I’ve wanted to ski West Mountain for a long time. When I was a kid, every time we drove to Vermont my dad would look over from the highway and say “we should stop there sometime.” On my most recent trip north I saw the lights from the highway, and remembered those childhood car rides. On the return trip I decided to stop, and what I found surprised me.
For me, showing up at a ski area in the late afternoon was unique and memorable. When we arrived, we were greeted on the triple side by a couple of friendly snowmobilers who gave us directions to the proper base area. The young lady at the ticket counter could have been the owner’s niece judging by the way she carefully sharpied the expiration time on our lift tickets.
