Skier Sings the Blues

Ten years ago, when I was on the Dartmouth Women's Ski Team, the Skiway didn't have snowmaking. This posed a particular problem for an athletic team that relies on snow. I'd ski down the John Meek Trail with fellow teammates, looking ahead for different colors blue, green, brown, and, of course, white. (Blue means ice, green is for grass, rocks look brown, and white is the snow.) We'd take whatever came along in stride, trying to make a slalom course in our minds out of the patches of color. The goal was to save both the bottoms of your skis and the edges you spent an hour sharpening the night before.

Towards the botton of the Meek Trail there' is a sharp, vertical dropoff. Suddenly you'd lift your skis into a tight tuck position, not because you love to jump, but because there was nothing but rocks and grass underneath. There just never seemed to be enough snow.

Many times we'd drive to Killington to practice because we didn't have enough snow at the Skiway to put the poles in. That meant driving for almost an hour to get there, skiing for an hour and a half, and piling into the car for the drive back to school. We seemed to hone our driving skills more than our skiing skills.

It was also always questionable as to whether we'd have adequate snow at the Skiway to hold the Winter Carnival events. For the three years I was on the ski team, 1973-1976, we had just barely enough snow. However, for several years after that the ski team had to go to Franconia's Cannon Mountain for the Carnival races, destroying any "home-hill" advantage and cutting down on the number of spectators from school.

Last year, when I heard that they finally completed snowmaking, I thought, "Hallelujah, it's about time." So one day last winter, I decided to go over and give it a try. It was wonderful. The only color I saw was white. The packed-powder was carefully groomed to perfection. It was the type of snow where you could just let yourself get into a nice rhythm and let your skis run without having to think too far ahead. Of course, like most New England skiers I tend to over-edge in packed-powder, and with man-made snow this can be dangerous. I was personally reminded of this while showing off under the lift line. Catching an edge means kissing the snow at high speed and looking like a fool at the same time. The spectators on the chair loved it.

Snowmaking can never produce the light-weight, fresh, natural powder that a good 01' Nor'easter can, but for everyday skiing, it is a skier's salvation, one that is gratefully accepted.