In Search Of Eastern Skiing in the Great Thaw of 1995
|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
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
Wesley Alan Wright
Last modified August 31 1995 11:17 AM