The large wooden sign that greets visitors to Magic Mountain includes the motto “Where skiing still has its soul.” I am a veteran skier and I have paid attention, so I know what this motto means. It means ancient, slow chairlifts.
But nevermind that.
I had a lovely day at Magic Mountain, located in central Vermont, a drive of at least 2 hours from pretty much everywhere else, including my house. I enjoyed the few runs that were open—they were long and interesting. I relished the lack of crowds, the amazing scenery, the fresh air. It was cold air, too—not bad for March 21st. Unfortunately, the barest minimum of snow was to be had. The runs that lacked snowmaking, which were about half of them, were all mud-and-ice checkerboard and unskiable, among them the snowboarders park and the kiddy area. The runs with snowmaking were just this side of passable, and in a few cases—if you used your imagination, if you kept your wits about you—were kind of comparable to real skiing in the real winter.
The cafeteria was closed but the bar was open, and I enjoyed a Coke and a bowl of clam chowder. The bartender, a girl in her twenties, wore a hat advertising the Spam museum in Austin, Minnesota. I told her that I am a Minnesota native but have never been to the Spam. She replied that it might be the most interesting museum she’d ever visited.
Imagine that!
So why am I here? I don’t mean here on Earth, I mean here at the ski area. A simple answer is that I am the owner of an IndyPass, which provides two days of skiing at a host of ski areas across the country, many of which near my home. Even at the end of the season, I hate to see such a deal go unused. Also, I’d never been to Magic Mountain before, and I’m always up for variety. But the real reason, I think, is to take one last day to say goodbye to the ski season. One slow chairlift was running, staffed by two guys at the bottom and one on top, and because they were doing their job I wanted to do mine, which was to ski the heck out of the place, as much as possible.
Next question: Why is the resort called Magic Mountain? No signs of magic announced themselves. Yes, the runs have “magical” names, such as Enchanted Forest, and Magic Carpet, and Twilight Zone, plus we had Upper Trick and Lower Trick (get it? Magic trick—funny!) But nothing magical truly happened, as far as I can tell. Which may mean that the magic is bestowed only upon a few worthy souls, or those who speak the proper incantation, or those who enter some secret compartment or hidden doorway. Or maybe I experienced the magic without recognizing it. That’s certainly possible.
Did I mention that my job is to write and edit science instruction?
In my younger days, I would have ended an essay like this one with a sentiment such as “Skiing will return next winter,” or “The wheel is turning to spring and summer, but fall and winter will follow,” or some such prosy gibberish. However, for several reasons, I’m not guaranteeing such a future to myself, likely as it may be. Global climate change is gunning for snowy winters at an unmeasurable speed. An asteroid could strike anytime, as could the eruption of the supervolcano that we call Yellowstone National Park. But the biggest existential threat, IMHO, is the current occupant of the White House and the minions he commands. We’ve only had a couple months of Mr. Trump, and I shudder to think what damage and chaos could befall as his administration continues. The message is to keep fighting and active and engaged, as well as to cherish and honor the good things that remain in our lives.
I will close with a scene from a science fiction show, I’m not sure which one. The premise is that nearly everyone in the city has vanished, or died or raptured or what have you. Those that remain go about their lives as normally as possible, as if nothing unusual has come down the turnpike. That was Magic Mountain on my visit. We were maybe 40 people on the slopes, scattered widely, spaced far apart, skidding on the extraordinarily thin and icy layer of snow and avoiding all the brown grass and rocks, and yet everyone–including me–kept going up the chairlift and down again, as if it were an ordinary ski day.
I even saw some little kids! Little tykes, little tots–tiny creatures on skis!
I saw at least two of them with their parents, sliding down the flattest slope available, getting barked at to turn left or right.
Imagine that—a mom and dad bring the little ones to the melted and empty ski slope to take part in a sport that is barely negotiable at the moment and will be completely unavailable for the ensuing seven months, at minimum, and that might be utterly extinct by the time the time these children have grown up, if they are so lucky.
Hope, wrote Emily Dickinson, is the thing with feathers. I wonder if she ever skied?
