I have skied Sunday River twice. The first time I remember debating whether or not to heed the bazillion warning signs on White Heat. I eventually plunged over the edge and if I remember correctly experienced a nice long, controlled slide on my back.
My second trip was last year, the morning after a foot and a half of snow had fallen. It was amazing. I remember throwing myself down double blacks on my board and being greeted with a ton of snow. Felt like Utah. Then in 2 hours, I was totally exhausted.
One drawback to Sunday River is the long slogs on snowboards between some of the mountains. Most unfortunate.
Titcomb Mountain, West Farmington ME
The epitome of Maine skiing is to be found at Titcomb Mountain. It's not big. It doesn't have death defying runs that you can brag about. There is no glitz. There are no high powered detachable quads to race you up the mountain nor enclosed gondolas so you can pretend you are outside. Nope, none of that. Just a couple of t-bars.
It's a must stop on the way to Sugarloaf or Saddleback and if you don't grasp the essence of this place, then just maybe you should turn around and go back home.
I darted in to Titcomb for the last 45 minutes before the lift closed after a busy morning at Lost Valley and a harrowing afternoon battling the rope tows at Spruce.
Upon entering the lodge to purchase my lift ticket, it appeared that I had to enter the food line so I did. Multiple replicas of my grandparents busied themselves behind the counter cooking up a storm of cheeseburgers, hot dogs and fries all with pleasant demeanor. Even the nice woman at the register pointed out that the lift would close in half an hour and asked if I still would like a ticket.
Snapping my skis on, I hurried over to the t-bar. Once again in reverent awe, I watched kids laughing and chatting as they expertly doubled up on the t-bar. When it was my turn, the gentle giant of the t-bar eased the bar into position and I was swept away up the mountain. Pure joy. The sensation of being whisked up the hill while my skis glided effortlessly over the soft snow through a stand of evergreen trees is extraordinary. To skiers, the hand of god.
After meandering among the evergreens as I made my way down the hill, I raced over to the lift for another ride. The man running the t-bar was quintessential Maine stock: a burly man with a big beard, plaid jacket and LL Bean duckboots but he moved with ease and gentleness while loading his customers.
This time I came down the big open hill as the sun began to set. I wish this mountain were in my backyard. Imagine a few runs every day to treasure the fresh air, the smell of evergreens and the pure sensation of skiing, one more time.
It's a must stop on the way to Sugarloaf or Saddleback and if you don't grasp the essence of this place, then just maybe you should turn around and go back home.
I darted in to Titcomb for the last 45 minutes before the lift closed after a busy morning at Lost Valley and a harrowing afternoon battling the rope tows at Spruce.
Upon entering the lodge to purchase my lift ticket, it appeared that I had to enter the food line so I did. Multiple replicas of my grandparents busied themselves behind the counter cooking up a storm of cheeseburgers, hot dogs and fries all with pleasant demeanor. Even the nice woman at the register pointed out that the lift would close in half an hour and asked if I still would like a ticket.
Snapping my skis on, I hurried over to the t-bar. Once again in reverent awe, I watched kids laughing and chatting as they expertly doubled up on the t-bar. When it was my turn, the gentle giant of the t-bar eased the bar into position and I was swept away up the mountain. Pure joy. The sensation of being whisked up the hill while my skis glided effortlessly over the soft snow through a stand of evergreen trees is extraordinary. To skiers, the hand of god.
After meandering among the evergreens as I made my way down the hill, I raced over to the lift for another ride. The man running the t-bar was quintessential Maine stock: a burly man with a big beard, plaid jacket and LL Bean duckboots but he moved with ease and gentleness while loading his customers.
This time I came down the big open hill as the sun began to set. I wish this mountain were in my backyard. Imagine a few runs every day to treasure the fresh air, the smell of evergreens and the pure sensation of skiing, one more time.
Lost Valley, Auburn ME
I boarded Lost Valley on one of those delicious winter days in late February when the sun is strong with deep blue skies framed by evergreens, the air is calm, the birds happily chirping away, the temps are pleasant and the world is perfect.
Lost Valley sports the most festive chairlift - yellow, blue, red or green chairs. It's a small hill, but it's open meadows are so delightful. Being one of the first on the lift, I had the soft, meticulously groomed snow to myself. The run right under the colored chairlift was short, steep and exciting and Big Buck was sheer joy with its swooping hills.
Lost Valley sports the most festive chairlift - yellow, blue, red or green chairs. It's a small hill, but it's open meadows are so delightful. Being one of the first on the lift, I had the soft, meticulously groomed snow to myself. The run right under the colored chairlift was short, steep and exciting and Big Buck was sheer joy with its swooping hills.
Shawnee Peak, Bridgton ME
Bridgton Maine is the land of big houses and big barns: attached together. Some of them are big enough to be a grammar school with gymnasium. The upkeep appears absolutely daunting. Oh, did you know that roof shoveling is a favorite past time in Maine? You can always spot the home of a roof shoveler by the telltale sign of a long ladder leaning against the house. Maniacs certainly like to shovel. Why they even plow their lawns for practice. :)
Bridgton is also home to Shawnee Peak aka "Squeaky Chair." One lift sounds like a playground swing set - rather charming unless it all falls down. Actually, it's rather amazing that I could even hear the chairlift since Shawnee Peak has adopted that annoying habit of blasting music at the base. The place was a beehive of people.
If you seek some snow solace, make your way mountain left to the quieter lodge.
Bridgton is also home to Shawnee Peak aka "Squeaky Chair." One lift sounds like a playground swing set - rather charming unless it all falls down. Actually, it's rather amazing that I could even hear the chairlift since Shawnee Peak has adopted that annoying habit of blasting music at the base. The place was a beehive of people.
If you seek some snow solace, make your way mountain left to the quieter lodge.
Spruce Mountain, Jay ME
This is it. This is the real deal. If you want to experience what it was really like in the early days of downhill skiing you must go to Spruce Mountain. The only way to the top of the hill is to take 3 rope tows (4 if you start from the parking lot).
At the first rope tow I asked the attendant if she knew of any tricks to riding the rope tow gracefully. Her reply, "don't know, never tried."
I lined up, reached down and picked up the rope and was immediately yanked away but not for long. I soon dropped the rope and attempted to skate away from the burly beast to the next "lift."
Lined up again, reached down and picked up the row and was whisked away in a most startling manner. The track was rough and pitted with lines that were starting to harden. I was grateful when it was time to drop the rope again. To get to the next lift I had to slide down an icy gully and skate up to the final rope tow.
It was rather weird. The rope was slithering away but not a soul in sight. Guess it was self serve. So I lined myself up for a third time, reached down and attempted to lift the heavy rope. And was it heavy! My arms ached as I was pulled up the hill. It took all the strength I could muster to not let go and end the torture. Finally the end was in sight.
Although the slopes were probably groomed in the morning, the late afternoon chill was hardening what was left of the corduroy into a teeth rattling experience. Back to the third rope for another lift to the top. This time I discovered the secret of rope tows: position yourself immediately behind a tall person and you will have a delightful ride up the mountain as he or she does all the heavy lifting of the rope.
As I made my way down the slope, I admired the view of a big mill on the river. Then, with aching arms and scuffed mittens, I called it a day.
p.s. I believe I was the only adult skier on the slope.
At the first rope tow I asked the attendant if she knew of any tricks to riding the rope tow gracefully. Her reply, "don't know, never tried."
I lined up, reached down and picked up the rope and was immediately yanked away but not for long. I soon dropped the rope and attempted to skate away from the burly beast to the next "lift."
Lined up again, reached down and picked up the row and was whisked away in a most startling manner. The track was rough and pitted with lines that were starting to harden. I was grateful when it was time to drop the rope again. To get to the next lift I had to slide down an icy gully and skate up to the final rope tow.
It was rather weird. The rope was slithering away but not a soul in sight. Guess it was self serve. So I lined myself up for a third time, reached down and attempted to lift the heavy rope. And was it heavy! My arms ached as I was pulled up the hill. It took all the strength I could muster to not let go and end the torture. Finally the end was in sight.
Although the slopes were probably groomed in the morning, the late afternoon chill was hardening what was left of the corduroy into a teeth rattling experience. Back to the third rope for another lift to the top. This time I discovered the secret of rope tows: position yourself immediately behind a tall person and you will have a delightful ride up the mountain as he or she does all the heavy lifting of the rope.
As I made my way down the slope, I admired the view of a big mill on the river. Then, with aching arms and scuffed mittens, I called it a day.
p.s. I believe I was the only adult skier on the slope.
Camden Snow Bowl, Camden ME
Quick, name the only ski resort in New England which has a view of the ocean? The northern Atlantic always looks cold and rather intimidating, but during the winter it almost looks cold and dense enough to walk on. Regardless, it is a stunning sight.
Having spent the last couple of days hitting small ski slopes with real Mainiacs, Camden Snow Bowl was a shock to my system. Standing in the lift line, my 10 year old snowboard appeared "relic" and my "one more season...." blue shell looked homeless compared to the shiny new equipment and glitzy ski outfits swarming around me.
Apparently this is part of the "Gold Coast" of Maine which was confirmed when I overheard a woman hurrying past the lift line say to her husband, "you take Renaissance and I'll take Kate to the bunny slope." In addition, two days prior, according to a reliable source in line, John Travolta had rented out the entire tubing operation for his family on Christmas morning. What a Christmas present!
Having spent the last couple of days hitting small ski slopes with real Mainiacs, Camden Snow Bowl was a shock to my system. Standing in the lift line, my 10 year old snowboard appeared "relic" and my "one more season...." blue shell looked homeless compared to the shiny new equipment and glitzy ski outfits swarming around me.
Apparently this is part of the "Gold Coast" of Maine which was confirmed when I overheard a woman hurrying past the lift line say to her husband, "you take Renaissance and I'll take Kate to the bunny slope." In addition, two days prior, according to a reliable source in line, John Travolta had rented out the entire tubing operation for his family on Christmas morning. What a Christmas present!
Eaton Mountain, Skowhegan ME
When I arrived early in the morning after a nice 5 inch snowfall, Eaton Mountain had the look of a ski slope caught off guard. It certainly didn't look open, but there were a few cars parked in the lot so I tested a few door handles until I found one that let me enter the lodge. When I stepped inside I found a bunch of people gathered around drinking coffee with the looks of a promising painting party. I briefly explained my quest and asked permission to board one of their trails. The young owner graciously said, "oh sure." And someone else chimed in that the trail to the far right had the most snow on it.
Apparently the young owner had recently purchased or inherited the slope from her grandfather. Looked like the mountain and lodge were in for some energetic "spring cleaning." Amazing how things collect over time like old lift chairs, stray cars, abandoned snowmobiles....
Anyways, I hiked up most of the hill, strapped on my board and had a delightful time picking my way down looking for the best clumps of powdery white snow under a sparkling early morning blue sky. I wish the best for little Eaton Mountain.
Apparently the young owner had recently purchased or inherited the slope from her grandfather. Looked like the mountain and lodge were in for some energetic "spring cleaning." Amazing how things collect over time like old lift chairs, stray cars, abandoned snowmobiles....
Anyways, I hiked up most of the hill, strapped on my board and had a delightful time picking my way down looking for the best clumps of powdery white snow under a sparkling early morning blue sky. I wish the best for little Eaton Mountain.
Big Squaw, Greenville ME
The approach into town for this ski area is one of the prettiest. As you come over a rise, a big beautiful frozen lake sprinkled with islands suddenly unfolds before you - Moosehead Lake.
Big Squaw wins the award for the eeriest ski area. While the view of the lake from Big Squaw should be equally stunning, its chairlift stops well short of the summit. Apparently, 3 years ago, the lift to the summit was abandoned.
This oddness is compounded by a rather haunting encounter with a desolute structure mid mountain - complete with peeling paint and torn drapes amid a thick somber air. And was that my imagination or did I just catch a glimpse of a pale, mournful face with ski hat peeking from behind the curtain?? Still makes me shudder thinking about this abandoned lodging on the hill.
From what I gathered upon inquiry at the ski lodge, is that some eccentric owns the place and will neither sell it to interested buyers nor maintain it properly. Quite a shame because it has the potential to be a very attractive ski area.
Big Squaw wins the award for the eeriest ski area. While the view of the lake from Big Squaw should be equally stunning, its chairlift stops well short of the summit. Apparently, 3 years ago, the lift to the summit was abandoned.
This oddness is compounded by a rather haunting encounter with a desolute structure mid mountain - complete with peeling paint and torn drapes amid a thick somber air. And was that my imagination or did I just catch a glimpse of a pale, mournful face with ski hat peeking from behind the curtain?? Still makes me shudder thinking about this abandoned lodging on the hill.
From what I gathered upon inquiry at the ski lodge, is that some eccentric owns the place and will neither sell it to interested buyers nor maintain it properly. Quite a shame because it has the potential to be a very attractive ski area.
Baker Mountain, Moscow ME
Baker Mountain was unfortunately plagued with the same snow issues as Mount Jefferson. Too bad because it had a t-bar. It appears to be a nice little ski club which was established in 1937. The snow was bullet proof, but I gingerly made my way up the hill a few feet and took 4 turns on ice. Mission accomplished as I headed back to my car and watched a fully loaded log truck rumble by at highway speed.
Mount Jefferson, Lee ME
Well, my timing was off by a week for Mt. Jefferson because one week earlier, Maine had received a 2 foot dumping of snow and every ski trail on every mountain was probably open and then a few days before my journey - heavy rain - which explained the abundance of parking lots posing as skating rinks.
This looks like a really neat place with some rather steep, menacing runs. Unfortunately, since it relies on natural snow, it's cover was a little bare in spots and icy. Made two turns on my snowboard, gave a nod to the mountain and hightailed it back to my car.
This looks like a really neat place with some rather steep, menacing runs. Unfortunately, since it relies on natural snow, it's cover was a little bare in spots and icy. Made two turns on my snowboard, gave a nod to the mountain and hightailed it back to my car.
Quoggy Jo, Presque Isle ME
With a name like Quoggy Jo, how can you not like this place? Tiny, yes. Fun - yes, yes. I skied Quoggy Jo in the beautiful slanting rays of a late afternoon sun. As this was only my second stop in Maine and the first with a t-bar, it was the beginning of my t-bar addiction. I was amazed at the kids who could ride this contraption double. I have not yet succeeded in this endeavor maybe because no one wants to experiment with me.
Here's the other beautiful part about Quoggy Jo which sets it apart from many ski areas - affordable, good ski food. Although I still wonder about the chemical content in the RED (very red) hot dogs, they cost just $1.00. So for $3.25 I had a hot dog, a grilled cheese sandwich and a PowerAde.
Here's the other beautiful part about Quoggy Jo which sets it apart from many ski areas - affordable, good ski food. Although I still wonder about the chemical content in the RED (very red) hot dogs, they cost just $1.00. So for $3.25 I had a hot dog, a grilled cheese sandwich and a PowerAde.
Big Rock, Mars Hill ME
As you approach this ski area from several miles away, just like Blue Hills in MA, a looming mound of earth suddenly presents itself - Big Rock. There is an extraterrestrial feel about the area including the town's name, Mars Hill. The ski area is home to a towering windmill which takes on massive dimensions as the chairlift brings you closer and closer to this rather awe-inspiring monster. Although it is a very "green" thing to do, it is somewhat disconcerting.
I witnessed some incredible ski jumping by the locals and experienced some rather surprisingly steep trails for a small hill. The ski runs were etched in to a nice stand of birch and aspen trees which caught the filtered sun of a winter afternoon quite pleasantly.
I witnessed some incredible ski jumping by the locals and experienced some rather surprisingly steep trails for a small hill. The ski runs were etched in to a nice stand of birch and aspen trees which caught the filtered sun of a winter afternoon quite pleasantly.
Lonesome Pine, Fort Kent ME
Skiing Maine is a must. It changed my life. I am now a devoted t-bar convert.
Having driven what seemed like a 1,000 miles since leaving my house at 4:00am in the morning after Christmas with stops at Big Rock and Quoggy Jo, I finally reached the outpost of Maine, Fort Kent, at 6:00pm just in time for some night skiing at Lonesome Pine.
The logistics of reaching Fort Kent - hundreds of miles, many without another car, the cost of gasoline and outrunning a storm zoomed through my head and made me question the soundness of my ski quest. I still needed to drop down Route 11 in the dark to put 2 hours between me and the northern border. Always get a bit anxious about driving around Maine at dusk with the potential dreaded moose encounter.
Inside, the lodge was a hubbub of people bristling about, but outside the night air was cold, crisp and clear. Snapped on my skis since t-bars and snowboards do not mix well for me at all and skated to the t-bar.
In southern New England, rope tows, t-bars, j-bars and the like, usually spell disaster because the snow is icy and hard with pre set ruts that pull and tear at your skis while pushing them in awkward directions as you fearfully cling to the tow. Not so in Maine. I was pleasantly surprised that the t-bar scooped me up nicely and sent me along my way with my skis comfortably gliding over the powder snow. It was silent except for a slight whooshing sound beneath the skis and an occasional shriek from skiers and snowboarders finding their way down the hill. Feeling enough calm, I looked around and enjoyed the immediate scenery - frosted evergreens against the dark black night. And then I became cognizant of this strong hand (the t-bar) gently guiding me up the slope to bigger and better things. It was not hurried, not frenetic but a firm push that moved with purpose - like the hand of God delivering me to some unknown destination.
And then I arrived at the top and on my own as the t-bar clankingly sprang away. From the top I could see what appeared to be other lighted trails all around the valley until I realized that I was looking at street lamps and snowy roads.
My descent was slightly harrowing with teenagers literally flying by me, but I eagerly awaited my quiet time on the t-bar for the return trip. I endured several ski runs just to experience "the hand of God" one more time.
Having driven what seemed like a 1,000 miles since leaving my house at 4:00am in the morning after Christmas with stops at Big Rock and Quoggy Jo, I finally reached the outpost of Maine, Fort Kent, at 6:00pm just in time for some night skiing at Lonesome Pine.
The logistics of reaching Fort Kent - hundreds of miles, many without another car, the cost of gasoline and outrunning a storm zoomed through my head and made me question the soundness of my ski quest. I still needed to drop down Route 11 in the dark to put 2 hours between me and the northern border. Always get a bit anxious about driving around Maine at dusk with the potential dreaded moose encounter.
Inside, the lodge was a hubbub of people bristling about, but outside the night air was cold, crisp and clear. Snapped on my skis since t-bars and snowboards do not mix well for me at all and skated to the t-bar.
In southern New England, rope tows, t-bars, j-bars and the like, usually spell disaster because the snow is icy and hard with pre set ruts that pull and tear at your skis while pushing them in awkward directions as you fearfully cling to the tow. Not so in Maine. I was pleasantly surprised that the t-bar scooped me up nicely and sent me along my way with my skis comfortably gliding over the powder snow. It was silent except for a slight whooshing sound beneath the skis and an occasional shriek from skiers and snowboarders finding their way down the hill. Feeling enough calm, I looked around and enjoyed the immediate scenery - frosted evergreens against the dark black night. And then I became cognizant of this strong hand (the t-bar) gently guiding me up the slope to bigger and better things. It was not hurried, not frenetic but a firm push that moved with purpose - like the hand of God delivering me to some unknown destination.
And then I arrived at the top and on my own as the t-bar clankingly sprang away. From the top I could see what appeared to be other lighted trails all around the valley until I realized that I was looking at street lamps and snowy roads.
My descent was slightly harrowing with teenagers literally flying by me, but I eagerly awaited my quiet time on the t-bar for the return trip. I endured several ski runs just to experience "the hand of God" one more time.
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