Okemo's new Sunburst enclosed sixpack has heated seats. Sign of the Apocalypse? Or just a sensible way to beat the Vermont winter cold?
Is this really how pampered we’ve become? Eastern skiers, after all, always prided themselves on being a little hardier than the rest. Rain, wind, frigid temps, and brutally cold lift rides—always just part of the experience.
Now Okemo and Leitner-Poma have teamed up to bring us…what…the ultimate high-speed sixpack for wussies, with heated seats to warm our buns and an orange-tinted bubble enclosure to keep out the wind, rain, and good old New England sleet.
It's National Learn To Ski and Snowboard Month, and Vermont resorts lead the way with enticing discounts for newbies.
Got a friend who needs to learn how to ski? A spouse or significant other? A friend of your kid’s? Maybe it’s up to you to turn them on to the sport you love, and there’s no better time than January, National Learn to Ski and Snowboard Month.
By the time I buckle my boots, the people wearing Hefty bags are already skiing. They are having an awesome time.
The sleet is coming down almost horizontally. It’s just cold enough that it freezes on contact, coating the railings of the tram dock with a solid, immediate layer of ice. I have come home to Cannon Mountain, N.H., for Christmas after becoming one of those people who leave New England for bigger mountains and deeper snow out West. I thought the Rockies had made me tough—patrolling at A-Basin, backcountry missions that call for two kinds of crampons, that kind of thing.
Here’s the thing about those icy, flat slopes: They absolutely make you a better skier.
I’m about to talk about Stratton Mountain, the ski resort that’s just 10 minutes from where I grew up in Vermont, and I know what you’re thinking: Ice. Bitterly cold temperatures. Liftlines crowded with New Yorkers and Bostonians. Terrain that’s, well...the place is known as “Flatton.”
Yes, it’s all those things. But it’s also my home ski area, and here’s why I love it.
I thought I won it for being fast, a misconception my father did not dispute even though it would cost him thousands in race gear and entry fees over the next decade.
I used to crave chocolate moose— yes, moose—because there was a counter that sold them in the old base lodge at Maine’s Sugarloaf Mountain in the early ’80s. The place offered other cast-chocolate Maine kitsch, too—lobsters, lighthouses, seagulls—but it was the moose lollipop I wanted.
It’s a wonder we didn’t end up with serious injuries to our wool-hat-clad heads.
Hunter Mountain, N.Y., isn’t where I actually learned to ski. But Hunter is indeed where I learned to ski. Chasing my older brother down icy black diamonds like Hell Gate and Minya Konka, yard-saling big-time on the double blacks at Hunter West—Westway, under the liftline, even. No matter how hard I skied—or rather how hard I bit it—my brother never let me win.
I’d like to apologize to everyone in those liftlines whose skis I walked on.
I’d like to thank all the guys—students at Norwich University, all pushing retirement age by now—who gave me shoulder rides to the top of my local hill in central Vermont. I was five, too small to hold down the poma platter. They made a little boy with a runny nose very happy. Man, how I loved to ski when I was five.