text Jonah Cantor
photos Chuck Waskuch

It’s eight o’clock on yet another dreary October morning in northern Vermont. But this morning is different. The dark gray blanket of clouds that usually keeps me lazily tucked away beneath my covers is suddenly the inspiration for an overwhelming flood of excitement. A mix of cold rain and huge white flakes of snow fall heavily outside, coating the streets and houses in a white mess—a hazard for early morning commuters, but a hopeful sign for anxious skiers waiting to dive into the new season.

“Steve…wake up…wake up!”

The receiver clicks as it’s lifted and Steve answers. We talk about the weather and I fill him in on the phone call I got twenty minutes ago from my housemate who reported heavy snows on his drive towards Mt. Mansfield for a ski patrol refresher. Within moments we dive right into business.

“Let’s go skiing.”

Before I know it, I’m layered up and ready to go. A horn honks in front of the apartment. I grab the thermos of hot coffee, a pair of battered army-issue Karhu skis, poles and boots and run down the stairs, tossing it all into the open hatch of my buddy Ryan’s truck.

At Steve’s house, Ryan belts the horn and we watch the precipitation gently melt on the windshield as Steve darts out, lugging his gear. The growing anticipation sends us rushing towards the interstate. The music is cranked—no time for chitchat now. The wailing pulse of Derek Trucks, the road and the summer’s accumulation of snowy daydreams consume our minds.

The snow is really coming down as we wind our way towards the Stowe Resort parking lot at the foot of Vermont’s tallest mountain, Mount Mansfield. Several inches of fresh snow have already been plowed off the road. The three of us remind each other to thank my housemate for the heads up.
We park along side a snow covered car in the lot, hop out, and begin getting our telemark boots on and sticking our climbing skins to the bases of our rock skis. The driver’s door pops open on the car beside us. A guy stumbles out and greets us with a grinning nod.

“You get a good sleep in there?” Ryan jokes.

Finishing a yawn, he responds, “Yeah, well I figured the longer I wait, the better it’s gonna be.”

He’s right. At this point it looks like it can only get better—that is if skiing powder on a base of gravel, grass, and dirt does it for you. The driving snow isn’t letting up and blankets the ground and the trees. But we are in no mood to wait around. We slide up the trail past the vibrant yellows, oranges and reds of a particularly decent Vermont fall foliage. Now they lay in sharp contrast beneath the snow.

One leg-burning hour later, Ryan, Steve and myself stand beneath the deserted gondola house. We strip the skins off and stuff them in our packs. There is nothing left to do now but point our tips downhill on Chin Clip and go.

The first turn is smooth. The way it should feel. Dropping my knee, I bank a turn through the fresh and carry momentum as I skid across a bare section of ice and rocks. I grimace, envisioning the rocks grind against the edges and base of my skis. But then I remember that these edges are already dull and the base is chewed up so it doesn’t really matter anyway. Besides, if I was worried about things like that on opening day I should have stayed home.

Steve and Ryan couldn’t agree more as they laugh the whole way over that section. Dancing down the slope, we are reminded that it’s the telemark turn that brought us to the mountain—the thrill, the exhilaration, the beauty of each turn regardless of how pretty it actually is. These are things that fuel the passion. The rush of cold air stinging our faces, the growing burn in our quads, the sound of good friends hooting nearby. It’s all part of the experience—the moment you could say. It’s about being alive, connecting mind to body so that thought becomes action without hesitation.

We take turns arcing out fresh tracks as the trail winds down the mountain. The snow conditions stay consistently and surprisingly fluffy with the exception of the occasional rock. The warm days of summer are already a fading memory as we ski. It feels like last winter and spring’s season never ended. I get caught up in this feeling, letting the steep slope carry me faster.

The tip of my ski catches a hidden rock and sends me flailing through the air and crashing hard onto another rock. Sharp pain rushes through my arm and knocks the wind out of me. The pain slowly dissipates and luckily all that’s broken is my ski pole. Steve and Ryan can’t help but chuckle as I make my way towards them—amused by my display of pre-season overconfidence and happy that it wasn’t one of them to take the first hard tumble of the season.





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