Beard covered in snow, a perma-grin smeared across my face,
and an arm that kept involuntarily throwing thumbs ups and high fives, I felt
that familiar unbridled sense of joy that can only come from powder turns. I
didn’t think I would experience this feeling after I left Park City, UT a few
years ago, yet here I was, nearly 2,000 miles east, standing on a mountain in
Vermont giddy as a schoolboy. I looked down at the 2,500 vertical feet of fresh
New England fluff, pointed my tips downhill, let out a cowboy hoot, and sent
it.
36 hours earlier…
January and February are the months where I prove my merit
as a boyfriend. I have the gauntlet of birthday-Valentines Day-anniversary all
in the span of a few weeks. It doesn’t help that I date someone who sets the
bar impossibly high by getting me homerun presents every birthday and
Christmas. I decided that a surprise weekend getaway to Burlington, VT would
score me major points. I made the reservations for a swanky downtown hotel,
yelped some restaurants, and packed our ski gear, you know, just in case.
After a four-hour shot up I93 and I89 we left behind the
urban chaos of Boston for the serene Green Mountains of Vermont. We arrived in
the eccentric college town, passing a gay rights protest, a group of drunk
co-eds, and a shirtless man riding a lawnmower in the span of a few blocks (at
10 o’clock at night). It didn’t take long to realize Burlington is a bustling
bundle of hip. Imagine Boulder Colorado, but on a lake, with an elitist ice-cream
attitude, where they treat their coffee like exotic strains of weed - “bro have
you tried the Bolivian bubble-hash espresso? It’s fire.”
Fueled by organic coffee and a locally sourced “farmer’s
breakfast” we set out to explore the town. We spent the morning strolling
Church Street, the pedestrian mall that acts as the central hub for downtown
Burlington. Church Street is a quarter mile stretch of sensory overload packed
with street performers, one-of-a-kind records and books, stellar food, and
craft beer. After an hour or so of exploring I reminded my girlfriend that we
were on vacation and noon was a perfectly acceptable time to have a beer. She
agreed and we hopped on a bus and headed a few miles south to Vermont’s most
prominent brewery.
The Magic Hat Brewery is a drunken hippie oasis where booze
and art blend with such mind-bending creativity you might think somebody dosed
your beer. We took the free tour and learned about the humble grassroots
beginnings of the company as well as some of the environmentally friendly
brewing practices Magic Hat uses to stay green. After filling our heads with
factoids about yeast, fermentation, and bottling, we decided to go kill as many
of those brain cells as possible with our complimentary tasting tickets. We
bellied up to the brewery bar that was offering 9 varieties of freshly brewed
suds.
While imbibing we were joined by an energetic Australian
Shepherd named Cassie who trotted around the bar freely leaving smiles and new
friends in her wake. We tracked down Tim, her owner - or perhaps more
appropriate drinking buddy - and struck up a conversation. Cassie, Tim told us,
is a bit of a beer snob. She only drinks CircusBoy, Magic Hat’s unfiltered
wheat beer. To prove it, Tim grabbed the stout I was drinking as well as my
girlfriends IPA and offered them to Cassie. She turned her nose at both.
However when Tim offered the CircusBoy she lapped it up eagerly. Tim and Cassie
were on their way to Fiddlehead, another local brewery just down the road. In
typical mountain town hospitality, they invited us to tag along.
After a few more hop-tastic tastings, Tim gave us a lift
back to our hotel and left us with one parting mission; to find the elusive
Heady-Topper, the crème-de-le-crème of northeastern IPA’s. It didn’t take us
long to find the highly coveted barley pop. The pizza place where we got dinner
had just gotten a shipment and we ordered one of the $6 cans to split. It was
exceptionally good, however we opted to stick with the equally tasty Fiddlehead
double IPA for a fraction of the price. Finding the Heady Topper was like
trying caviar or seeing Niagra Falls; it’s just something you have to do so you
can say you did it. We walked back to our hotel through snow that had been
falling steadily throughout the day. No last call Burlington bar night for this
old couple. The smell of an impending pow day was in the air.
A continental cup of coffee and a gas station breakfast (ski
bum staple) got us up and on the road early. After a 30 minute drive southeast
through the small rural towns of the Mad River Glenn Valley, we pulled into
Sugarbush and found ourselves among kindred souls; strapping on our ski gear in
a parking lot. We were in the heart of New England ski country with resorts
like Jay Peak, Stowe, and Smugglers Notch in the neighborhood. I picked
Sugarbush for its location, variety of terrain, and most importantly price. My
decision was confirmed when I heard the Magic Hat staff hyping up “the Bush.”
Sugarbush is dived into two peaks; Mt Lincoln and Mt Ellen.
Mt Lincoln, considered the main resort, has the majority of the trails as well
as the lodge. Those runs, however, are primarily blues and greens, a magnet for
tourists, families, and mediocre skiers. Mt Ellen, while having fewer runs, has
significantly more vertical and no snow-making. It is where the locals go to
escape the crowds and devour powder. Our choice was an easy one.
We hopped on the free shuttle and headed over to the Mt
Ellen base area. On the way we picked up a few backcountry stragglers who had popped
out of Slidebrook Basin, an off-piste area between the two peaks. Everybody
seemed to be in high spirits, mostly because of the great conditions. It
seemed we had timed our lone ski trip of the season well. After purchasing our
lift tickets (which were only $50 for a half day) we clicked into our skis and
got in the short line for the chair. On the way up my girlfriend pointed out
that the foliage, covered in a fresh dusting of snow, looked like a sugar bush.
I cut her excitement short by asserting that Sugarbush was not named for its
indigenous trees. Rather, I contended, it was named after a legendary mountain
prostitute who seduced horny miners with her sweet… (you get the picture).
Needless to say, we agreed to disagree.
After shaking off a years worth of rust on the first run, we
put the “Bush” to the test. We started with a long, steep plummet from the peak
on F.I.S. We explored the glades, cruised some groomers, and even dropped our
west coast powder-snobbery to hit a few classic New England bump-runs. The
ample vert and varied terrain was more than enough for my legs - even in a half
day. Sugarbush was everything it was
billed to be; an underrated resort with an overwhelming amount of skiable
terrain. Driving back to Boston I reflected on what it was that made mountain
towns like Burlington so great. Outdoor sports are not a recreational activity
but a way of life. Every direction you look could be a postcard. Microbrews
flow like water. And perhaps most importantly, the people have a zest for life
that is undeniably infectious.
