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In Search Of Eastern Skiing in the Great Thaw of 1995
In Search Of Eastern Skiing in the Great Thaw of 1995
In Search Of Eastern Skiing: If I owned Stowe
In Search of Eastern Skiing
In Search of Eastern Skiing: Loon
In Search of Eastern Skiing: Sunday River
In Search of Eastern Skiing: Wildcat
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In Search Of Eastern Skiing in the Great Thaw of 1995

Photo: Rain, Rain, RainSki Vermont!
In search of Eastern Skiing


Believe me, It takes a lot of stamina to hold onto one's reservations, load up the car, and head out into the deluge on the last day of the East's deepest recorded thaw in search of a traditional New England ski experience.

But that's just what the doctor and I did on the morning of Saturday, January 21, 1995.

It wasn't an easy debarkation. I just got the car out of the shop on Thursday, for -- among other mechanical flaws -- failure to start. AT 11:15 AM, I jumped inside the vehicle to back out of the garage, and, of course, nothing happened.

It's at times like this that one is certain that fate is in strong opposition to one's expected destiny. It's mid January in Vermont. It's raining. It's been raining all week. The ground from here to 3600 feet is bare, and we nixed a trip to Whistler in favor of departing today, on this day of all days, for an Eastern ski epic. And now the damn car won't start.

The Doctor and I have never been ones to give in to fate.

A frantic call to the nearest local Peugeot Dealer (ha! try to find a Peugeot dealer in Whistler Village!) suggested a bad coil. Suggested repair was to "jiggle the wires." Trusting my mechanic as if he were my mom, I jiggled away. And lo, there was spark.

After a quick drive across town for a visit with Jerome of Imported Car Center (And a slightly used cable borrowed from under the hood of some other poor wretch's vehicle), we were on our way across the great divide of the Green Mountains, into that lush tropical zone that was the Connecticut river valley, and up again into the high peaks of New Hampshire's White Mountains.

This being a travel day, we took a quick tour of the region before settling into our motor hotel. Seemed like the snow line was around 1800 feet. The gaps and notches were snowy, but the valleys were washed clean. Best snow display was in Pinkham Notch. By god, it actually looked like winter there.

But Franconia Notch, our home for the evening, was bare. Cannon Mountain had fought a valiant fight, but when we checked into our motel, there was a FAX upon the counter from Cannon. The FAX announced that they had lost the battle and would be closed for business on Sunday.

We ate. Slept. Steeped in our anxiety.

The Ski Monster's Story The Doctor's Story


Copyright 1995.

Brought to you through the courtesy of Computing and Information Technology, University of Vermont. Copyright © 1995 . All rights reserved.
Wesley Alan Wright (email Wesley.Wright@uvm.edu) 8/31/95

Last modified August 31 1995 11:17 AM

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