Faces of the Ice

by Ryan McElroy ’16

“ICE!” Zach’s voice echoes through the falling snow from above, louder than the wind whipping through the surrounding spruce and the trucks passing by on route 73 far below. It cuts across the frozen Chapel Pond, which I had just crossed less than an hour ago. I hear it, but nothing registers in my brain. My gaze is ever upwards, neck craning to spot the orange blob that marked the other end of my rope. Just barely making out the moving speck of a man, my eyes shift focus to the dancing shapes falling from the sky. Like pieces of glass, these shards spin and flip, clatter and sing, bounce down, down, down… Oh shit. That’s what he meant – I suddenly drop my head and curl inwards after being struck by a flying slab. No way I’m forgetting that one! Now I know: ice is the name of the game. This season’s first day of climbing was off to a slippery start.

——–

I guess I should have had some idea of what I was getting myself into when I emailed Zach (‘14.5) over winter break just to see if by any chance he knew how I could get a hold of some boots and crampons. I wanted to make the best of what was forecast to be miserable skiing weather in Vermont. Maybe I would head out to the glistening ice. I had only been twice the previous winter. Derek Doucet, the college’s outdoor programs director, and Scott Barnicle, a student dean had taken me. And now Zach was down for more. “How about Tuesday when we get back?” Great! But why are these guys so willing?

Last year, Zach Perzan hired me to work at the school’s climbing wall. I had met Zach early my freshman year at a Geology Department pizza lunch. His large shoulders and burley frame were softened by his calm voice and dimpled smile. We soon became friends, and I learned he was one the most patient teachers I’ve ever had. He could have been in his thirties, speaking so eloquently, knowing so much, and climbing so well. Yet, he was only a year older than me. The story he told me on the way to the ice, the one about fishing for crawdads, keeping them in his apartment sink, and coming home to find one on the carpet, pincers raised, looking up at him, reminds me he’s not all grown up. He’s still a kid just like me.

——–

Or maybe not. I feel like a modified kid. Like a kid who lost his essential fearlessness. Now, taking that first step is the hardest. Putting off an assignment, postponing a phone call, or stumbling to let someone know how you truly feel about them – it’s always so damn scary. Zach continues ascending, now beyond my line of sight. And then there are those other fears. Smashing in my teeth. Eyeballs. Wolves. Abandonment. Addiction. Living an incomplete life. The list lengthens at a frightening pace while I stand belaying Zach at Crystal Ice Tower. He’s gotta be there soon. The anxiety is closer to freezing me than the single digit temperatures. I wait and wait.

“Ryan, off belay!” That’s my signal. He’s made it up. It’s all me now. If I can just manage to breathe… Here goes.

My mind is blank. I reach. Swing. Swing. Step. I’m up. Steel robo-talons pierce the ice and miraculously hold me. Swing right. Check the feet. Packs look like dots below. Kick. Test weight. Breathe. Swing left. Shattered ice. Swing again. Dinner plates. Swing and… perfect. Hero Ice. You can’t plan for it, but when you sink it, there is nothing better.

——–

In the car on the way out, Zach prepped me on basic ice science. We search for that “plastic-y, ductile ice.” It’s an ice climber’s nirvana. Forever swingin, listening, feeling, but rarely attaining. Most of the time it’s too brittle or too wet.

The variability of each flow excites Zach. Even if he’s been to a spot already, “it will always be different.” Getting out to new ice each time is crucial to keeping it exciting. Keeping a keen eye on the weather and on sites like NEice.com is key.

Zach began swinging tools in high school. He was fortunate to have a few generous teachers who took him out and taught him the basics. His technique improved over multiple trips to Kinsman Notch in New Hampshire. Soon, he and his mentors, were confident in his ability to lead routes, placing all his own protection as he climbed first from the bottom. He still keeps in touch with the guys who shared it with him. And now he passes on his passion, glad to have better access to Vermont and New York ice than he did when he was living in Boston.

——–

Our day out ended just as it began: dark skies, temperatures just pushing double digits, and turkey sandwiches on my mind. But my body ached more than it did at 6:25 am. That’s for darn sure. “Classic rookie mistakes,” Zach explained on the drive home from a full day in the Adirondacks. “You gotta have your systems, man. At least two sandwiches. Make ‘em before breakfast. Three gloves. Each with a purpose. Oh yeah, and you can’t leave your boots in the trunk – there’s no heat back there!” I certainly made the mistakes, and my lack of systems was laughable, yet I had managed to keep my feet nice and toasty. I brought my boots with me in the front seat. At least I had that going for me.

••

I feel fortunate to have been so warmly welcomed into a community of ice climbers. Reflecting on my time, I catch glimpses of an unwritten future. Perhaps it will involve ice flows, mountaineering trips out west, and laughing off the dark times, as my mentors have done before me? Is this my future?

Possibly. Possibly not. I will forever be awe of the extreme. Rigid peaks, ancient rock, gnarled trees, and violent storms – they captivate me. But the people testing themselves out there are even more interesting. Their pushing of physical, mental, and emotional limits fascinates me. Why do they do it? What is the point? Should I bother trying? Are they worthy role models? As long as I continue to meet these people and seek answers to these questions, it’s likely my story will read similar to those of the mentors I’ve met. But nothing is written in stone. I proceed with caution as on ice, aware that my words may melt, freeze, flow, or shatter at any moment.

(an excerpt, read the full piece here:  http://sites.middlebury.edu/adventure2015/student-work/ryan-mcelroy/ )

Calculating Beauty

by Mara Gans ‘15.5

“That’s good coffee,” said Eli Mauksch (’15) as we drove his Subaru out of Lander, WY and up towards the Wind River Mountains. I sipped my own coffee, trying not to critique the under extraction to much… I’d had better. Mostly though, I thought about the adventure ahead. I’d spent my entire life growing up in the shadows of the Cirque of the Towers and had long ago learned to sport climb in their foothills, but until today, I’d never had plans to climb any of their big peaks. Sure, I’d fantasized about it… but most of those dreams were pushed away into the to-do-when-I’m-older-and-wiser drawer of my life plan. Which, mostly means, I didn’t actually believe climbing them was possible.

However, when a peppy and confident Eli showed up at my house with his friend Austin and a trad rack in tow, I certainly wasn’t going to turn down an offer to expand my outdoor playground a little. So, after some driving, hiking, and a thorough discussion on who we’d put on our Zombie apocalypse team and whether we were cake or pie people, we set up camp at the base of the cirque. Eli and Austin spent the remainder of the evening with their heads towards the rocks and their noses buried in the climbing guide, scoping out routes and fantasizing about being stronger climbers. I spent most of my evening looking at flowers and taking pictures in silent disbelief that we were actually going to manage climbing anything. We packed up for the next day: some extra clothes, climbing gear, food, and a couple headlamps amongst the three of us. I sort of thought we should each bring our own headlamp, but mostly I was still caught up in the flowers.

View of the Cirque from our camp.

Our first day was a breeze up the three pitch 5.8 K-cracks variation on the South Buttress of Pingora. Or at least I though so; I’d given up any decision-making, route finding and leading to Eli and Austin, and so I happily, thoughtlessly followed along, stoked about the clouds, and rock crystals, and flowers. I also complained some about my feet. Apparently multi pitch climbing and scrambling aren’t so great in way-too-small aggressive sport climbing shoes. Lesson learned. We summited Pingora and rapped off to it’s mini neighbor Tiger Tower, which I scrambled up barefoot, trying to save my feet, and imagining how not cool my parents would be with my current combination of unroped exposure and lack of appropriate footwear. I guess you have to break their rules sometime. We rapped off the other side of the tower and walked back to camp.

The next morning we packed up and again took off towards the granite walls. Confident after a successful yesterday, we started pulling on rocks at a leisurely 10 or 11 am—definitely stretching the borders of “the alpine start.” We started a not-so-highly-recommended grassy ledge approach to the 5.6 classic, the East Ridge of Wolf’s head. Besides a general lack of protection and layers of ledges full of exposed, slippery, wet grass, the grassy ledge approach wasn’t that bad. Nonetheless, I was thrilled when we finally made it onto the ramp. Ahead stretched pitch after pitch of sidewalk like exposed ridge followed by columns of rock towers waiting to be woven between. I may not be one to pour over images in guidebooks, but once on the rocks I had no doubt that there was no where I’d rather be—I’ll leave looking at flowers for gardeners.

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In a many ways climbing’s a lot like dancing. The wall is your partner, and each feature a sequence in the flow of a dance. The best climbers aren’t the strongest individuals, but rather the ones who can best match their own movements to the lead of the rock. Dancing with the East Ridge is unreal: Tiptoeing exposed slabs over thousand foot drops is broken up by flawless hand crack traverses—guiding you boldly over its stunning ridge and intimately through its many towers. All that said, however, I’m not really that great a crack climber, so my dance definitely involved more bicep strain than grace. But, I guess that’s what there’s a ‘next time’ for. Above us, the sun moved across the sky, and we watched a storm system build up above Wind River Peak to the south. We’d lucked out; afternoon storms build up quick in the summer, but this one missed us.

More dancing was matched by the continual saunter of the sun, and we eventually reached the summit. You never want to spend too much time on top, but our 7 pm summit time made hanging out particularly unappealing. Eli’s guidebook recommended a descent involving a few raps and a way-longer-than-we-wanted scramble off another part of the ridge. Some mountaintop I-spy reveled a different set rap anchors just below. The guidebook didn’t note them, but confidence in the length of our double ropes directed us there anyhow.

It was a good call. A couple raps later, hanging off a vertical wall at 12,000 feet I watched an absurdly phenomenal sunset. Normally watching a sunset you look up to the horizon. This time I was looking down. One rap later, it got dark. I guess that’s what normally follows phenomenal sunsets. Eli and Austin pulled out their headlamps. I didn’t have one to pull out.

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The next three-ish (60 m long) rappels I made were in the dark. Well sort of. Stars lit up the sky, marking a clear division between rock and heavens. If you believe in that sort of thing, that is. Eli and Austin’s headlamps danced above and below. Murmurs of nylon jackets and whispers of ropes sliding through expensive rap devices spoke a subtle reminder that, as much as I call the mountains home, I owe it to my ‘man-made’ props to even make it out there. Alpine romance is charming, but it’s not outright purity.

After an eternity of rappels (Eli was counting, I was looking at the stars), my feet came to support their own body weight. It was late; and our sleeping bags were still a mile or more of steep boulder fields away. Now I wanted my headlamp. I switched my thoughts out of ‘beauty appreciation mode’ and into their ‘pay attention now, or you’ll break an ankle’ setting. Silently computing our footsteps, we worked our way down. I hovered between Eli and Austin’s headlamp beams, reducing my world and mind down to each step and the pool of light around it.

Sometime after midnight we made it back to the valley floor, but not to our tent. After all the technical climbing, scrambling and navigating we’d done, locating our beds proved to be the surprise crux of the day. Stumbling around, everything looked the same in the dark: tents and boulders, trails and streams. For the first time all weekend I felt my good attitude start to waver. I insisted our tent was farther south. I was wrong. Eli suggested backtracking on the trail we came down. Still no tent. We stopped to elect another direction, referencing boulders, tiny streams, and faded trails. Nothing was that convincing. I zoned out and looked up at the sky. My mind’s ‘pay attention’ setting faded as I retraced the silhouette of the cirque—again, that clear division between rock and heavens. This time, however, it was different. A new angle on the peaks was like turning a page in a coloring book… you get the same theme, but different outlines.

“Wait! I know how we can find our tent!” I announced. “Which peaks could we see from camp? We just have to walk until we find the same view and we’ll find our tent.” As I stated this, I felt dumb for not knowing myself what the silhouette of the cirque had looked like from camp, but I knew in the hours Eli and Austin had spent pouring over the guidebook and mountains, they would know exactly what we’d been looking at.

Sure enough, they did.

A couple days later, Eli and Austin again piled into the Subaru; this time, without me, as they departed for their next adventures. As they drove off, I sat enjoying a not-under extracted cup of coffee, contrasting the science and calculating that goes towards brewing it, with the splendor of its heavenly taste. It’s not unlike a good day in the mountains, where you need both an appreciation of beauty and a meticulous calculation of the details to make it home. That is, if they were ever ours to call home in the first place.

Up Liberty

by Jordan Collins ‘15.5

We talked about how last night was a birth canal
The two of us started our ascent without expectation
Knowing only that the sun sets and sight fails
Realizing soon what it means to travel as if motionless
Through a vortex that likely led up

To arrive out of such black silence
Pierced only by our dim sphere perception
That miracle headlamp glow, outside of which
Any noise resounded in the imagination
(What surrounded seemed empty, might not be)

Was difficult, changed our bodies
Tricked them into strength outside of space and time
The night became an accidental escape from intellect
Consciousness pushed to the surface like our sweat,
Letting senses carry us forth as it would
On scrambled legs

We were born, this morning, naked
On a mountain, its cliffs conducting
A symphony of orange

Our first wail was a melody
From lives past, our singing caught by the winds
That curve around this world in currents
The precious sting of those high
Breezes on our bare bodies
The essence of creation in sensation

And bliss coursing through our newly pulsing veins

You will not waste this time

by Ben Harris ’16

Sun at half-mast on Sedona sandstone like a high water line of light.
You are looking through the lens at the years
Stretching across the strata of rock,
And I am dripping wet, standing in stillness at your side
The way driftwood washes ashore unannounced.
Cool air on naked skin tells of twilight,
All the time that remains
Until the aperture of this hour curls in on itself,
And leaves us worrying away at the tortoise shells of our selves
Wondering where did it all go, this life
We were rumored to be living.
Minutes from now, when we step into that car and drive from here
The full moon of the moment will sliver.
By then I will be far-gone
Into the days laid out ahead,
Like long ribbons of road, remote.
Out there is a future in which
I am telling myself
You will not waste this time
You will not waste this time
As if this life is some sort of school detention
Scrawled over and over across slate.
So it seems there is nothing more to do but
Walk to that tree bridged between the banks
And like the beaver,
Cut my teeth on the bark of meaning.
You will follow with the camera as I climb,
Bleeding from these bared soles.
When I reach the last of the branches,
I will pause, and prostrate myself
Before the water striders forever skimming the surface of mystery,
Meanwhile the rest of us stop to think
And sink.
When I let myself go and slip into the waiting stream
Your shutter may break the silence.
But I won’t have heard—
I’ll be busy listening
To the story spoken in the syllables of river stones,
Their whispers coming through water like whale song.
And in the end I will have to trust you to tell me
If falling from that tree
Did I make a sound.

No wonder they call it the great one.

by Emma Erwin ‘15.5

June 19th

So tired again & my feet have disintegrated. The inside arches, heels, and toes are all rubbed completely raw. They’re pretty grumpy. Another big night, but not too terribly long. We went back through the lower icefall to the cache and brought it up past the hill of cracks to below the great icefall. Snow/ice conditions were pretty stellar so much less sketchy than yesterday. The hill of cracks lives up to its name for sure: a solid running jump to catapult your body over is required to get past a least a dozen of the crevasses. Not too bad with solid snow, but I’m guessing it gets pretty sketchy when the snow is a little softer (which usually happens around 7am)—luckily we made it through just before then. It’s awesome hiking at night thought – better snow, cooler temperatures, no need to worry about sunburns, and the sky is in a constant state of sunset/sunrise.
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June 24th:

Feels like Denali weather now. Cloudy at 3AM when we woke up, and now it’s pretty much whiteout with a decent amount of snowfall and winds. Getting back down the ridge to pick up the cache was actually really fun. The vertical climb down and back up is my favorite. Going back up along the ridge was pretty gnarly though. Plenty of fresh powder render crampons useless, high winds, and next to zero visibility.. plus you can’t hear anything. It wasn’t too bad until I got to a part where I wasn’t clipped into protection and the tracks were completely blown out and it was super steep and powdery and I couldn’t get a good grip on the edge of my crampons or ice ax at all.. So that was pretty scary. But I weaseled my way up and through that one and finally made it back to camp.

June 25th:

Today was quite a day. You have to be completely focused & on your a-game every single step. Cause if you take a misstep and a big fall we’re all dead.

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July 3rd: Summit Day

We made it! The view from on top was unreal and almost everyone shed some tears coming around that last ridge. It took a hell of a long days work getting there and back from high camp. We left around 7am, stood on the summit at 7pm, and got back to camp well after 1am. The way up was rather chilly and windy- definitely had every single one of my layers on at the football field and keep them on for the way down, which was not too bad, just long. I was pretty exhausted the whole way – maybe altitude, dehydration, or lack of sleep.. who knows, but we didn’t take many breaks.. It was pretty awesome. Not the clearest of days, but felt pretty cool looking down on the north summit and standing on top of all of the clouds, and all of north America. Like TJ says though, its only because we have stood on the shoulders of giants that we can see further than most.

Coming off the summit ridge Jackson started rapidly exhibiting serious signs of HACE, so we had to get him down fast. He pretty much looked like a drunken toddler and couldn’t function much on his own, so TJ short-leashed him and basically pulled him down to the football field behind me. Everyone was pretty dehydrated and completely exhausted. Conor started hallucinating on Denali pass, but luckily David and TJ kept it together and we all made it down safely.

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July 11th:

At Wonder Lake campground and it feels so good.

It is super surreal being here—Finally done! And kind of an overwhelming feeling of safety. No more obstacles to overcome—no crevasses, icefalls, avalanches, glaciers, bears, or raging rivers. Just a bus to catch in the morning.

The skies cleared up today a bit so we get a super sweet view of the mountain. It looks absolutely humongous from down here. Crazy to think we were standing on the tiptop just a week ago. But we worked hard for it—and the hard work paid off. And what’s even better is that we all made it safe and sound back to solid ground. Fingers and toes, too.

No wonder they call it the great one.

In Search of Paradise

by Meena Fernald ’16

At the base of Mad River Glen, it is -15 degrees without wind-chill. In the warmth of the basebox lodge, patrollers insist “we’re lucky there’s no wind today.”

Good god it is cold. No wind today my ass.

I am suspended mid-air in a chair made for one, rocking back and forth as I slowly ascend to the summit, where fresh powder and rugged terrain awaits me with frosty, open arms. The GoPro awkwardly secured to my helmet catches the wind as it soaks in the breath-taking views that serve as compensation for the frigid conditions. Bursts of blinding sunlight behind snow-encrusted pines, white-topped ridgelines for miles in every direction, and deep powder stashes below combine to create the perfect winter wonderland vista. “My mom always told me the best things in life are worth waiting for.” Eric Friedman’s mother had it right; this is worth the wait. After weeks of freezing rains followed by warm, 40-degree January days, winter is finally here and the Single Chair lift at Mad River Glen is open at last.

The Mad River Single Chair (photo by Mara Gans).

The Mad River Single Chair (photo by Mara Gans).

Because it makes relatively little snow – on only about 15% of its trails – Mad River Glen has been suspending its midweek operations and only opening one trail on the weekends for the past two weeks. Despite neighboring resorts boasting nearly full mountain access and blasting their trails with manmade snow, Mad River Glen’s lodge remains full of laughter and any open trail is skied continuously throughout the day. Nestled in Fayston, Vermont, Mad River continues to thrive while maintaining its commitment to natural snow, a feat that would be impossible for any other mountain.

Mad River has been dependent on Mother Nature since its inception, and thus coping with temperamental winter months is ingrained in its very being. Construction on Stark Mountain, the future site of Mad River Glen, began in December 1946, with the intention of a grand opening the following November. However, snowfall into late spring and then an early winter the following November halted operations. The machinery necessary for lift construction remained buried under snow, delaying the opening until December 1948. Mad River has withstood its fair share of rough winters, beginning its career with three ski seasons coming and going without much snowfall. At a mountain so dependent on nature for snow, the survival of the mountain amidst the snowmaking machines of nearby resorts can be credited to the unique community of skiers who return year after year, overcome by a tremendous love of the “particular mountain” and the sport of skiing that it preserves.

The piercing blue eyes of Mary Kerr, author of the historical account of Mad River Glen, A Mountain Love Affair, demand honesty in my response to her question: “Well, what is adventure?” I pause.

Downhill skiing seems like a rather mundane adventure for a 20 year-old like myself, whose fate as a skier was decided before I could walk, when my dad took me speeding down mountains in a backpack, much to the distress of the other parents on the slopes. However, rumors of Mad River Glen, hidden in the peaks of the Green Mountains and home to legendary glades and unbelievable snow, have traveled with me throughout my skiing career. “We’ll take you there when you’re older. When you’re ready” was my father’s constant refrain. His depiction of the iconic single chair to the summit, so cold that they once provided wool blankets to keep skiers company, contributed to the enthralling shroud of mystery that surrounded Mad River in my youthful eyes. What’s more, at the top of this solitary journey, “Paradise” lies hidden. A trail deemed “an actual black diamond in the east” by experienced skiers, and highly acclaimed by my father. “Paradise” remained illusive to our father-daughter team in the winter of 2013. In the winter of 2014, following my newly discovered instinct to push my limits, I turn to face the mountain that has for so long loomed on my horizon.

Past the mid-station, the sunshine becomes a little more consistent, and like a morning glory, I instinctually turn my face to bask in the warm rays. Below me, “Chute” promises to be my first real test as I embark on my adventure. “Chute” was the first trail cut on Stark Mountain and facilitated the tramway that would bring material up to the summit. Mad River skiers have one man to thank in particular for their trails, General Manager Charlie Lord. Lord was by no means inexperienced in trail cutting, as he was responsible for engineering the two possible routes that I can take in my journeys between Middlebury and the Mad River Valley, Route 100 and the Appalachian Gap Road. Lord laid out the first five trails at Mad River Glen (Chute, Catamount, Fall-Line, Grand Canyon, and Porcupine), and masterminded the installation of the Single Chairlift, arguably the icon of classic New England skiing.

“The bottom line on this place is terrain. You take away the community, and all the other stuff that everybody talks about, and the lifts and whatever. It’s just a great hill. We have 2000 vertical feet with no run out, sustained pitch. You can scare the daylights out of yourself every step of the way if you want to, but you don’t have to. The way the trails meander around, it is really good skiing for pretty much anyone that appreciates the kind of skiing that we have.” Marketing Director Eric Friedman’s honesty somewhat de-romanticizes the idyllic community I had built in my mind while simultaneously increasing my excitement for the “narrow, twisty turny trails” awaiting me.

The trails at Mad River Glen were cut to follow the fall lines of the mountains, rather than to accommodate snowmaking machines or groomers. While most eastern ski mountains began with trails like those at Mad River Glen, grooming and straightening to create wide-cut “boulevards” have since eclipsed the practice.

The shared love and appreciation of the challenging terrain of Stark Mountain is the undercurrent to the Mad River community and draws skiers from all over the world. The initially controversial slogan “Mad River Glen: Ski It If You Can” was deemed “too intimidating” and yet has proven to be a brilliant branding strategy that has attracted intrepid skiers for years.

As a recently self-diagnosed “Adrenaline Junkie,” I have spent the past several months in pursuit of my next big thrill. I took up slalom waterskiing, reaching speeds of over 35 mph on glass-like water in the early summer mornings. I pushed and pushed, until a particularly bad wipeout left me with a broken ankle and a four-month recovery time. Now that I arrive at the next chapter of my skiing career, I continue my search for stomach-dropping adventures. “Mad River: Ski It If You Can”…Challenge Accepted.

A logically crafted strategy for descent replaces what once would have been mind-numbing fear and confusion at the winding, rock-strewn, mogul-ridden trail through the trees. At one point not too long ago, I would have looked down at Chute from the lift and thought No way in hell. I am not jumping off that rock. It’s too patchy, too steep, and too public. Instead, I find myself picking out potential routes, thinking strategically and excitedly about my impending descent. Several minutes later, my plans become a reality as I plant and turn around moguls, rocks, towers, and ice. I reach a rock wall, only a two-foot drop, and finally my nerves start to kick in. Eyes scan the precipice, straining to find a point to launch. I breathe easy. Skier’s left, a layer of powder cushions both the rock face and the landing.

Bend knees. Deep breath. Go.

*                                              *                                              *

Today, Mad River Glen stands alone as the only skier-owned mountain in the United States. When it was time for her to step down in 1988, former President Betsy Pratt decided that the only leadership that could preserve Palmedo’s vision was the skiers themselves, and she declared that she would rather shut down the mountain than see anyone else hold control over it. 1995 marked the transition year to cooperative ownership, during which Pratt worked with a group of Mad River enthusiasts to develop guidelines for the new leadership that would ensure the continuation of Palmedo’s values. Certain rules, such as a maximum number of shares (4) owned by an individual, were put in place to avoid any one person gaining too much control. As of today, over 2,200 shares have been sold, and shareholders represent citizens of over thirty states and several different countries. All of these individuals remain committed to the Cooperative’s mission statement “to preserve and protect the forest and mountain ecosystem of Stark Mountain in order to provide skiing and other recreational access and to maintain the unique character of the area for present and future generations” (Kerr 155).

*                                        *                                              *

The dedication to the beauty in strapping two boards to your feet and plunging down into fresh, natural powder between tall evergreens is the atmosphere in which my father learned to ski. He chose to teach my younger brother and me at mid-sized New England mountains, creating an appreciation for fun terrain and good skiing, rather than flashy lodges and luxurious accommodations. Therefore, when I first came to Mad River one year ago, despite iffy conditions, I became enthralled by its quirky charm and atmosphere that reminded me of all the small communities at the ski areas of my past. Last time, I had come to fulfill the challenge posed to me by that taunting slogan, but upon my return this winter, I find that my priorities have shifted. Challenging my body and mind to master skiing on foreign terrain remains my goal, and yet I cannot help but be fascinated by the very essence of Mad River. The people who choose to stop at the base of the Appalachian Gap Road, rather than continue down to German Flats, hang a right and hit up Sugarbush, hold something special and intangible in common.

Blood pumping a little faster now, the lift ride is not nearly as frigid as before. Channeling my inner owl, I twist my neck to take in the snowcapped mountains and valleys and lose my breath again. It’s not like the view is new, I’ve been living here for over a year, and yet I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the three mountain ranges that surround my home in Vermont. In the middle of the Green mountains, I look west to the Adirondacks of New York and East to the Whites of New Hampshire, and marvel at my luck once again.

Ski tips up. Poles in right hand. Go.

Disembarking from the single chair, I immediately look up to the right, where I know the trailhead to Paradise lies hidden. A wooden sign reads “Paradise Closed Today.” The temptation to ignore this warning and embark on my adventure is overwhelming.

“Paradise” is a supposed rite of passage for Mad River skiers. It was originally declared too dangerous to be an official trail, but thrill-seekers and daredevils continued to trek through the woods to leap over the waterfall and down its steep turns. Thus, in 1984, Manager Bob Cooke decided to put “Paradise” back on the map, making it the steepest official trail in New England. Such a reputation is daunting, and dissuades me from my original plan of disregarding the sign and venturing out to “Paradise” today.

Next time. Next time. Don’t be an idiot, Fernald. You don’t want to lose the rest of your season. You’ll get there eventually.”

I head to “Fall Line”, “Paradise’s” steep companion, instead. Cutting under the lift, I shoot across “Chute” and into a small path through the white evergreens and deep powder-stashes and emerge on “Fall Line.” Narrow, winding, steep and mogully, my knees, quads, and ankles are pushed past their breaking points, and yet I speed downward.

Sweating, exhausted, I ride the fall line all the way to the base. Now is when I realize that on this sunny, -15 degree Thursday, the mountain is occupied by myself, a friend, and the volunteer members of the Mad River Glen ski patrol.

No wait time; once I’m back in line, I’m suddenly alone again. Somehow, every time I ride up, I get less cold. I’m only lonely when the wind picks up. I wonder how much good those wool blankets used to do?

Mad River boasts the only remaining single chairlift in the continental United States, yet there was a time when the single chairlift could have been fully extinguished from Mad River skiing. In 2007, the maintenance of the lift was put to a vote by the shareholders. The choice was between the reconstruction of the single chairlift, which would be a highly expensive, time-consuming endeavor; or the replacement of the icon with a new double, an efficient and relatively cheaper operation. In an overwhelming majority, the members of the Mad Rive Glen cooperative decided to preserve the history and character of the mountain, and opted for a historical reconstruction of the lift. President and General Manager Jamey Wimble led the charge, making the project “his baby” and assembling a team of engineers and construction specialists that he knew from his extensive experience working at ski areas. His choices were “the only people [he] would trust with such a task.” The chairs that skiers ride up today are perfect replicas of the originals, the support towers were trucked to Maine, reinforced, and then reinstalled, and the building at the bottom remains the same. This project was projected to cost 1.8 million dollars, so Wimble began to fundraise. Appealing to the wide support base that forms the Mad River Glen community, he and his team were able to raise enough funds to cover the entire project, making it essentially free for the mountain. Thus, the image of the single chair swaying in the wind and transporting eager skiers to the top of Stark Mountain remains a testament to the old days of skiing, but also as a reminder that those days are not over, and the Mad River community still values founder Palmedo’s vision of a place where the integrity of man and mountain can coexist.

*                                                    *                                                          *

This is it. This is your deadline. Today is the day you ski “Paradise.”

Only one problem: I’m alone. And “Paradise” is closed. Nearly every other trail on the mountain is readily accessible, and yet the one trail I need, I can’t get to.

Just hike up, ignore the sign and ski it.

“Paradise is one of those trails you want good conditions on. If it’s not open, it’s for a reason” says ski patrol officer after officer. The line for the single chair is shortening, and as I obey the red “WAIT” sign covered in a light dusting of snow, I remain conflicted. Neck strained to see the incoming chair, I release my knees and enjoy the steady ride to the summit. The consistent snowfall, a blessing on the trails but a curse on the lift, finds its way into my goggles, through my face-mask and freezes the back of my neck. Shoulders hunched, eyes down, I think.

If I fall and hurt myself and I’m alone…and the trail is closed…ski patrol won’t happen upon me and neither will any other skiers. I am a strong and independent individual. Get over this, Fernald.

Now not only am I by myself on the lift, but also on this adventure. I experience solitude unlike any other.

At the top, I look to my right at that fateful sign “Paradise Closed Today,” my stomach drops and I turn my back. I may not have conquered “Paradise” yet, but I will return soon. Its gates have been opened and I have an adventure to finish. Next time I come with back up, because “Paradise” alone is no paradise at all.

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Evan Gallagher skiing the trees alongside Paradise (Photo by Mara Gans).

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