CRUX DIRT GOES “Pat Goodnough hangs it all out near Breckenridge, CO. When low snow years happen, you need to look differently at the things right in front of you. Who knows, maybe all you have to do is cross the road to find it.” Photo: Chip Proulx Words Kade Krichko THE SUNBURN LASTED an entire summer. The idea, however, was born in a matter of minutes. Somewhere between wrapping up the semester in Boston and a few months of not-all-that-much, I convinced my mom to give me the keys to the family minivan. It was kind of an emergency, I explained. With mid-May heat settling across New England, Sunday River still had lifts spinning for one more weekend and I wasn’t ready to give up on ski season just yet. I loaded up gear and pointed it four hours north to Maine, intent on a few more good turns. Spring skiing in New England is rarely a graceful affair. Mountains don’t call it quits while cloaked in white. Closing day is often just a swamp intersected by a single soggy bump line, or repurposed park kickers pushed into a football field of skiable snow. Either way, the ski crowd here isn’t quick to cry, “Uncle.” In Maine there is no spring, just mud season. Frozen resort parking lots give way to pits of sinking muck that can swallow a wayward ski boot, small dogs and even children under the age of 3. Rolling into Sunday River’s parking lot, this year was no exception. The mountain had already been strafed by springtime sun. A few white ribbons weaved their way top to bottom, but brown patches ruled the day, metastasizing by the minute. I ditched my windbreaker and opted for a blue Aquafina tank top and board shorts, loading the lift with the mercury tick-ling 60 degrees. Those white strips didn’t really connect at all, and most skiers were taking off their skis and down-hiking between sec-tions of snow. But gravity is a funny thing. Lean back enough and dirt goes. Wet rock? Not all that bad. Grass is pretty nice and moss might as well be an inch of green pow. I gave in to the fall line, connecting zipper lines between spicy sections of not-so-snow while avoiding wayward snow-making pipes. My legs felt strong after a long winter, and dang I really wasn’t done with the feeling yet. The chairlift peanut gallery was in full force, the occasional pocket granola bar more than enough fuel to keep the patch party going. I settled into a rhythm, my mind present but blissfully un-concerned with anything that wasn’t directly under my feet. That included sunscreen. I lost count of the runs (a good sign if ever there was one), only stopping when the loading area melted out and the lifties cracked a beer. Peeling off my tank top in the parking lot, I revealed a garish modern art display on my upper arms and neckline. Red contrasted with pasty white, the artist likely conveying the suffering of the underprepared, or something to that effect. It didn’t matter though. After all, burns turn to bronze and tan lines are always better with a story. 024 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 15, Issue 4: Page 24
