Before we go any further, I need to make something clear: I’m a really lousy skier, and that’s a choice I’ve made. Whether we’re talking long, flat Nordic tracks or rolling mounds, my butt has a loving relationship with the ground that it just can’t quit. Sometimes, even when I’m in the middle of a smooth and successful descent, I will intentionally wipe out as a means of damage control. (“Why prolong the inevitable?” my brain seems to say, just as I eat shit.) But I’ve made peace with this, enjoying the brief moments when I do become a competent skier and appreciating the beauty and exhilaration of skiing in general. And for those of you who will soon be gliding down powdery haunches on a pair of wooden slats, this week’s hiking newsletter is for you.
The one thing that makes me glad to not ski regularly is the price of downhill skiing. Lift tickets, basic gear, and chalet lodging add up quickly, to a sum that would make Solomon blush. And it wasn’t always like this. Skiing took root in New England in the early 20th Century. Norwegian immigrants settled in Stowe and used skis to navigate snowbound roads. The earliest ski lifts that opened in Vermont were ramshackle mom-and-pop operations: quite often, a guy with a motorized tow rope that would pull skiers to the top of a hill. Today, you’d be hard pressed to locate such a grungy, low-cost gateway to the most coveted slopes. But there is another way: an older way.