Skiing at Loon!

The alarm went off at 6:45 that Saturday morning in late December. That's the time that I would always set the alarm for on a Saturday. Most people that don't work on weekends may think that's outrageous. You may be one of them. You may be asking, "Why the hell isn't she sleeping in?! It's a Saturday in December for crying out loud!" But when Saturdays are the days that you set aside for skiing in the North Country of New Hampshire, you'll do anything to get out there early, before the flatlanders get there. You'll do anything so that your skis are the first to touch the powder.

I reached over and pressed the button, turning the alarm off and hopped out of bed. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee filled the small, two-bedroom apartment in Littleton. As I hopped out of bed, my husband, Izzy, turned over and pulled the covers up over his head.

"Why are you up so early," he asked in a voice full of sleepy confusion.

"You know I'm going skiing down at Loon. I've got get out there soon, before it gets too crowded," I replied as I pulled on my ski gear and grabbed my car keys. "The lifts start operating at 8:00 AM, it takes about 20 minutes to drive there and I need to get new ski gloves because I lost my old ones."

"OK," he mumbled. "Just don't stay out too long."

"Sure sweetie," I replied, as I grabbed my coffee and ski equipment and opened the door.

I inhaled sharply as I stepped outside, into the frigid, chilly morning. Pearly, grey light engulfed the snow covered pines surrounding our apartment complex. I probably should have started the car up before getting my coffee together, but it was too late now.

I walked carefully down the icy stairs. One day, someone was going to slip and fall down the stairs and our landlord was going to be out a lot of money. That concern was far from my mind as I coaxed my car to life and sipped my hazelnut coffee. The butterflies did swan dives into the bottom of my stomach as I thought about the runs that were just within my grasp.

I pulled onto Interstate 93, going south. The road was open and clear; I was the first out that morning. I set the cruise control and plugged in my I-Pod. Billy Joel began singing about how only the good die young. I hoped that I would get there before it got too crowded. I didn't mind the crowds but the runs were infinitely more enjoyable when it was just you, the slope, the crisp winter air, the views and the sun.

My favorite part of the drive from Littleton to Lincoln, where Loon Mountain was located, was Franconia Notch State Park. I had heard the mountains in the Notch described as dark, foreboding and scary. However, the grey granite giants were breathtaking beautiful in the early morning sun. The pink light reflected off of the stark, sheer and smooth whiteness of the slopes of Cannon Mountain, making it hard to concentrate on the curves of the highway. The highway was held in place by cliffs and, if the cliffs were not there, the highway would seemingly have fallen away.

I finally got off at exit 42 and made my way through downtown Lincoln, past the ski stores, resorts and the police station and turned right into the ski resort. The parking lot was surprisingly empty for 7:45 in the morning. I had expected more local people here. But hey, that just meant more slope for me!

I parked the car and unloaded my equipment. The excitement was in the air. There were a lot of young people around because of the school break. Families carried skis and snowboards towards the lodge while their cars were parked. The lifts had just started up as I was pulling into the lot. I hurried into the lodge, where I kicked my sneakers off and put my boots on. The lodge was often too warm when compared to the air outside. It couldn't be healthy, which is why I had resolved myself to spending as much time outside, skiing, as possible.

As I was going to grab my skis, I waved to Larry, one of the shuttle bus drivers. He lived near to Izzy and I in Littleton, so we saw each other occasionally outside of our hobbies!

"Hey there! No husband today?" Larry asked brightly.

"Hi! No not today Larry. You know those Californians. It gets below seventy degrees and it's too cold. They all have thin blood," I replied.

"Ain't that the truth," Larry replied, rolling his eyes. "It's supposed to be nice up there today. Enjoy it while you can because it's supposed to be wicked cold next week. I wish that I wasn't working today so I could get out a little."

"You can't get off a for like thirty minutes? Do a coupla runs?" I enquired.

"Nope, the boss doesn't like it that much and my son's living with me right now, so money's tight. Can't afford to slack off none," he replied.

"Well, all right then. Make sure you try to get at least some runs in this season. All work and no play makes you awfully boring," I replied matter of factly.

"I sure will! See ya later!," Larry called, as he closed the door to the bus.

As I walked to my skis, I marveled at how lucky I was that I lived within minutes of some decent skiing. I could take an afternoon off and just ski, if I got all my work done. That was motivation enough for me to work 13 or 14 hour days early in the week, just so that I could do what I loved - ski! I popped my skis on and slid over to the lift.

The lift is the place to be. You can strike up conversations with some of the most interesting people on the lifts. Today, I was riding solo though. The ride to the top wasn't long because I was only going up half of the mountain, starting easy.

I got off the lift quite easily and was off. I made sure to keep my skis close together as I carved out a trail down the slopes. It was quiet on my way down. Not many people were out yet, just the way I had wanted it. The wind kissed my face and the sun's rays, reflecting off of the crystallized snow, lit the way for me. I felt exhilarated as I made my way down one trail after another. By the time, I reached the gondola, I was warmed up and ready for a day full of skiing. It was one that I would never forget.

After 4 hours of the relentless pursuit of rapture, I decided that it was time for a break and headed to the lodge, where good food, company and beer awaited me. I climbed the stairs to the bar. They had a "bouncer" carding at the entrance to the bar, who just wave me in and smiled. Tyler was his name. We had a conversation a few weeks prior about how the North Country was being inundated by people from Massachusetts and now, he doesn't hassle me.

I sat down at the bar and flagged down the bartender, a nice guy who had been around the block a few times and got my beer.

"Good day so far?" he asked, with a smile and twinkle in his eye.

"Absolutely. Couldn't ask for better conditions," I replied, sipping the unfiltered brew before me. "How's my favorite bartender doing?"

"Wonderful now. How's my favorite Public Defender?"

"Great now," I responded, jokingly, as I sipped my beer.

"Anything good going in court next week?"

"Not so much," I replied. "And even if there were, I couldn't exactly tell you about it could I, being that you might be one of my jurors."

"Got me there," he said as he moved to the other end of the bar to help another customer.

The rest of my afternoon went blissfully and ended with another beer and a warm car ride home. What more could one ask for from a Saturday in the North Country in December?