At the end on my last post, I mentioned that Winter Storm Euclid
(the NWS has taken to naming storms in the Lower 48, I’d love to see them try
that up here…) was dumping.
By the end of it, nearly a foot had fallen at the house, more up high..
While I laughed at the northeasterner’s concerns over the
snowfall, alas Euclid
got the last laugh. The snow totals quickly caused me to develop a case of
FOMO, and a planned trip to visit my sister in Bar Harbor,
Me was eclipsed first by unsafe driving, and secondly by powder fever.
Amy and I toured the Norske trail during the tail end of the
storm, and the next day in clear skies, I skated in bliss on the pillowy trails at Rikerts for a little over 3 hours.
The blue sky was short lived though, as a second system
moved in less than 24 hours after Euclid
had moved out.
While this storm promised to bring less snow and remained
unnamed in the eyes of the forecasters, a “sit-and-spin” pattern developed,
leading to an additional snowfall of 6-8 fluffy inches on top of Euclid’s now firm deposit.
Ashar and I skied some not-so-secret glades on Saturday
afternoon, and the fresh and still damp snow skied fast underfoot, letting us
ride lower angle trees with speed and ease.
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Waxing up. I pulled a Rosignol Proline circa 2002 out of retirement and strapped on snowshoes to get after the BC goods. |
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Coming down. |
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Not a lot to see, but plenty to ski. |
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Fueling up Downeast style. |
Conditions only furthered my FOMO issues though. Some of the best
east coast backcountry conditions I’ve ever seen had set up – conditions that
are oft hoped for in March, let alone late December. In the upper elevations a
1.5-3 foot thick, firm base buried most debris, stumps, and rocks, while up to
a foot of blower lay on top. Blue skies were forecasted to prevail as well.
Powder fever is hard to cure nor ignore, and a second planned
trip looked threatened.
I had planned to spend Dec 30 in NYC absorbing urban culture
and pizza made by pros, but the urban jungle had lost its appeal in the face of
face shots and snow-covered hardwood forests.
I pushed my south-bound travel date back a day, and hastened
my return trip north by a day as well.
The decision proved to be a good one. The skies parted
on Sunday and I headed into a secret glade.
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"W" marks the spot. |
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Hardwood glades, hard to beat. |
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Secret views. |
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Dusky retreat. |
Having not been to this locale since I left the East Coast,
and being relegated to snow shoes with the board on my pack, progress and route
finding were sub-optimal. Trail breaking was absolute hell. On my first ascent I
did scope out several sweet lines, and the snow was worthy of as many laps as
my little heart and tired legs could handle. Face shots were common, and I
enjoyed riding atop several glacial erratics and hopping protruding ledges.
New Years Eve day I awoke early and drove to Albany where I boarded a train
to Penn Station.
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Southbound on the shores of the Hudson. I miss trains. |
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There I was greeted by Seth, who escorted me to the Port
Authority, with a stop for coffee and long-overdue catch-up. I then hopped a
bus, and two hours later Bernie picked my up outside his home in Allentown.
After hanging out with Travis, who made the trip out to
visit as well, we rung in the New Year with some of Bernie’s Pa crew, and the
next morning wrung ourselves back out with a short but fun MTB ride on some
local trails. An inch of slushy snow over a mostly frozen ground didn’t stop
us, but it sure made us muddy.
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Hosing down the rigs. |
Just 26 hours after I arrived, I was back on the bus headed
north. I hopped a train in NYC and brushed some snow off the car in Albany, but this time however, I drove only to Saratoga, where I stopped
in at the home of my academic advisor and unpaid life advisor, Bob.
I was feeling a little sad I had cut my trip to see Bernie
so short, but the next morning snow was falling in Saratoga.
Nostalgia and a tour of this sweet little city I so often
miss was not to be had: Bob had breakfast waiting and a lunch packed, it was
time to make turns and he was ready.
Bob lead the way north to Gore Mountain,
about an hour north of Toga-town.
The cost of a $1.00 bottle of Coke displayed at the ticket
window discounted my lift ticket by several bills.
I was unsure of what to expect, skiing with my former
professor, and had brought both the skis (I suck) and the board (I suck less).
I opted to start on the board, and decided if the day looked
to be one of groomers and waiting at the lift line, (i.e., Bob couldn’t hang),
I would mention something about icy conditions and switch over to skis. I was
fully expecting that the pupil would be the professor for the day.
We started with a warm up on a long, though somewhat
typically slippery groomer.
Then Bob lead the charge on a traverse across the resort to
a less visited area.
From there, we dropped into the first mogulled glade.
Bob disappeared and it was all I could do to try and
remember how to board the bumps and trees at the same time.
On the ride up, my legs screamed, and I pleaded for an
alternating warm down run.
We hit a groomer and I watched this middle-aged professor
pop air over several rolls while hammering GS turns
Shit.
East coast lift serve was demanding.
I struggled the rest of the morning as Bob lead me on a
whirlwind tour of the mountain, hopping between groomers and glades.
After lunch, we headed to another area of the mountain, and
after getting back-spun over a mogul the size of a polar bear, my muscle memory
kicked back in.
Thanks for joining.
Something clicked and I suddenly started making sense of the
bumps, scouring out the side-sloughed and wind-blown powder.
Then we found a run that, despite its location directly
under a lift, had some of the best snow and terrain of the day. Maybe it was
the 4-5 foot tall lateral bands of rock that ran across the trail that stopped
others from heading down, but it was no deterrent for us and we lapped this
glory shot of a run until the sun began to sink.
The day ended with a trip back down to the lodge and a
descent that featured the southern Adirondacks
bathed in the golden light of the setting winter sun.
A few hours later I was back in Middlebury where I met up
with Narva, who was also touring the east on holiday.
The next morning we rolled south and met up with Meg and
friend Chris at Stratton.
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Lunch crowd. |
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Narva's better side. |
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The way every day should end. |
I spent a lot of great weekends my freshmen year of college
on this mountain, so it was great to see it again.
Narv, Meg and I quickly fell into our old routine, and Chris
was game. Inappropriate jokes abounded and the cold wind and loud powder were
no match for our good spirits.
Our best efforts to make fellow tram riders uncomfortable
were for naught; most joined in. The mid-week crowds are typically the best of
the bunch.
By the end of the day our sides all hurt as much as our
legs, and poor Narva, whose voice was already beginning to give that morning
due to a lingering cold, could be seen skiing downhill, bent over, mouth agape,
trying to laugh but nothing would come out. It was the kind of day you start to
miss and laugh about before it’s even over.
That night Leila joined Narva and I in Middlebury too, and
the next morning the three of us headed about an hour south to Pico Mountain
where we met up with Scott and Lauren.
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Skiing: it's fun! |
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Narva getting first track and leaving contrails |
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Scotty |
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Pico, though small, has great ambiance on and off the mountain. |
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Ya they are! |
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The girls talk skiing, the boys talk skiing. |
I picked Pico as out destination in part because it was
budget friendly and in part because it was close (just less than an hour from
Middlebury)
Pico was the first “big hill” I ever skied at – big hill
being anything other than the Middlebury College Snow Bowl – and was later
where I took my first snowboard lesson.
The first time I saw this cone-shaped peak rising into the
ski, my neck felt like it would break. I was 9 I think.
By the time I had acquired a license and a GPA high enough
to earn a Sunday pass at Killington/Pico, my friends and I blew by this much
smaller looking mountain for Killington.
As noted, except for my freshmen year, I skied almost exclusively
at Killington through my collegiate career only going to Pico once to lead a
group of beginner skiers and riders and another time when I sported a broken
tail bone.
I wasn’t expecting much out of Pico except cheaper tickets
and a shorter drive.
The steadily falling snow when we arrived promised more.
We hooked up with Scott and Lauren and in no time at all,
were traversing across closed trails to make it over to the apparently closed
“Outpost” area.
I wondered how long we would do this before ski patrol
caught on, when maybe on the third lap in this area we passed a sign that noted
that, while the Outpost lift was not running, it was open to those who sought
to ski under their own power.
What?!
Since when did east coast ski hills start being cool?
We made a few more laps in the untracked area before heading
to the A-Slope Lift.
This is the original Pico, the Pico my mom grew up skiing
with her sisters, before snowmaking, chairlifts, and a high-speed quad that
actually reached the summit of the resort’s namesake.
The several hundred vertical foot slope was loaded with
drifted powder, gathered on the gladded runs.
The old poma tower bases made for fun hucks.
After lunch, we aimed for the summit.
Despite blasting wind at the top, and an icy off-ramp that
made unloading look like a scene from “Saving Private Ryan,” we made an amazing
discovery: Pico, has got the goods.
I don’t know what the deal is, but this mountain is chuck-full
of skiable glades, and I’m not talking about the glades you’ll find on your
friendly mountain trail guide.
Managers might be calling their lawyers as you read this to
order a cease and desist; locals might be seething that their local 401 is out
on the Internets, but the woods between the trails off the summit may appear
impenetrable from outside, but from within, they are amazing.
We found easy turning in the knee deep, and often completely
untracked snow.
Our entryways were usually a leap of faith through a cluster
of head-bashing spruce boughs that yielded to open forest within.
If we were breaking any rules, ski patrol didn’t seem to
mind.
For Leila and I, where to ski on Saturday was an easy decision.
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The vintage Outpost lift at Pico features vintage ski terrain (Courtesy Epicski.com). |
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Gorgeous light in the glades off the summit. |
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Views to the White Mountains off the calm and sunny summit. |
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Snow creatures in an empty forest. |
We returned the next day to find that more snow had fallen
overnight and covered our tracks in the woods, while the mountain had opened
the retro Outpost area. The rusting steel towers of this two-seater lift and
big powdery bumps and hardwood glades were a perfect way to kick off a sunny
morning. By the afternoon we again returned to the upper elevation and found
the woods from the day before just as fun.
By the end of the day, after four consecutive days of
relentless east coast lift serve, I was ready to be sedentary for 16 hours,
but maybe unsure about where I was going.