A hard lesson on the slopes

For many years, I snowboarded with a tight knit group of friends, but I was one of the youngest, and those friends have gone to school and found their snow elsewhere. Instead, at the start of this season I hit the mountain with my mom, an indomitable ski bum with 30 years clocked in skiing Stowe. As the depth of snow increased, we were thrilled.

I had school off the Wednesday before Thanksgiving so my mom and I went to the mountain. We got there at 8 a.m. and hiked up to the quad. The snow was coming down hard, the hardest I’ve ever seen, pelting the lift attendants and eliminating visibility.

The storm, being on a Wednesday with a holiday closing in, meant that no one was at the mountain. We had it all to ourselves.

At that time, Stowe had opened only three trails from the quad. Each run, my mom and I would pass by trails that were filling up with snow like a pair of upturned goggles. It was pretty clear that we weren’t going to let upper Hayride go untouched. On our seventh run, we stopped at Hayride, pulled the dangling orange rope over our heads, and prepared ourselves for something close to nirvana.

As we crested the slope of the trail, I had entered a particular state of mind that East Coast skiers and riders seldom reach, but I was quickly pulled from it as a barking order of “Come here!” was sent my way. We had skied right into three ski patrollers on the closed trail.

I weighed my options. Most depressing was that I hadn’t even made a turn yet. I decided to go down to where the men were standing and see what happened next. I was so focused on what I was going to say that I didn’t notice my mom had skied into the woods, evading the scene. I was all alone.

The first one wanted my name. I gave it. Then he wanted my pass. He took it. The fella launched into protocol: Did I know I was skiing a closed trail? No question. Why did I think this was OK? I glanced all around me. It continued to snow. The conversation culminated with this: “I am going to report this incident to my supervisor and he will decide whether you will lose your pass for four weeks or not.”

I tried to enjoy the rest of the day as best I could, but I felt a certain sinking feeling that lingered longer than I would like to admit. I couldn’t imagine that a patroller, a local skier, would take my actions as warranting of four weeks in which I would be banned from Stowe.

After Thanksgiving, I had another snow day; school was canceled. My mom and I arrived at the mountain to boot up around 8 a.m. We entered the quad line as globs of snow fell from the sky.

However, as I got my ticket scanned, the machine made a strange noise. My mom’s ticket made the same noise, like an eerie echo. The poor liftie had to explain to my mom that we were banned from Stowe for four weeks, beginning right then and there. She was incredulous. I was distraught.

Today is Dec. 4 and we have served nearly two weeks of our sentence, which ends on Dec. 21, right around the time our passes will be blacked out for the holidays.

I write this story as a warning. To anyone feeling tempted to do what I did — don’t. No “incident” is too small to warrant a quarter of your season be taken away.

Now, please wish me luck in enduring the sadness I feel while looking at the forecast or hearing about the conditions.

I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Jesse McDougall of Waterbury Center is a student at Harwood Union High School.