Since July, I’ve been writing about our family’s efforts to be raised by the mountain; it seemed like years of anticipation had finally passed when, on the day after Christmas, almost-eight-year-old Luke and I stepped up to the camera in customer service for our season passes. My wife Yupin, by virtue of the fact that she’s a full time student, going for the degree in accounting that will one day (soon, we hope) allow us to buy into Jay and Move Up, already had her pass—the kind Triple Major.

Luke’s been saying for months that he can’t wait to get back on skis. Over Thanksgiving, it was, “Oh, I just wish there was more SNOW!” But now that the big day is here, the day after Christmas, he’s feeling nervous. Some of the anxieties from last year have snuck back into his consciousness. You can see it in his eyes. He’s a year older now; he doesn’t want to cry when I drop him off at ski school.

I heard a woman talking about this issue yesterday in the cafeteria, joking that when her kids were little, she worked up more of a sweat getting them ready for ski school and dealing with them crying than she ever did skiing. Last year, it nearly killed me when Luke cried; it made me feel like a bad parent, despite his instructors’ reassurances that it’s a pretty common phenomenon—separation anxiety, right? But then I’d see him later in the day, and he’d be so happy, I always knew I’d done the right thing. I don’t really understand the psychology, but sometimes with kids, with Luke for sure, you need to force them to do the things they really love. So far, Luke has always thanked me later for doing so.

Anyway, our first goal for the 2009/10 season is to get through ski school drop-off without tears. Leading up to our first day, I didn’t want to talk about it too much or it would become a BIG THING, and then we’d have crying for sure. I did ask Luke what he thought would make it easier for him. “I don’t like being the first kid there,” he said. “It makes me nervous.” I told him I’d try to bring him down there as late as I could.

On day one, it turns out, we needn’t have worried. When we arrived, our crisp new passes tied onto our parkas with fancy new lanyard, most of the kids were already dressed, and the instructors were already herding them out the door. We had to race to get Luke geared up in time. We zipped up his bib ski-pants, threw on his jacket, locked in his boots, and—BANG!—there was Ashley to whisk him away. “Bye, Dad!” he called, without even a hint of a quavering in his voice. I waved good-bye, then just stood there, relieved.

We had moved at such a fast pace, I hardly had time to register the changes in ski school’s physical layout. While last year it was something of a cave with old carpeting and its attendent musty smell, the old Golden Eagle pub is the new base-camp for the older kids like Luke. Now, I bartended at the Eagle a couple of times back in ’97. Back then, it was clouded in cigarette smoke and the odor of stale beer. I’m sure for many folks, it holds many lovely memories of the ole apres ski. For me, a recovered pack-a-day cigarette addict, it was Hell. After one big night of work in there, I thought I was either going to get emphysema or be forced to start smoking again. The next day, I transferred over to the hotel bar, where I could breathe. I never set foot in the Eagle since.

So it was a bit freaky to be standing there, watching Luke tromp off with his instructor, in this totally transformed space. There’s not even a hint of beer sludge. The room smells fresh, new, sparkling. The tables and benches might not be as cozy as those of the old Eagle, but it’s the perfect staging area for ski school. It looks much more like a second grade classroom than a bar, and while I’m sure that the atmosphere has little to do with Luke’s ability to run off to his lessons without tears, the room probably feels more familiar to kids. Less cave-like. Less nervous-making. It sure makes me happy, to drop off my son in a more cheerful space. And it’s always great, this early in the season, to have achieved one of your family’s first goals.

For a limited time only, we have reduced the pricing of our holiday packages from December 25th through the 31st only.  If you book a minimum of 3 nights or more in the Hotel Jay, you’ll get in for just $144 per person, per night, based on double occupancy.  Book the same length of stay in the Tram Haus Lodge and get in for just $190 per person, per night, based on double occupancy.  Hotel Jay packages include lodging, lifts and daycare only.  Tram Haus Lodge packages include lodging, lifts, daycare and access to the Taiga Fitness Studio.  For being among the first of our guests in Tram Haus Lodge you will also be invited into an exclusive group, the First 100.  Come stay with us to find out what that’s all about - call 1.800.451.4449 to book, and be sure to mention the Holiday Stay and Ski deal. 

And if you or your friends can’t quite swing the stay, we want to share some of this holiday cheer on December 25th.  Bring a friend and ski or ride for just $67 between the two of you.  Valid on full-priced lift tickets only (that’s $67 for Adults and $47 for Juniors).  This offer is only valid on 12/25/09 and a copy of this blog post must be presented at our Customer Service office to receive the deal. 

From your friends and family here at Jay Peak, we wish you a happy and safe Holiday season. 

After a good seven months of cross-training and gearing up, the snows have finally arrived, and the Jet Triple is cranking away. Preseason is now officially over. Here’s how my family spent the last hours of that long, long wait.

First, there was more hunting, and the realization that Thanksgiving weekend really has evolved into a shopping quagmire. Forget about the poorly-named “Black Friday.” It’s the online specials and the “50% Off” stickers in every window (preceded by the words “up to” in tiny font) that kill me. For a skiing family with some needs–boots for starters, then a good new shell, maybe some Hotronics to keep Miss Yupin’s Thai toes toasty, gloves for Young Master Luke, etc.–our itinerary seemed somewhat ideal. On the way up to Vermont, we would take a quick flyby of the Wrentham Premium Outlets, try some boots at Proctor Jones in Nashua, hit LL Bean and EMS in Concord, and finish off with local shops in the NEK. We’d be ready to ski on opening Saturday. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, as my British friends used to say. But when you’re a borderline obsessive Dad who won’t be satisfied until he finds exactly the right gear at exactly the right price/discount, there’s a tendency to complicate even the most simple no-brainer.

One thing was for certain, as dictated by our first grader: “We’re NOT going shopping on Black Friday.” We assured him that he would be safe. I told him, “Friday’s the day we put the snow tires back on.” (Which seems pretty appropriate, actually, since tires are black.)

“So we can ski on Saturday.”

“Yes, if everything works out.”

Only the mountain’s most fickle mistress, the ole Jay Cloud, wasn’t having none of it. Before we even left Sealevel for our Thanksgiving ski odyssey, the rain and warmth had pretty well guaranteed there’d be no lift a-turning. Not till December. Still, we held out hope for snow; maybe we could sled at least.

Unless you’re a deer hunter, November is a fairly cruel month in Vermont. It’s the anticipation more than anything, the way it should just go on and be winter already. Luke’s assessment when it’s dark and cold and drizzling and snowless is fairly spot on: “There’s nothing to do when you can’t ski.” Still, I wanted to prove him wrong.

We spent the better part of Turkey Day giving thanks to the good folks of Montreal, where we visited the science museum for roughly the price of two early-season lift tickets. Then we added a couple more lift-ticket-equivalents at possibly the worst sushi restaurant I’ve ever entered. But it was something to do, and it was fun, and we were making the best of the weather.

Friday morning broke gray and rainy in Newport. I sloshed the Corolla down the hill to the mini-mart on the lake and bought some breakfast sandwiches wrapped in tin foil and two cups of Green Mountain Coffee. The dude at the counter told me we might have seven inches of snow on the ground come evening. I said it’s a good thing I’m putting those snow tires on today.

By mid-afternoon, our car was ready for skiing, but I still had made no progress. And the rain had not changed into snow. It was a regular winter desolationland in the city by the lake. Luke was scoring pretty big, though. He had found a pair of Spyder gloves marked down from forty bucks to a reasonable $12 and nabbed a ski mask that looks like a GI Joe villain’s costume–much more stylish than the light blue Turtle Fur he rocked last year. Then, after we switched the tires and picked him up a Happy Meal–which makes every kid on every continent happy–he got fitted for boots and skis and poles at Great Outdoors.

The rain kept pouring down in sheets. Gray windowpanes of water. We wandered the aisles upstairs at the Pick and Shovel, debating about sleds, trying to decide which would be fastest, funnest. We looked at the creatures in their small menagerie. Then we picked up Mommy for lunch at Newport Natural Foods and capped the exciting day of nothing to do with three games of bowling. I was starting to feel pretty resourceful. Every time we got in the car, we looked up at the mountain, shrouded in Mordor-dark mists and fog. We wondered if the rain was snow up there. We talked of skiing, of upcoming lessons, of how Luke’s going to take the ski school’s eight-week course starting pretty soon now, of how everyone in the family will be ripping the black diamonds by February. We anticipated.

I spent most of Friday night online. Virtually trying on jackets and boots in the outlet sections of my favorite ski bargain websites. I was experiencing a lot of deja vu all over again, but at least I had a better idea of sizes after sampling at least thirty real jackets in the real stores we’d visited over the past three days. I had come this close to pulling the trigger three times, but one was too heavy, the next had a fixed hood, and the last one had no pit zips. None had been just right.

Saturday morning broke sunny and clear and devoid of snow. My coffee supplier’s forecast had been wrong. We would have no sledding, at least not in Newport. Up to Jay, though? Had they gotten any? Sure, they’d said so on Twitter, but was it really enough to play in? Fog or a cloud hung over the mountain like a bashful bride’s veil. She wasn’t showing us anything, but we were going up to find out. It wasn’t until we approached Troy that she stripped naked and flaunted her bright white belly.

As we climbed 242, winter took form. The trees bent with heavy, wet snow. The sun sparkled up diamonds all over the roadsides. We stopped in at the home of one of my childhood friends, a Jay skier who I hadn’t seen since third grade. Our newly installed snow tires ripped through the snow and slush like chainsaws through balsa wood. I had the urge to drive really fast, to play with the emergency brake and tear donuts or perfect a drift.

The snow was so wet, it was like playing at the beach, but the kids didn’t care. While we grown-ups caught up on thirty years gone by, they frolicked with the dogs, sledding, soaking their clothing, gathering mud. There was all of two inches of fresh on the ground, and it was melting like Antarctica.

After lunch, we completed our journey to the resort. Our friends, the grown-ups at least, actually motivated to skin up for a few kind tele-runs. We, with Luke, simply poked around. We saw the Tram Haus Lodge in its proper attire for the first time, with the fresh snow like shimmering faux ermine against its dark brown suit. We talked more about skiing and investigated the ski school lair, which appears to be receiving something of a facelift. We cruised the ski shop, but all the sale and clearance items were over at State Side and wouldn’t become available until the mountain officially opened. Luke scored once again, this time with glove liners and a kind new Jay Peak snowflake pin to compliment the silver logo that he won for finishing second in a ski school race last March. If skiing is the feast of the year, we were standing in the kitchen, taking in the aromas of meats a-roasting, pies baking, and fresh coffee brewing. We were building suspense, getting our minds and souls in gear.

We didn’t actually ski that last weekend in November, but we inhaled the experience. We reminded ourselves of just how exciting the season becomes. When we drove back to Newport, we stopped at Big Falls over in North Troy. With all the rain of the past week, I guessed the river would be fierce, raging. We tramped up the rocks in our new Kamik snow boots and watched the furious water pound the granite. There was something exhilarating about its speed, its force, and its purpose. Something mystical, and obviously fluid, flowing. Something like skiing.

And on the way back to Sealevel, down in tax free Concord New Hampshire, I bought my first new pair of ski boots since 1997. Winter’s here. The time is right. See you from the lift.

We finally have some and we’re grateful for it.  We’re also looking forward to more late tonight into tomorrow (Wednesday) and then again Thursday into Friday when, in the words of one of our trusty weathermen, “a foot of backlash snow looks like a good bet at this point”.  And now for some pics courtesy of Lenny Christopher:

You gotta hunt the gear before you poach the pow, but this time of year is about the worst for finding one’s quarry. The woods been picked clean, as it were. It’s the equivalent of shotgun season, when every flatlander and his mother runs out, 12-gauges a-blazin. To put another slug in the ole metaphor, if you really want to bag the best rack, you need to start out in bow season, otherwise known as spring. I’m well aware of this, but here it is, Thanksgiving, and that big buck continues to elude me.

Gearing up isn’t what it used to be. Back in the day, there just weren’t that many options. We’d go to Great Outdoors in Newport or Willey’s Store over Greensboro; on rare occasions we’d venture down to Burlington. Our buys weren’t always perfect—I recall a torturously painful pair of butt-ugly Raichle boots—but I rode my K2 5500’s, purchased at Great Outdoors, for years. Now, of course, there’s the internet and its bevy of outlets: Evogear, Back Country, REI, Sierra Trading Post, and their ilk. Finding the right gear for the right price should be easy. Instead, at least for me, it has become a quixotic exercise in obsessiveness. So far this year, I have already ordered and returned two helmets, one pair of Kamik snow boots, and another pair of Head ski boots. I’m very likely to return the Tecnicas that FedEx just delivered today.

The way I see it, there are three key reasons why I keep missing my target:
1) I don’t trust the ski shops of Southern Massachusetts and haven’t had enough opportunities to search the tried and true stores in Vermont;
2) despite sizing guides, there’s no such thing as an online fitting room (actually, now there is at tobi.com, but not for skiers);
3) a key component to gear hunting is hitting the sweet deal, and when half of the products online are 40-70% off, it’s hard to avoid getting bogged down. I’m not sure which of these reasons affects me the most, but the art of the deal certainly plays into my obsessiveness.

Gearing up a family for skiing is a bit like buying a car or shopping in an open bazaar in the developing world. There’s prices and then there’s prices. Skiing is one of the worst markets because you just know there’s a special somewhere, or that if you were only just a little bit hipper or maintained closer industry connections, you could be getting all of your equipment for ridiculous discounts—or even for free. This feeling is particularly keen if you, like me, have friends who are really smart about gear, who work in ski shops in places like Aspen and Tahoe. Back in the day, I could go to these friends, and sometimes they could even hook me up, but now we’ve all moved on. Only my friend Marta, my Artemis of the gear hunt, has maintained her connections and knowledge base. Though she probably buys at full price sometimes, it’s my perception that she always flushes out the best equipment for virtually nothing. In my mind, she can never make poor purchase.

I, on the other hand, feel dirty and ripped off nearly every time I buy an item of ski gear, not to mention stupid. I’m embarrassed to tell Marta or my ski-obsessed students about what’s gone down. I feel like that flatlander my fifth grade teacher told me about who pulled into the country store to report and weigh the bear he’d just bagged—only to discover he’d shot a heifer.

Still, nearly every time before I begin the hunt, I call Marta for advice. Because with the myriad thousands of options at your fingertips and mouse clicks, you need a guide. What if the website with that sweet deal is lying? How stiff a flex index do I really need? Is HyVent as waterproof as Gore-Tex? Will those Public Enemies serve me well in the woods? Some websites like Backcountry.com are pretty good about providing technical specifications and ratings, and most of them present customer reviews; a few even offer to chat you through your purchase. Problem is, they’re all trying to sell, and you wonder sometimes if their information is true or just what they think you, the customer, want to hear. On at least three occasions over the past months, I have had salesmen (both real and virtual) swear that the gear I’m looking at is built for the advanced/expert skier when in fact it’s better suited to an early intermediate. Just the other day, at a Spyder outlet, the salesmen told me there were no Gore-Tex jackets left in clearance; I found three—but none fit. Whether the deception is intentional or out of ignorance, I never want to purchase anything from a salesperson who seems to know less than what I’ve learned from surfing around the web.

So, here it is, two days before Thanksgiving, and I’m feeling as saturated with images of not-quite-right gear as that guy at the Deadshow who decides not to smoke any pot. There’s a kind of contact buzz of the what-could-be-mine, but ultimately there’s the childlike frustration over the inability to hunt down what I really want. So, I’m leaving this computer shopping behind, closing the gearporn windows, and heading up to the Kingdom. My family’s ski equipment might not be ready for the 09/10 season opener, but there’s not enough snow yet for the lifts to turn anyway. I need to decide what to do about the Tecnica boots in my kitchen, too, and we still have to hunt down some other key pieces of gear before we’re ready for winter. We’ll be the folks in Great Outdoors trying on the last of last season’s shells and signing up for $99 seasonal kids rentals. Happy hunting.