Ski Nostalgia

bidding Winter adieu

I spooned up another mouthful of chili, watching the busy cafe with interest from my seat by the window. I seemed to be the only one here alone, which made for excellent people watching.

The low ceiling cabin was packed to bursting-patrons in an eclectic assortment of Nordic gear snaked from the cafe serving counter past shelves of street shoes and hastily stashed scarves and coats and hats. An old fashioned pot belly wood stove radiated warmth which was hardly necessary given the crush of people. Behind me, two older couples in chunky wool sweaters and rosy cheeks debated the route of their next run and to my left, a young girl sipped cautiously on a cup of hot chocolate while her dad divied up the napkins for their table.

It was a scene both like and unlike the one in my memory of a worn ski lodge with gray carpet (yes, carpet, ew…) and rows of tables and chairs peppered with overstuffed bags bags, jackets, goggles, and gloves. When we took a break from the slopes, eager for a snack and hot drink, my mom would pull out the old Stanley thermos from her canvas tote.

This was years before Stanley thermoses hit the big time and became the object d’art of rainbow hued shelves lining the wall at your neighborhood sporting goods store. This Stanley thermos was solid metal with a scuffed green body and silver handle. A small metal cup doubled as a lid over the pour spout. On ski nights, the last thing Mom packed was the Stanley, filling it to the brim with boiling water. By the time we clomped into the lodge later that night the water would still be piping hot and perfect to blend with a package of Swiss Miss in a paper cup.

The little resort I remember so fondly has little to recommend to serious ski-bums. Winterplace subsists on a mixture of man-made and real snow, and the slopes quickly turn to ice as the southern West Virginia temperatures fluctuate. With barely a handful of black diamond runs and a smattering of blues, it caters best to beginners than die-hard winter athletes. However, Winterplace’s best feature (in my humble opinion) is the Night Sky Program.

The Night Ski Program allowed groups to enroll for $100 per person and in return each member got rental equipment and a lift ticket good for 4 nights, plus one “alternate date”. My parents joined forces with several other families to create a group, and so my siblings and I were able to “grow up skiing”.

Read that again: 4 nights of skiing for $100 per person. I looked a few days ago, the program skill exists, but thanks to inflation, now costs $170 per person. Still, you can’t beat that kind of a deal these days.

Those nights are crystalized like frost on the edge of my ski goggles. The blinding white spotlights snapping on to illuminate the slopes, the heft of my bulky Columbia ski coat, and the curious metallic scent of man-made snow being blasted form the cannon-like machines below the lift, it all feels like a Norman Rockwell painting.

My best friend and I had our first taste of pre-teen independence on that little mountain. We were free to ditch our parents and younger siblings as the resort was small enough our parents knew we’d all cross paths at some point. We could test our skill against the slopes until the lifts closed. It was exhilarating, riding that loose edge of control down Cascade, or stringing together a series of runs to avoid certain over crowded lifts. We had our fair share of wipe-outs, including a very memorable “yard sale” crash in which I lost a ski, both poles, a glove, and my dignity coming off the end of Hickory.

After finishing my cup of chili, I felt refreshed and wandered back outside to clip back into my skis. The sun was high overhead, turning the snow to slush and catching my edges every other step. I’d hoped muscle memory of those long-ago nights at Winterplace would translate to a short learning curve for this new endeavor of cross-country skiing.

My last downhill ski was nearly 10 years ago and I just don’t have the desire to pursue it. Cross-country skiing, however, I thought would be a more accessible means of winter recreation than downhill skiing. Used cross-country ski equipment is relatively inexpensive and unlike downhill skiing, you don’t have to have resort access and a lift ticket to participate. You just need sufficient snow, which is sometimes a challenge in my neighborhood.

Then in the aftermath of February’s massive winter storm Fern, I was post-holing around the local park when I ran into a woman returning to her car on cross-country skis. She was quite gracious about being interrupted and assured me most of my perceptions were correct. “ There’s a few techniques to learn, but overall much easier than downhill skiing. Quieter, too, you can come out to places like this instead of a busy resort. But if you’ve never done it, White Grass, up in Canaan Valley is a great place to go learn.”

I returned home from the park, pitched an impromptu winter getaway to Canaan Valley, which N graciously agreed to, and I booked our cabin that evening. He had never been skiing, but was willing to try something new. So how then, did I find myself alone in the cafe?

Our little cabin retreat did not turn into the relaxing, leisurely getaway we’d anticipated. I’d pictured snug evenings by a roaring fire, all of us worn out from skiing and hiking through the pillowy snow. Fergus, however, was oddly and inconsolably anxious the entire weekend-pacing, whimpering, whining, and generally unable to settle overnight. We had intended to leave him comfortably situated in the cabin while we skied, but it became apparent leaving him alone was not an option. N volunteered to stay with Fergus in the cabin while I went on to White Grass.

“You’ve really been wanting to try this. You should at least go and if you like it, we’ll come back sometime so I can try.”

So that’s how I found myself learning to kick-glide and remembering how to “pizza wedge” on the nearly level runs of the “snow farm” at White Grass. I found there was a bit more technique to cross-country skiing than initially apparent and realized my dream of pushing past the bounds of the resort into the backcountry wilderness would be beyond my capabilities. Still, I relished the whoosh, whoosh of my skiis as I worked on my kick and glide technique. It could have been a meditative experience, had I not been breathing so hard.

Cross-country skiing is renowned as a challenging cardiovascular workout and that reputation is well earned! I was prepared for the challenge and was pleased that although my heart rate was quickly elevated, I wasn’t dying. There were certain muscle groups that complained a bit, being unused to the activity, but I felt accomplished as I completed a few more laps around the Snow Farm. I wasn’t going to be ducking under any ropes and breaking trail over fresh powder anytime soon, but the taste of winter gone by was sweet, the perfect little palate cleanse before spring arrives.