By Merisa Sherman
My sister and I would wake up all groggy and stiff, not having made the trip for a few months. It would be dark when we got out of the car and we would grab our backpacks, trudge sluggishly through the courtyard and up the stairs to our condo. Opening the door, the familiar smell of our Vermont home would waft into our noses and would wake us right up.
Resting against the wall, right where we had left them, were probably our most precious possessions in the entire world: our skis. I remember thinking how sorry I was that I had forgotten about these wonderful friends throughout the summer days on the beach, almost apologizing to my beloveds for leading a separate life without them. But I never needed worry, because there were my skis, ready to go and waiting for me.
Gondola rides up the mountain provide views of foliage and and ski trails below.
Just in case it snowed this weekend, that first weekend in October when we would finally make the trip up to Killington after months of living down south. It would be the first of many weekends to come, the marking point that begins the season where we would simply celebrate the beautiful world that surrounds our favorite mountain.
But we were also nervous. As competitive skiers, this would be our first time meeting either our new coach or checking in with an old one. Teammates and rivals would be meandering through the KSC/KMS ski swap & sale with parents, while we would be quietly standing off to the side while our dads would have never-ending discussions about ski types and what our schedules meant for the year with all the volunteers and coaches working the event. We would make eye contact with each other, but it was definitely the dads doing all the talking.
I would look at the speed suits for sale, hoping to find one of those awesome pink and purple Spyder suits to replace my hideous orange and blue Descente one. I still cannot believe how ugly that thing is still hanging in the back of my closet. Why haven’t I gotten rid of it? There’s a huge flap hanging open on the shin from when I sliced it on a gate during a slalom race. (That was actually a pretty empowering moment and after that I wore that suit with pride!)
After the sale, we would take a spin up the K-Chair to the summit of Killington. It would be our first time wearing jackets for the year and they would give you a blanket to stay warm on the long ride up and down. It was always so stunning. The trails were a bit narrower in those days and riding the open chairlift, you felt as if you could touch the leaves as you floated up the mountain. It was so cool and so different back then: with no mountain biking, foliage was the only chance we would get to ride a chair up and down and explore the mountain. We would point out all the trails, check to see if the guns had been set up on Upper Cascade or Rime yet, reminding ourselves of all the things we loved about winter.
We would stuff ourselves with delicious caesar salads from Powderhounds, and my sister would lean on the counter and watch Ken make pizza while they caught up on their summers. We would stop at our favorite ski shop and, once again, stand there while Dad caught up with all the guys that worked in the shop. We would be there for hours. Part of me never understood why my dad never just dropped out of the real world to become a shop guy himself.
But the apex of the weekend would be the KSC hike — a day of torture that a summer at the beach could never prepare you for. Thankfully, we didn’t hike straight up Flume in those days. As J IVs, we would go up Skye Lark to the original Great Eastern and then down through the mud of Racer’s Edge and then down Conclusion, laughing as we played human slalom all the way down. I remember being completely weirded out by this grownup who joined our hike, wearing his ski boots the entire time! If my 11-year-old self thought that guy was crazy, I wonder what I would say to me now, skinning up the mountain all winter long…
Every year I love this weekend. It’s the one where I celebrate my decision to choose skiing as a lifestyle and Killington as my mountain. It’s the weekend where I am reminded to be grateful for the gift of being able to grow up skiing here and to live here now. Funny how it was the only weekend we didn’t ski, yet it reminds me to renew my love affair with the sport. It’s the weekend we hike Killington, like we always do, and get our snow dances on. It’s the weekend we get stoked. For winter.
