You may already know how I used to be a regular skier, the kind that went every weekend, constantly praying I'd get snowed in and have to stay an extra day. Then I moved to California and while you could ski, it wasn't the same when you could just as easily enjoy the beach with no drive or chains required. Now that I'm back skiing again, the bug has bitten even harder. Why, I wonder, did I wait so long and deprive myself of so much pleasure, when Mad River Glen was there unchanged since the 60's? Sitting and shivering on the single chair with my eyes closed, I can be the petrified beginner who learned to ski there forty years ago, or the Mom enjoying a momentary break, failing to hear the teenagers calling from behind or ahead twenty years ago. I've got the new high-tech clothes, but the wind still cuts through and I wish for the old Army blanket ponchos they used to hand out for protection on the ride. I'm unsure what music is blaring at mid-station, but I appreciate the spirit it provides for the rest of my ride to the top, swinging as it does above the Chute moguls. And then I'm off for another run, the lucky ski partner of Megnut, who's pushed me to greater challenges and satisfactions at sixty than I ever anticipated. And all the while it's still "Mad River Glen, Ski it if you Can!"
