The Nightmare Before Christmas

ptsd santaIt happened too fast to process. One moment I was carefully navigating frozen boilerplate on Upper Tamarack at Stratton, and the next I had hit a patch of sticky fresh manmade snow beneath the bellowing guns. I was tossed forward off my skis and into a trailside tree at almost 30 miles per hour.

I was dimly aware of my body wrapping around the trunk sideways, getting boomeranged back and sliding ten feet further down. I was screaming louder than I’ve ever yelled in my adult life, certain that I’d be carried off the slope on a stretcher. I felt things break inside. But as I spun to a stop, I realized that my cries were inaudible beneath the roar of blasting snow guns – not that there was anyone to hear me.

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Tales from a NYC Ski Bum: Tailgating Rules

Ask most dedicated skiers what prevents them from skiing all the time, and money is usually near the top the list. Ours is an expensive addiction, and there’s often a direct correlation between the cost of any given ski trip and the ability to afford more ski trips.

Smart skiers start looking to save money wherever possible early on in their addiction, and it took me almost three full seasons until I finally decided to try my hand at tailgating.

With the exception of one rowdy affair in the Shea Stadium parking lot before a Mets-Yankees game over a decade ago, I’d never been to a tailgate party, and I’ve never hosted my own.

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Tales from a NYC Ski Bum: Back to Vermont

New York City ski bums are something of a rare breed. There’s a special kind of stubborn resolve required to juggle a love for this town and a love for sliding down frozen mountains. No matter where we are, we’re always a bit torn, a bit displaced.

killington alpenglow

I’m a city kid born and raised, and unlike many of those I grew up with and around, I’ve somehow held on in this unforgiving town while friends and family have been scattered either to the suburbs or to more laid back cities in other states. Despite skyrocketing rents and the promise of better jobs elsewhere, I’ve clung desperately to my hometown. I’d never once considered leaving – until I went skiing for the first time three years ago at the age of 42.

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