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