This is just embarrassing that I’m finishing
this journal in mid-May, there is no way around it. We took this trip three months ago! But I don’t like to leave things incomplete,
so this has to go up before Florida and that's on deck. And
it turns out, when I opened this journal, that it was surprisingly complete. But it will be more of an impressionistic essay
than a daily report. There is only so
much you can say about ski days because you are kind of doing the same thing, which is skiing, eating, and pretending to watch movies but ending up falling asleep. Wherever we go, this happens. But there is a deeper adjustment occurring. The banter – which, as the kids get
older becomes a major part of a ski day – is so deep and insular and of the
moment that you really can’t capture it all in a journal. Used to be that they’d say something funny
because they were younger and it was cute and just what
little people say. Now, they talk all
the time (unless they’re irritated or mad at us, in which case they don’t talk
at all) and the wit zings around the room like currents in a crowded terminal
full of coming and going electric busses.
The conversation (on pretty much any topic) sparks and fizzes and is pretty great to be part of. It is also hard to capture in writing. Clearly, I’ll need to look into dictation
software or mic’ing them up like that four-year-old
who took the hockey parent world by storm this spring. Or, you'll just need to join us to get the full experience.
But to
our story, which begins sometime late one night . . .
We had a
rousing rendition of Super Skier on the way back from dinner tonight – putting
everything to right. Not that there has
been anything wrong with our visit to Sugarloaf USA but we usually listen to
Super Skier on the way to the ski
area and as Peter pointed out we didn’t drive to ski this time, we just drove
straight to our slopeside condo, so Superskier would have been weird. Also we got caught up in an endless loop of
Beatles tunes. Still, I am feeling off
my game.
Stupid hockey
upended our usual Western ski plans this year.
Cue the tiny violin for this .00001 % problem. But skiing in New England over a school break
week does indeed present challenges.
While significantly less expensive and less dramatic and less hassle
than hauling ourselves and our gear out West, here there are way more OTHER
PEOPLE with whom you have to stand in – gasp – LIFT LINES, as well as navigate
the cafeteria at lunch with and just generally deal with their shit. And you know New Englanders, they’re the
worst sometimes!
Sugarloaf will
both affirm these issues and put the lie to them. Significantly, this is a new era in Laskin
family ski trips, in which we are enjoying the comfort and not small
convenience of ski-in, ski-out lodging.
While we wouldn’t give up the lovely comfy house with the hot tub in the
charming walled yard in Taos for anything, really, we do find the opportunity
to remove the boots and collapse into a nap in front of the fire remarkably
pleasant.
The Loaf (as
regulars call it) is old-school (not OG) New England skiing, except that it its
idea of old-school is approximately 1975.
The day lodges are that kind of modern that doesn’t stand any aesthetic test
of time, and services are pretty much non-existent, although those that you do
encounter are super-friendly.
Take Bill, for
example, (not ours) who checked us in to our condo, and whose nametag proudly
announced that he’s been a “Sugarloafer Since 1957!” Let that sink in, and consider that the Sugarloaf
Ski Club started in 1950 and the first rope-tow was installed in 1953. Bill’s been around a while, and has seen it
all, and is completely unflappable even in the face of grumpy New Yorkers who
are upset that the three families sharing two condos do not get three parking
permits.[1] One per unit, says Bill firmly, noting that
they can park the third car there but without the permit it could be ticketed
and/or towed. When you check in, Bill
gives you a long and detailed account of everything in your package, carefully
noting all the places on your map with pen circles, right down to the shuttle
bus which starts at 7:41 and then switches to an 11:41 route in the middle of
the day. You are nothing if not thoroughly checked-in if you are fortunate
enough to encounter Bill upon arrival but you may actually not get to your
condo until the next day.
Sugarloaf may
be so rooted in its 1970s vibe because 1971 is the “When the World Came to
Maine.” The resort, then boasting a gondola, hosted a World Cup race that year,
and the success of the event apparently propelled Maine into consideration for
the 1976 Winter Olympics. I’m guessing
it was the last 37 miles on a two-lane road that stopped more of the world from
coming after ’71 but by all accounts the World Cup was a wild success,
culminating in a banquet featuring lobster and moose. Because:
Maine! I can’t really do this
event justice, so I recommend you read this article and watch the video. You won’t be sorry and you will wish you had
been there because it sounds like it was an awful lot of fun.
There are
still regular competitions here, some fairly big-time like NCAA championships
and this year’s US Alpine Speed Championships.
Here’s why: the snow is pretty
great. It’s cold enough that they get a
lot, and they take good care of it. They
have a snazzy-looking Competition Center right at the main base area, because
this is also the home of Carrabassett Valley Academy, which counts among its
notable alumni Bode Miller, and Seth Wescott.
So there is a lot of training and racing here and you know they wouldn’t
do that just anywhere.
I think that there
is a lot of training and racing here because there aren’t a lot of people here
which means there isn’t a lot of anything else here. Where are all those speedsters going to stay
next month? There are a couple of
hotels, a few hundred condos, and that’s about it. And the weirdly-proportioned cafeteria – kind
of square-S shaped with doors opening out to the COLD at all kinds of odd spots
– just cannot handle that kind of volume.[2] Bill, Sugarloafer Since 2018 but as far as we
know no relation to Bill, Sugarloafer Since 1957, who made my sandwich
yesterday at a non-championship pace, is really going to be overwhelmed when
the world comes back to Maine.
Meal service and
food more generally has been a sub-theme – first night dinner at the “fancy” 45
North took forever despite there being almost no one eating by the time we got
there. There’s the aforementioned
sandwich situation and last night’s apps at the Shipyard brewpub arrived almost
instantly after our waitress left to “put in the order” leaving us to wonder if
we had someone else’s Brussels sprouts? Not
to mention the endless wait for subpar brisket at Seth Wescott’s otherwise
hugely entertaining barbecue joint, The Rack.
But you know, everyone is friendly, and the snow is good, so really what
is the big deal. For New Englanders,
these people are remarkably laid back.
Indeed, we might even say they are . . . loafing around. Hey-oh!
But if the
food options are pretty limited – pack it in, people, and just cook a lot of
spaghetti – you would be missing out if you didn’t drive ten miles north to eat
at the White Wolf Inn in Stratton, at least once. We arrive late on a subzero night, as the
snowmobilers are heading off into the full moonlight, but are happy to tuck
into Cast Iron Bitch local brew (the friendly waitress whispers it behind her
hand because there are children present) and venison chili and an extremely
large chicken pot pie. Right now you are
probably thinking, that after a long day of skiing? Bliss.
And you’d be right. Next time
we’ll have to hit ‘em up for breakfast.
About that subzero
business. You are really far north here,
and it is freaking cold. Those
snowmobilers had on arctic survival suits.
The temp only gets into double digits – and not high ones – on our last
day, which inexplicably feels colder than the rest. It’s two-runs-and-in kind of cold. But there are the requisite cinnamon rolls
bigger than your head when you do stop mid-mountain, and hot chocolate that
somehow tastes like the best ever even though it is just the usual shpitz out
of the machine and there isn’t any whipped cream only marshmallows.
I’ll also note
– and this is a big one – I don’t think I’ve heard a voice intensified by anger
yet. You know what I’m talking about,
the parent who, having spent a fortune and is exhausted, snaps and hisses in
rage at children or other adult who is whining or sad or just generally being
uncooperative about something. The kind
of voice that makes you feel simultaneously superior that you would never do
that and also a little afraid that they might grab the kid’s arm a little too
hard and also embarrassed for both the angry person and the recipient of their
anger. You always hear that at some
point on a ski trip because skiing trips can be hard! Everyone is having fun and chattering and
loving being out in the cold but someone isn’t and someone else is also cold or
tired or has spent a boatload of money to be here and has just reached the end
of their rope. So you don’t say anything
because that just makes it worse and you hope that we all find the better
angels of our nature sometime soon.
Anyway, I didn’t hear that voice once here and that speaks volumes in its
silence.[3]
Our fry are of
course seasoned ski trippers, and even better, they are great skiers! Information Specialist Peter is the fastest member
of our party these days – Payroll Specialist Bill has resigned himself to
bringing up the rear – and Izzy’s hockey has given her legs of steel so her
skiing is now so elegant and easy (we cannot call her Private Hokey Pokey on
skis, that is for sure). They’re also
funny as heck. Young people today have a
language all their own, fueled in part by the interwebs, and it can be hard to
understand what the heck they are talking about. They are deeply conversant in funny videos
and can cause each other to dissolve into hysterical laughter with just a
sentence that usually starts “you know that guy who says . . . .” They gamely attempt to bring us in on the
joke, even showing us the videos, and you know what? They ARE funny. But we struggle with the language. Slopeside lodging, for example, is not wack,
but neither is it yeet, apparently because the latter is not an adjective. We fossils attempt to keep up but apparently
we are nothing more than fodder for giggles collapsing into laughter. It was probably my suggestion that maybe –
just maybe – OG meant Old Guard as well as Original Gangsta that really
destroyed Peter.
Sugarloaf is
so proud of its two high-speed quads that it has trademarked them as
Superquads™. Given the number of times
they stop and we swing in the cold mountain breeze, we don’t think they are so
super. And once I have read a history
of the Loaf I’m left to occasionally wonder how this place is still
running. While popular and rich in
abundant natural resources of snow and vertical feet, the Loaf has endured a
number of financial and development setbacks in its almost 70 year
history. Yet every time disaster has
threatened, including a bankruptcy declaration in the mid-1980s and various
lift malfunctions in the early 2000s, resources have been found to upgrade,
improve, and generally move the place forward.
Except that there is no more gondola, and that is kind of too bad, given
how cold it is. The remains of the
gondola station at the very top are dark hulks frosty with wind-driven snow and
surrounded by stunted trees because they are at the timberline and look like
nothing more out of a dystopian fantasy or possibly the start of a James Bond
movie.
We are actually
mystified by the lift lines. They only
occur when ski school starts off at 10 am, and then again after lunch. But they’re pretty long for such Superquads™
and the thing is, where are all those people on the slopes? It’s school break week, a time to be avoided
at every other ski area in New England.
But here it is seriously almost empty, we have great wide runs from top
to bottom to ourselves, and that’s pretty great.
So where is
everyone? Well, it is way the heck up
here in the middle of nowhere Maine, and it takes a long time to drive here, so
there’s that. Many Loafers are in fact
locals, and there just aren’t that many people here in east nowheresville Maine.
Also, see above on how it is f’ing cold. It takes a certain kind of hardy New
Englander to put up with this business.
Also see above re: services –
this ain’t Deer Valley, peeps, if you can’t carry it, you probably shouldn’t be
skiing it. But you know, we kind of like
it. It feels authentic, the skiing is
great, and now that we know that we just have to bring ALL the food, we
might even come back.
[1] I don’t actually know
if they were from New York, but there were some cars with NY plates in the
parking lot at the condo check-in center.
And New Yorkers hold the same position in New England as Texans at
western ski areas, so.
[2] I should take this
back. We found another enormous room
where all the people who bring their lunch – and there are a lot here because
sensible Maine – eat at giant round tables.
But you have to go down a teeny narrow staircase to get there. This lodge is inexplicably maze-like and
there are way too many stairs.
[3] I did hear kids
wailing. You always hear kids wailing at
some point.
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