics" and you have a statement that seems to be a core message from the 2016 campaign.

And what of Russia?  Putin’s support of a Trump presidency, a cold war-like challenge to every American position internationally and the chilling probability of computer hacking efforts to manipulate information at the highest levels presents an adversarial threat unprecedented in this generation.   As a nation we’ve exhibited the will and wisdom to resolve, or at least defuse every previous encounter.  The common denominator has been leadership.  In this most uncertain of times, we need more than self serving, self righteous and self aggrandizing bombast. 

Unable to move back in time, we move forward.  It is my sincerest hope that candidate Donald Trump, the man so many of us bitterly opposed, will be changed by the awesome responsibilities he now assumes as President Donald Trump.  I hope he becomes increasingly thoughtful and interested in hearing the voices that challenge rather than constantly praise.  I hope he recognizes the crucial role of a loyal opposition in fleshing out both sides of an issue.  I hope he considers the context of debate and the wide assortment of options before making crucial decisions.  And, most importantly I ardently pray he will rise to the occasion and become the leader that all of us, this great American collective of diversity, need and deserve.  

Requiem For A Skier

I love being a skier, and by skier, I mean any form of snow-covered-downhill-means-of-conveyance-that-requires-you–to-stand-while-in-motion sport.  I snowboard, too, went today, in fact, so no discrimination.  I’ve always felt that skiing helps keep us young in body, mind and, most certainly, in spirit.  Sometimes, maybe I confuse feeling young with being immortal.  The true rush of skiing is how absolutely alive it makes you feel, making the opposite impossible to imagine.  We are a community, we snow riders, and the name of the community we share is Life.  It’s simple, to ski is to live and those of us who find ourselves addicted to the challenge and confident in our ability to overcome those challenges live very large.  Sadly, nothing, not even the perfect experience of an absolute all-hands-on-deck powder day can deter the Reaper forever.  I am now of an age group where, as the song lyric contends, I am past the point of dying young.  It’s a startling realization.  More so when it’s driven home by the untimely death of friends. 

A good friend of mine passed away recently, not when skiing, because he no longer could, not by cataclysmic accident or the rapid on-set of disease, but by chronic protracted illness aided by obesity and poor lifestyle choices.  Some of those choices may have been made while we ran amuck in high school, and perhaps my friend sped through crossroads with reckless abandon while most of us heeded warnings to slow and turn down gentler, less destructive paths.  Maybe he was always moving too fast to turn.   My friend did everything at full speed.  We all know these people, the true type As.  They often fail at business because they’re too damn restless to be driven.  They often fail at relationships because, like a champion rodeo bull, they’re too uncontrollable to ever be ridden.  And God knows you can’t assail them with reproach and reason.  They’re just too stubborn to listen.

Brian was a balls-to-the-wall skier, no better way to describe his technique.  He was profoundly good, one of the very best skiers at Killington, a certified instructor as a teenager; a hot dog, rocket fueled, top gun at the biggest, baddest hill in the East.  I was always in awe of his talents on snow.  Huge, even at 16, his easy blend of power and grace separated him from everyone else.  He was gifted; skiing was as effortless for him as drawing breath was for the rest of us.  I remember once skiing with him and being so embarrassed by our skill discrepancy that I spent the afternoon in the lodge reading a book.  Too bad because I could have learned a lot if I could have kept him in sight.  Even the Beast, however, ultimately wasn’t big enough to corral him.  A lifestyle powered by party can implode any career. 

The way I remember him, the way I choose to remember, are not his withered legs, no longer strong enough to carry him across a floor, or his struggles just to breathe through damaged lungs under the constriction of acute obesity, the way he was at the end.  I choose the beginning of the story where a kid with a wicked grin too large to be contained, rips a zipper line through the never-ending spring bump fields of Bear Mountain, or dips into the steep tight trees along side Devil’s Fiddle decades before it became a free-ski rite of passage.  In my heart of hearts, beyond intellectual certainty, I would have sworn to you then that he, my friend and the best skier I knew, would live forever.  And so would I.

We’re a big noisy community, we snow riders, as diverse as human kind.  What brings us together is the feeling that we’re at our best, our most alive, when we ski.  I know it doesn’t make us immortal, but I think, as long as we keep searching for another perfect run, we stay forever young.  Just like Brian. 

But I Love That Dirty Water...

 
 

Let’s cut immediately to the chase:  this is about a late blooming love affair I’ve recently had with the city of Boston.  It’s a bit perplexing.  You can’t grow up in New England, even in the wild and wooly north, and not feel some connection and affinity with the Hub.  Proximity lends itself to a feeling of shared experience; pride in the place where American independence began and stubbornly refused to yield; pride in cultural and intellectual icons like Harvard, MIT, Mass General, the MFA and many more.  Even pride in sports franchises who represent the region all over North America and beyond.  Here is where the relationship gets sticky for me.

For as long as I can remember I have been a fan of the New York Yankees.  As even the most casual of baseball fans know the Yankees and Boston don’t mix.  I recently saw a hilarious YouTube music video of The Devil Came Up To Boston, a remake of the classic Charlie Daniels song where a hot fiddle player named Johnny is challenged for his soul by the Devil, a bit of a hot fiddler himself.  In the recent version Johnny is from Boston and sports a Red Sox cap.  The Devil wears a Yankees hat and comes from a city many Bostonians associate with Hell. 

I’ve been living in the Boston area since early October of last year.  I was here for the Snowpocalypse of ’13 when three feet of snow fell on the first Saturday in February and the Mayor authorized police to arrest anyone on the roads.  I was here for the immediate aftermath of a disastrous season for the Red Sox, the disappointing loss for the Patriots in the AFC Championship and the end of an eventful and successful era in Celtics basketball history.  I was here as Boston’s own Whitey Bulger, America’s public enemy number one, was brought to justice.  I was also here for the marathon bombing on Patriot’s Day, and was very nearly there at ground zero.  Only a chance return to Vermont that Monday in April kept me from being at the finish line with a co-worker.  He was unhurt, but friends who attended with him suffered critical injuries.  I left Boston early on the following Friday for a day at Jay Peak narrowly avoiding another mandatory lock down as police searched for the bombers while I listened to a surreal scenario unfolding in real time on the radio during my four hour trip north.

I became proud of the feelings of courage and unity the people of this area exhibited.  Boston, like all great cities, is an amalgam of race, nationality and religion.  It seems nothing makes us more unified as Americans in thought and deed as a disaster.  The people here refused to be cowed, refused to stay home, change their lifestyles or move to the country.  And just as the Yankees improbable run to the World Series in 2001 in the aftermath of 9/11 helped bring healing to New York, I was a witness to the healing power of sports this spring in Boston.  There’s a hockey team here, the Bruins, you may have heard of them.  In the aftermath of the marathon bombings the Bruins made a magical run to the NHL championship series.  On a beautiful June night I drove into the city with my visiting daughter to meet a friend and hang out downtown in a neighborhood bar.  The place was packed with people spilling into the street, mingling with overflow from the bar next door.   Both places featured cheap beer, expensive cover charges and TVs tuned to game two of the Stanley Cup Finals.  My buddy is tight with the owner, so after a brief moment of unpleasantness with a bouncer the size of a Mazda my daughter and I found a bit of standing room with a commanding view of the game.  The place pulsated with energy and TVs at max volume while the owner kept us in beer and conversation neither side could hear.   The casual camaraderie was spiked periodically by lightning fast action on the screen.  No major professional sport moves as quickly as hockey and the tempo of playoff hockey can turn a TV into a defibrillator.  The championship series between the Bruins and the Chicago Blackhawks was so evenly matched that playing into overtime in each game was almost a given.  So it was with this game, as well.  Tied at the end of three periods, the drama continued to build into sudden death overtime, with both teams unable to score despite wild end-to-end rushes up ice at the opposing goals.   

My daughter has a photographer’s eye and sense of timing for capturing the pathos of a moment.  She had just started to frame a shot of dozens of Bruins bedecked mostly Twenty and Thirty Somethings riveted to a giant screen when a Daniel Paille slapshot eluded the Chicago goaltender.  The overtime thriller ended as night turned to morning, intensity exploded into pandemonium and the Drop Kick Murphy’s “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” roared at ear distorting levels. My friend lit up a super sized spliff of Cheech & Chong dimensions, like some 21^st Century new age Red Auerbach (wrong sport, right city) and a wild uncontainable party surged into the streets of downtown.   

There are things about Boston I don’t much care for.  I often ride my bike to work and do nightly runs around my neighborhood, practices that in Vermont allow for a social “how’s it going?” when meeting like minded folk.  When I first arrived here I used to greet people in this manner, only to realize that Bostonians think you’re potentially dangerous or, at best, a bit dim witted.  When driving, only brief windows of opportunity exist where you can actually get somewhere.  I recently spent an hour and a half traversing the 1.5 miles of the Ted Williams Tunnel.  Thoughtless littering is as ubiquitous as car horns and emergency sirens, and the next time someone with a Massachusetts plate uses a turn signal on Route 128 will be the first time.  Despite the dirt, the danger and more cars than you would see in Vermont over the course of ten lifetimes it’s where I experienced a bit of June magic I’ll remember for the rest of my life.  What’s not to love?  Well, let me tell you…

Boston may be the true birthplace of American democracy, the Pops, J Geils, and the Gardener Museum, but it’s also the hometown of the Impossible Dream, the story of the 1967 Red Sox.  Which leads me back to my original state of adoring confusion that started this tale, something Sox fans won’t relate to, but will understand:  I do love that dirty water, but you’ll never, ever catch me singing Sweet Caroline.