Last month, a contingent of ski luminaries, enthusiasts and supporters gathered on a wintry night to pick at their plates during the 14th Maine Ski Hall of Fame Induction Dinner at Sunday River’s Grand Summit Hotel.
Nights like these can be filled with polite applause, long-winded eye-rolling speeches and kicks under the table by a loving member of your entourage who may be giving a covert signal to exit.
It was not so on this occasion, as cross country Olympian Nancy Fiddler, father-and-son biathletes Walt and Andy Shepard, ski jumper Dan Warner, freestyling filmmaker Geoff Stump, Ski Maine’s Greg Sweetser, Pro Ski Tour visionary Ed Rogers and community-spirited Orman “Sonny” Goodwin entered into the great snowy hall.
Passion, community and people were common themes. There were some hilarious stories, such as the one Warner told about a coach who brought nails, marshmallows and a hammer to a contest. The coach hammered the nails onto his long ski tips and ate the marshmallows while in-flight during a jump as a way to get everyone to chill out.
Rogers spun a tale about a U.S. Ski Team member a long time ago who punched a guy at Sugarloaf not knowing he was a policeman. The ski team member was eventually caught hiding under hay bales and received a six-month jail term. It was suspended to three because, in prison, he became a model inmate, giving exercise programs that included the cop he clocked.
But it was something that Stump — who grew up hot dogging in the 1970s at Shawnee Peak (then called Pleasant Mountain) and later went on to make ski movies with his brother, Greg — said that got me rocking, “Hallelujah, bro,” in my head.
“Keep the spark going,” said Stump, whose films helped launch the careers of celluloid ski stars such as mohawk-wearing Glen Plake. “Carry the magic.”
Stump was talking about ritual, about “smelling the sun” when you are out on the slopes. From little rippers to those with wrinkled foreheads as deep as sultry groomed corduroy, it’s all about embracing, participating and growing a ski and snowboard lifestyle.
Yes, it is ritual time again.
As we progress through twig season, we soon enter into our personal winter traditions.
“Think snow,” we tell others when we talk about our hopes of a wintry world of white. “Pray for snow,” others pontificate, as if to ward off another devilish and austere lackluster winter like last season that made many in Snow Nation grimmer than grim.
Pagans call on Ullr, the Norse god of everything winter, to shine upon us with copious snow and cold. We dance in his honor. Some even burn boards as a sacrifice to his grace, as if to sway favorable weather patterns our way.
Then we wait for the snow. Whether from Ullr or guns and hoses, we take part in custom even before we reach hallowed, lift-serviced ground. We get a tuneup in a certain way, whether from a favored ski shop or tech. We find that lucky, weathered hat for the drive to the slopes and stop at that breakfast place we haven’t seen for months. If there’s a choice, we choose our lodge and find our corner or table. We see familiar faces again.
We tackle the trails in the way we always do; we put on our boots, the same boot first each time. We do the same step into the bindings.
We stand at the top of that first run and take in the landscape, smiling at that old friend rippling across the horizon. It’s so good to see you again. We see the mountains, trails and sky in winter’s eye. We feel invigorated and often shuttered by winter’s cold. We venture forth into the outside, because this ritual called skiing and snowboarding is part of who we are.
We rip down the slopes and see those people we’ve never met, but recognize their gear. We round a corner on a trail we’ve been down hundreds of times and stop to see that stunning vista as though we’re seeing it for the first time.
We brown bag it or stop for chili, and when 4 p.m. rolls around, it’s sipping time around that bar with the brother and sisterhood to recap the day.
We hear the stories.
We tell our own.
So think, pray, boogie and burn so that alpine magic can start falling across ski country.
Marty Basch can be reached at mbasch@gmail.com.