Last week’s adventure shot me full of déjà vu all over again as we toiled down the mountain and I questioned whether I had pushed Luke too hard. The sun was out, the trails bright green and dappled with brilliant buttercups and Indian paintbrushes, but the situation, the frustration, and the difficulty of descent recalled our first day of skiing last winter, when I led my then-six-year-old son up the Flyer and down Ullr’s Run. If, as Einstein postulated, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results,” I was starting to feel like I should be committed.

On Saturday December 6th, 2008, Yupin, Luke, and I made our first Jay voyage of the season. Though I smarted from missing opening day and Thanksgiving weekend, when I had had foolish obligations down here at sea level, I was patting myself on the back for a much earlier start. The previous season, our first as a family, we had waited until March, 2008, to ski. Luke and Yupin now had exactly three days of experience, but kids learn fast. And he was, as the cliché goes, fearless.

The morning was brisk and clear, and the mountain had been cold enough for snow making to compliment minor accumulations of powder. We were all set to take off right from where we had left off back in March—Yupin would take her morning lesson, Luke would run off with the Jay Explorers at ski school, where he would be at level three already, and I would play in the woods. All the lifts were running except for the Bonnie. I wondered how much coverage I would find in the glades.

But when we arrived, we discovered that the kids’ program had not yet started. Yupin carried on with her routine of meeting the beginners’ group, and Luke came with me. We started with a couple of warm-up runs on the lower chair. He was confident, pretty well in control, and having fun dashing down Interstate, Queen’s Highway, and Moonwalk woods, so we decided to take the Flyer up to the next level. He had never been, but we were both pretty certain that he was ready, that this is what his instructors would have done with him anyway.

As we approached the lift, I noticed a big sign which read, “This Lift Not For Beginners.” I stopped and looked at it for a moment—the message could not have been clearer, but I didn’t quite understand. Was Luke a beginner? With Yupin, I knew the answer. She’s an adult who has only skied three days. But three days for a six-year-old who is athletic and coordinated, and whose instructors recommended for “level 3” (whatever that means) is different. He must be an early intermediate. Besides, there are plenty of easy trails up at the top.

The lift up was just amazing. There’s nothing really like watching the wonder in someone’s face as he or she tunes into an event of sheer beauty. When it’s your own kid who lights up, it’s even better. Now this is skiing, I thought. These crystalline trees. This other planet we’ve entered.

But then we had to come down. A sign indicated that the Northway was the easiest way, but what’s the difference, really. Isn’t a blue run a blue run? And isn’t Moonwalk Woods, a beginner glade, just as hard as a regular blue? It had been years since I had skied any of the blue runs at Jay, except to get over to Stateside or access the woods, and I suddenly felt a bit blind. I remembered taking my father down Ullr’s Dream about twenty years ago, and surely Luke could make it down if the old man had been able to.

I could not have been more wrong. What I failed to recall was that Ullr’s Dream is steep. Not just in one spot, but in a few. And this morning it was bumped up. It looked more like the UN than an easy cruiser. I knew we were in for a long ride down and just prayed that my son would not fly off a mogul and into the trees. That wide-eyed expression on his face was no longer wonder, but pure terror. That fearlessness they talk about? That’s only true to an extent. After his second tumble, he was clearly beginning to feel the frustration.

This is when fear kicked in for me, as well: I’m going to traumatize the kid, and he’s going to hate skiing forever!

By the end of the run, I was certain this fate had already come to pass. All the joy had bled out of Luke. It’s tiring to fall, to lose a ski, to click back in, and to look down at more of the impossible before you, but finally we slid and bumped our way to the flat stretch at the bottom. Here, he coasted listlessly towards the base, furious that I had taken him through such hell. He was cold. And sore. Worst of all, his confidence was shattered. Looking back, I realize that he probably hated me—because I could ski without falling but he could not. As we approached the base, he refused to turn, so his speed increased despite the gentle grade. A small rock then poked up, caught his ski, and sent him flying forward into a head-first crash. Between his goggles and helmet, his face hit the hard, cold ground, and he began to howl. Nothing like pairing actual pain with the bitterness of futility.

At this point in my cycle of guilt and fear of losing my young skier to a funk from which he might never return, I was ready to bribe him with anything—I probably would have bought him a beer had he asked. We moped into the lodge before he finally said in a small voice that he’d really like a hot dog. Absolutely, I said. He decided on a cheeseburger, though, a big fat one that he devoured in about four bites, his jaws opening as wide as those of a python.

Food in the belly is good medicine for Luke, and I expect most six-year-olds. It goes a long way to forgiveness. But I knew that I had a strike against me. I couldn’t afford to make many more mistakes—certainly not any time soon.

Rewind a bit more than three years. Luke was about three. He adored the ocean, loved the mild surf of Thailand. You couldn’t get him out of the water. Then he went down to the beach with his Aunt Ann, who let a rather large wave crash over him. This made him cry, but did not upset him to the point where he wanted to leave. He was willing to give water another chance. Hardly a minute later, before I could get to the scene, another wave hit, and Ann once again did nothing to protect him from the crushing water. For the next three years, this trauma stayed with him. He refused to take swimming lessons on the Cape, and it wasn’t until last summer that he finally became comfortable again in the water. This is not what I wanted to happen with skiing; I know there’s a limit to what he will endure, no matter how much he loves an activity, no matter how much he wants to impress his dear ole dad.

I love how he fixed our skiing situation, though. After finishing his massive burger and chasing it down with some water, he said: “Let’s go on the magic carpet, Daddy.” This is the rubber conveyor belt for absolute beginners, where he took his first turns back in March.

He proceeded to take five Magic Carpet runs, practicing his turns, playing a game to see how many he could get in by the time he reached the bottom of the short incline. First he scored six, but by the end, he had made it to twelve. More importantly, he had rebuilt his confidence and was ready once again for the lift. The best part of his remedy was that he came up with the answer by himself. He re-learned skiing on his terms, and he knew he was ready to take back the mountain. Never once did I say anything about the need to get back up on the horse.

The Metro Quad—not the Flyer!—would lift us into an afternoon of ripping the greens: Raccoon Run, Harmony Lane, Bushwacker, and, of course, the Moonwalks. We would meet Yupin for lunch, and Luke would spend much of our family time in the faux annoyance of rabbitting ahead just to grumble about waiting. On our first lift, though,  
as we discussed which trail to shred next, he leaned against me, his helmet against my jacket, and said, “I love you, Daddy.” It was almost enough to make me cry in my goggles.

Various posts and other folk’s thoughts have conspired to feed today’s Blog post.  Not the least of which is @emstarr’s recent tweet about skipping rocks and slowing down.  I work a lot and, as a Dad, that can be a breeding ground for guilt.  Worried that I don’t spend enough quality time with my girls, I spend lots of time trying to create big experiences for us to share.  Big hikes, big trips, big planning and big-time fun.  Problem is that in the big, you can end up losing the small and, really, the reason you’re there in the first place. 

This weekend I spent a minute or two-it seemed longer-sitting at a table eating lunch with my 5 year old looking up through Franconia Notch.  We didn’t really say anything for a few seconds and she said to me, “I love eating sandwiches with you Daddy.”  For all our Santa’s Village trips, water slide drops, and forced-marches-through-museums this summer, that was certainly a high point.  Made me think about trying to connect at smaller levels with my kids.  I think this may, in turn, have some conection to our campaign this year-about spending time with the people in our lives without trying to overwhelm the situation with big stimulus.  I guess we’re all looking forward to skiing and riding, right?  Getting the kids out and skiing big snow, looking at big dramatic sunsets and big Tram window views.   I’m looking forward to my next sandwich too.  What are you all looking forward to?

Last month, when Luke and I came up for our first Northeast Kingdom adventure of the summer, we kept to the shadows of Jay Peak, in part to whet the appetite and build suspense, in part because the tram wasn’t running. We played around in Newport and over at Mt. Wheeler. And talked about skiing at Jay.

For adventure #2, we planned to attack the mountain directly. We would take the tram up, hike down Goat Run, and finish off with a jaunt through the Moonwalk Woods. Luke wanted to see what the mountain looked like without snow; Yupin and I were looking forward to a leisurely alpine stroll. None of us had ever hiked Jay Peak, which seems somehow wrong—even a group of my flatlander friends from Massachusetts had climbed the mountain during the weekend of our US wedding ceremony, back in 2005.

We knew we were rolling the dice on the weather before we left sea level as the forecast called for scattered thunderstorms. On Thursday night, as we cruised down from Sheffield Heights lightning blasted the western skies. I had visions of being caught half-way down the mountain in a black cloud pounding hail upon our heads. I didn’t think Luke would like that so much.

On Friday morning, we left my parents’ condo in Newport at about 9:00, gambling that the storms would hold off until at least the afternoon. Then we hit rain showers in the village of Troy, and my hopes sagged. Luke said, “It’s a good thing we brought our raincoats.”

Yeah. Only they don’t repel lightning, I thought.

By the time we started our ascent of the mountain, however, the showers had passed, and the morning was shaping up into a beauty. When we boarded the 10:00 tram, the first of the day, there was hardly a cloud in the sky. My backpack, filled with water bottles and foul weather gear, already felt hot on my back. We were the only riders on the tram, and I had that sensation of sneaking up for first tracks. We had the whole mountain to ourselves.

On this sunny, clear morning, it seemed as if we could see the entire world. Owl’s Head and Lake Memphremagog sprawled out behind us. “I can’t find Richard’s condo,” Luke said, hanging on a railing, staring out into the great blue and green expanse. It’s funny how that works, too, because from the condo deck in living room, Jay Peak is so prominent, but looking backwards, our point of reference disappears. It’s kind of like looking through binoculars the wrong way.

The tram docked, and we headed for the granite summit, Luke racing ahead of us up the steps and straight up the rock. “In the winter, if you climb up here with ski boots on?” he said, “you have to crawl or you’ll slip.”

“Sometimes people ski down the other side of these rocks, you know,” I said. “Yeah. Crazy people.”

I had to concur, though I’ve skied the Face myself a few times. In the summer, when you’re looking down at it, it just seems steeper, more menacing despite the cute fluffy green bushes and trees, a lot more, well, rocky.

For awhile, we played around on the peak. Yupin needed pictures to send back to friends and family in Thailand, and Luke needed to huck off the rocks. With views of Mt. Mansfield, the Presidential Range, and Lake Champlain, we really did feel atop a kingdom. It was time now to climb down, to see the terrain we ski in a different light. To experience this other world.

Just as we gathered ourselves at the base of the stairs, the tram operator came over to tell us he was taking off. He seemed a little surprised when I said we were walking down, but he wished us well, and off we went.

Goat Run is probably the easiest, most direct route down Jay Peak, so we started around the back of the mountain, following an ATV track. Luke took shots at a lone naked tree with stones he found in the trail, then fascinated himself by seeing how far he could chuck pebbles into small caves in the rock wall. At this rate, I figured we’d be back down in time for dinner. I began prodding: “Come on, let’s keep moving.”

Walking down a ski run is a bit like moving in slow motion; after an hour or so it began to feel like “molasses runnin uphill in Jan’ry,” as the old timers in Craftsbury used to say. Under the blaring sun, I was no longer worried about thunderstorms—heat exhaustion was becoming a more realistic concern. Gravity, a skier’s best friend, had become a 300-pound gorilla draped over our collective shoulders. Luke’s legs hurt. My knees were feeling it. Yupin was quietly sore. The steep parts of the trail, like the drop just past the turn-off into the Everglade woods, were trecherous with loose rocks. By our third or fourth water break, Luke complained that his legs hurt, and “this is the longest I’ve ever walked in my life.”

“But last time we climbed all the way up Mt. Wheeler and then we hiked all the way down. This is just one trail down,” I assured him.

He groaned, but we moved on, inching our way down towards the distant lake and his grandfather’s condo rising, still invisible, on the far shore. The level of difficulty surprised me on our hike, and it was good thing I hadn’t led us down a trail like Green Beret. Stretches that you ski over in seconds can take upwards of fifteen minutes to traverse. And while Yupin and I could appreciate the beauty of wildflowers and Luke enjoyed seeing butterflies, there is no rush of adrenaline when you’re walking. If you start running, as Luke discovered, you very quickly careen out of control, and you have no edges to slow you down.

The coolest part of our descent was Yupin’s discovery of a small spring jetting out of a cliff near the junction of River Quai and Goat Run. We didn’t drink, but it was fun to watch, to see a water fountain shooting from rock.

My original plan had been to turn left down Lower River Quai and then into the Moonwalk Woods, normally one of Luke’s favorite trails, but the way was overgrown with no track, so we stuck to Goat Run. Just before the big corner past Buck Woods, that hairy turn that always seems to get filled with ice and moguls and people in various stages of lost control, we stopped for our final snack and water break. Luke’s legs were killing him and his foot had fallen asleep. My right knee felt like it would rust shut. But I was telling the truth when I said, “We’ve almost made it.”

Finally, the mountain flattened out and walking began to feel more normal. We were in the home stretch now, the part of the mountain normally marked with day-glo SLOW SKIING ZONE signs. Yupin challenged Luke to a race, and he was off, bounding along on fresh legs. I creaked along like a tortoise. We have a long way to go before we’re in ski shape, that’s for sure. This one hike down Goat Run took us two hours, and my legs felt worse than they do after a full day of early-season skiing.

It was one of those experiences where you question its true value. Did I push my son too hard? Probably. We probably would have been better off to play around at the summit, take the tram down, and then take a much shorter, easier hike through the Moonwalk. It reminded me of the first time that I took him down Ullr’s Dream, last December (and the subject of another story). I feel like I spent some of my Dad Capital after this hike, and who knows how much I have left in the bank. While I know that Luke won’t be begging to do this again any time soon, I wonder if, in time, he’ll look back on this morning with pride in his accomplishment. Because, in the end, he did persevere, and it’s important to see an adventure through to its end. It’s good to learn that not every quest is simple. Not every descent of a mountain is a fast, easy blast.

Lots of new sights, sounds and smells happening at Tram Haus Lodge at Jay Peak. Windows are in and the views are spectacular. On the exterior, roof shingles, clapboard siding and trim are underway. The porte cochere - where guests will arrive – has been constructed, and the timber trusses finish it off nicely. Inside, the progression of sheetrock hanging, taping and painting on all three residential levels is underway, and wall color is being seen on the first level. Next week, finish carpenters will arrive to start the process of trimming out the residential suites.

On the first Monday of summer vacation, my seven-year-old son, Luke, and I leave home in Marion, MA, to head for the mountains—and no, we’re not heading for Busch Beer—we’re off to the Northeast Kingdom, to Jay Peak country. Luke completed first grade on Friday, and we’re wasting no time leaving sea level behind.

“What does Jay Peak look like without snow, anyway?” he asks as we ride the commuter rail into Boston’s South Station.

I tell him it’s green. But of different shades. “The trails are really light green, because there aren’t any trees.”

“Oh,” he says with that cloudy ambivilence that he gets sometimes, when it’s not clear if he’s totally disinterested or completely absorbed. “It’s going to be weird to see it without snow.”

I explain that he’s already seen the mountain in the summer. In fact, we have photos from three years ago of him frollicking about in the tall grass near the Metro Quad, and he saw it from my parents’ condo in Newport in 2007, when we stayed for a week. But it has been awhile. His associations all have to do with the whiteness of winter.

My mother gathers us from the bus station in White River just before one o’clock on a rainy, ugly afternoon that belongs more in April than June, and we continue north to the condo, where we see the mountain clearly, rising on the far shore of the lake, like the north country’s version of Mt. Ranier, not green as promised, but gray, like charcoal in the pewter sky. Luke casts me a glance and switches on Disney. It’s raining.

We’re here, in Jay Peak country, for the first week of his summer vacation for two reasons: 1) my wife, Yupin, is going to school full-time and needs the family car and 2) I want to keep Jay at the forefront of Luke’s mind, to reinforce his love for the mountain and for skiing—to keep it green, as they say. The seven months between his last ski week, back in March, and opening day 2009 are long, about one-tenth of his entire life. In today’s fast-forward society, that’s plenty of time to forget.

It was March break, 2008, when I first brought Luke and Yupin skiing at Jay. For the better part of the past fifteen years, I had been odysseying about: Peace Corps and teaching in Thailand, grad schooling in Arizona, getting married, becoming a dad, and finally, moving back to New England. Yupin, a Thai citizen, and Luke, born in Phuket, had never seen snow. To ride the tram, to climb, in winter, up the stairs to the summit, was as otherworldly and wonderous to them as SCUBA diving the Similan Islands had been for me. They had to have more.

Since then, we’ve made the voyage north on weekends and vacations, and I’ve watched my wife transform from a wobbly-legged fawn to a confident intermediate skier who can’t get enough of Vermonter and Ullr’s Dream. While Luke’s jump from the magic carpet to the glades of Moonwalk Woods was predictable, none of us could have anticipated that skiing would become Yupin’s favorite activity in so short a time. She’s from the tropics, afterall, but here she is, facing north, skiing Jay Peak in temperatures hovering right around zero degrees.

On this first summer trip, Luke and I never actually make it up to the mountain. “It’s boring if we can’t ski,” he says, a line I could not have better scripted for him. When the sun comes out, we bike along Memphremagog to spot painted turtles, beavers, and a mother snapping turtle laying her eggs. Later, we hike Mt. Wheeler, which Luke cannot believe is roughly a thousand feet lower in elevation than Jay—to him it’s more like K2. We soak up the Northeast Kindom, driving along the shores of Lake Willoughby, cutting through Mt. Pisgah and Mt. Hor. Throughout our adventures, though, Jay Peak looms on the horizon or veiled by the branches of a willow, as familiar and reassuring as the North Star.

When we return to the sea in Marion, Yupin asks Luke if he had fun.

“No,” he says dramatically, his eyes wide and sad. “Because we couldn’t go skiing. I miss skiing, Mommy.”

It’s one of those moments when I, as a writer and dad, have to wonder—does he know that I’m taking notes? All I know is that my plan seems to be working. And we’re going up again, in July, this time for a tram ride and a wander about the mountaintop, where I can only hope he’ll complain about the lack of snow.