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11.03.08
Salvation In Vermont
During one snowless winter, this New Jersey
snowboarder tried to save his season by braving a 7-hour drive, a bad
radiator valve and an icy attitude to reach riding nirvana at Jay Peak.
by
Chris Weiss
A snowboarder shreds the glades of Jay
Peak in Vermont. (Jay Peak Photo)
TAKE A LOOK AT A MAP
OF VERMONT, and it may be immediately apparent that Jay Peak is in a
world by itself. On the northern border with Canada, Jay sits well north
of most of Vermont’s resorts. A trip there will teach you that it is
also far north of Vermont’s civilization — truly capturing an
environment and spirit all its own. If you ever dreamed of a town that
put riding ahead of all else, where you could escape everyday life and
forego any dealings with pretentious off-season golfers and Stepford
wives, it would look like Jay. A tiny resort set outside a tiny
backwoods town, with nothing to do but ride. This is what it’s all
about.
I began my journey to
Jay well later in the season than I was accustomed to. It was Winter
2006, one of the worst riding winters that I’d experienced in years.
West of the Mississippi, riders were awash in fresh pow and experiencing
a record-breaking winter, but I was stranded on the East Coast. Even our
one major storm, dubbed the Blizzard of ’06, was a rare upside down
storm, blasting Jersey with upwards of 18 inches but barely touching New
York or Vermont.
It was late March,
and I was close to throwing in the towel on the season. Besides the lack
of benevolence from Mother Nature, it seemed fate was determined to keep
me from any worthwhile riding. When I put off a trip to Stowe for a
week, the weather forecast was in my favor, with a storm predicted for
the latter date. Instead, a surprise storm developed the weekend I
originally planned to go, dumping a foot-and-a-half and the prediction
for my weekend quickly became rain. SON OF A BITCH! And rain it did —
downpoured for much of the time. I enjoyed it the best I could, but
clearly, this was not the way to put this season in the books. I would
not accept a reality in which I’d have to wait another 8 months to
redeem this horrific snow season.
Late season, my
incessant observation of resort conditions hit pay dirt when I found
that Jay Peak was being whitewashed in several feet of snow. I wasn’t
letting an empty wallet or a car on the verge of meltdown stop me from
saving my winter.
Jay Peak would be my
savior this year. It was a tall order, given I had never ridden there or
heard any first-hand experience of the distant locale. However, I did
know that I had buy-one-get-one-free passes, courtesy of my favorite
microbrew Otter Creek. I also had a riding buddy who had had an even
worse season than I. Perhaps fate was throwing me a bone.
We got off to a very
rough start. Our plan was decisively half-assed. We decided late
Saturday afternoon to take this trip on Sunday (my half-off passes were
valid on weekdays only). We made what accommodations we were able and
left the rest to the ride.
My buddy Mark is
perhaps the laziest, tardiest individual on the planet. When I took a
train into New York City to meet him at 3:30 in the afternoon, I thought
I might be holding us up. I should have known better. By the time Mark
got his act together and we hopped into his car it was nearly 8 p.m.,
hardly the time to begin a 7-hour voyage to a desolate resort. Mark’s
beat-up old Gran Prix with a duck-taped radiator valve was also hardly
the vehicle to undertake the voyage in. But our determination for
salvation led our charge onto the highway. We were getting some fresh
lines, one way or another.
Our first inkling of
the hellish ride to follow came when we crossed over into Vermont. We
stopped at a rest stop in Brattleboro in the midst of a strong dousing
of white. Although the fluff is exactly what we came to Vermont for, we
hadn’t planned on experiencing any until we arrived. We glanced over the
rest-stop-sized map of Vermont and, although we were here, Jay was still
a world away. We’d have to travel across the tall state in the midst of
an overnight storm.
I took the wheel, as
I had the most experience in winter driving. Unfortunately, I am damn
near legally blind at night. I was trying desperately to race into the
damp blackness that unfurled before me, so that we might arrive at a
half decent hour. I could almost see the car skidding off the side into
a ditch amidst a cloud of smoke and snow.
I had been putting
off an eye appointment for years; doctors have never been my thing. In
looking down the barren, slick highway I wished I had prioritized
differently. At one point, I heard Mark yell something to the effect
that we were going to die. I couldn’t argue. I plundered into the black
abyss, with as much speed as my instincts could render.
The interstate in
Vermont is very unlike interstates I had grown up driving in Jersey. It
runs through the middle of nowhere, with no lighting and no amenities
anywhere in sight. This became a serious affliction when our gas gauge
started to hit empty. Mark’s big ol’clunker, in no condition to drive to
the local 7-Eleven
— let alone a 7-hour trek into nowhereland
— guzzled
gas like a jet engine. Like a truly naïve bastard, I had agreed to
return the favor of Mark’s risky venture, which could have potentially
retired his vehicle to the scrap heap, by paying for all of our gas. In
retrospect, it might have been cheaper to rent a car . . . or take a plane.
At this point, I
would have paid double the extorted gas price for the sweet relief of a
full gauge. We began to fear we were in serious trouble when the sign
for gas lead us to a barren country road and the only lights in the
entire area were located on our hood. Next exit: 50 miles.
After a tense 40
minutes, in which we both silently pondered the prospect of being found
frozen in the middle of nowhere weeks later, we found gas. Although
solving one problem, this gas station created a new one. We weren’t
especially sure where we were or how to get back on track. The station
attendant was anything but helpful in mapping a painless way back onto
the interstate. It took us around 30 minutes that we didn’t have to get
right back where we had started our gas search, albeit tanked up and
breathing the sweet air of relief.
It was close to 3 in
the morning as we made our way through the village of Stowe. Little did
we realize this was the last we’d see of any semblance of true, good old-fashioned civilization for 3 days. It occurred to me that I had never
driven further north than this resort. I soon found out why. After
leaving the outskirts and traveling through the small, disorganized town
of Morrisville, we found ourselves in pure boonies, a house here and a
house there — and then dark forested nothingness, surrounded by trees. I
nearly crashed when the road unexpectedly curved to the right. In a
state of delirious exhaustion, it took several minutes to realize that
we had driven into the plow storage area, where the plow had stopped its
nightly duties. The road was actually the snow covered mess that blended
with the landscape before us. My poor vision was being pushed to its
limits.
We trudged on,
nearing complete exhaustion. At around 4:30, we finally arrived,
although we both questioned if we indeed had. The town that we were
staying in Montgomery Center looked nothing like any resort town I’d
ever seen. It consisted of one intersection, a grocery store, a gas
station and a handful of restaurant/lodges. This was barebones if I’d
ever seen it.
Exhausted from the
gritty ride, my buddy and I climbed out of our car and began to unpack
or bags. We were immediately met by a golden lab. At first, he appeared
to be a big friendly mutt, but as I reached out to pet him he showed a
strong penchant for gnawing my arm. I wasn’t altogether sure if he was
playful or hungry so I threw my hands into my sleeves and tried to make
way to the lodge, whacky barking mutt in tow.
We stepped inside of
Grampa Grunt’s Lodge, our home for the next 3 nights — 2.2 by this hour.
Grampa Grunt was everything we had hoped for and more. As our new canine
companion followed us in, he exclaimed firmly “Get that dog out of
here!” Apparently, we had made the wrongful assumption that this was his
dog. When we questioned him, we received the 4:30 in the morning version
of “I don’t know whose dog it is”. Curious. We never saw this animal
again. To this day, I wonder whether this dog was real fur and blood or
a deliriously-concocted illusion.
We got to our room
and couldn’t wait for the comfort of a warm bed. What we got was the
awkward choice between equally psychedelically-clad temperpedic and
water beds. In fact the amenities in this lodge were odd, speaking
politely (luckily, we had requested a private bath; many residents were
not so lucky. On the other hand, we missed out on the mirror over the
bed, standard in some rooms). I took the temperpedic and my buddy the
water bed and we laid down for what sleep we could muster in the midst
of this strange environment and late hour.
It was about two
hours on my end. I awoke early to get to breakfast, cooked fresh by the
slightly surly Grandpa Grunt. And did I ever eat. Eggs made to order,
bacon and sausage piled high, pancakes as big as a dinner plate and some
kind of a Canadian variety of French toast were all part of the $5
dollar all-you-can-eat breakfast, infamous at this lodge. It was
delicious and I soon found out that breakfast included a freebie: a
sit-down conversation with Grandpa Grunt himself. I earned some
interesting knowledge about how he’d built the lodge with his own hands,
been in business for years and had a son who started his own board
company. The only place in town to buy the boards is through Mr. Grunt
himself. A feeling began to creep over me that this place possessed a
rare, pure appeal in the world of riding.
We headed outside for
our first ride day, and it was snowing. Not a strong blast, but rather a
slow steady shower, which we’d soon find was the norm here. In fact, Jay
rivals many western resorts in their annual snowfall, generally
surpassing 300 inches. I began to experience snow as a way of life and
realized Jay was slowly growing on me.
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