The thermometer reads -20 when you wake up, -28 for those metric obsessed.
It has been 3 days since the upper mountain lifts have run.
But you have to get up, exit the warm bed and get after the day.
It is mid January in Maine.
Hopefully the car runs.
Maine mountains are cold and windy, all the time.
The mountains in the north are relatively empty this time of the year.
No one wants to pay for a lift ticket to spend a day outside in this bullshit.
As I put on the park crew coat once more, I certainly wonder why I am doing this.
Rewind to the beginning of November.
Getting the job on the Saddleback park crew was a dream come true.
I wanted nothing more than to build parks, ski all the time, and hangout with my friends.
December ski season starts, it’s already cold.
Cold, deep, epic, opening weekend is the best.
I realize I made the right decision to do this.
I watch the sunset with friends and realize this is the ski bum dream.
The snow stops though, the cold doesn’t.
It does for one day, rains, and boom, back to classic east coast.
Bulletproof ice, extreme cold, angry people.
Weeks and weeks follow of this.
I grow angry, why did I do this?
I start to think more about my after ski activities more than my ski activities.
Where and with who am I drinking becomes more important than the skiing.
Alcohol and the ski bum go hand in hand yes, especially when the snow isn’t good.
When the snow is bad, it gets downright insane.
I’d say we partied every night but thats not true.
We got really really drunk everynight and sometimes we would party.
Luckily unlike every other Maine winter, the snow comes back.
It falls often, light dry pow days.
The skiing is good, but god dammit it’s cold.
You get less and less excited about each day, even though the skiing is good.
It is brutal, but you keep going.
Skiing deep pow all day, and drinking all night.
We all slowly start to look the same, disheveled, tired, broken.
People are putting hand warmers between layers of their facemasks.
The wind smacking against your face hurts, the chairlifts are slow.
Drink all night to forget the pain and reminisce about the best turns so far.
March: It should be warmer by now, but it’s not.
We all believe it, and on paper sure, the snow is deep, and keeps coming.
What people don’t talk about is the actual mountain conditions.
On hill employees are riddled with frostbite burns, and people are sour at times.
We just want some warm weather and we haven’t really had it.
It is promise and it is beautiful.
Spring will be good, if it shows up in reality.
April: I turn 21.
Reggae fest, pond skimming, parties on parties.
The frostbite on my face and toes, fuck it, the weathering of my skin, fuck it.
You belong here if you like to party and live in the mountains.
Maine is calling and it might just be your home.
If you might be a skier here, you might be a skier anywhere.
