In 1977, after years in the ski business, I sold my last ski area and left alpine skiing behind, both physically and psychologically. That coincided with the burgeoning national interest in recreational cross-country skiing.

Bizarre, I thought, because I grew up and competed in the era of four-event intercollegiate competitors, and we were measured by our skill (and in fact required to compete in) all four disciplines – downhill, slalom, jumping and cross country – if we wanted the cherished Skimeister trophy at the meet.

As an alpine skier, I begrudgingly became a Nordic competitor, a reasonable jumper and a more than passable cross-country racer. But my ability to achieve decent finishes related in no way to my having mastered the technique. I did it through exhausting exertion, determination, youthful strength and sheer stupidity.

The result was that every race, a concerto of intermittent stumbling, cursing and vomiting was, I’m sure, great entertainment for the co-eds along the race course. So it should be no surprise that I was shocked to hear people were actually lured into doing this for fun.

Then I tried casually gliding through the woods with no competitors on my heels and no clocks to beat. It was a completely different sport that I hadn’t even known existed.

So, for 17 winters, until my 5-year-old twins, Josh and Jake, got their then-55-year-old father back on alpine skis, I spent countless hours — with my faithful springer, Buster, in hot pursuit — reveling in the Maine woods, discovering a sport I would never have believed I could enjoy.

I was fortunate that the local snowmobile club in the midcoast town where I live maintained a trail through my orchard, across a couple of ponds and back to my farm. So Buster and I spent countless hours in the quiet woods and meadows, enjoying the exercise and the solitude only cross-country skiing can provide.

It was a huge contrast with my racing days and the excitement of alpine skiing. Although I dove back into alpine skiing when my boys were old enough to strap on a pair, and I seldom get out on the skinny ones now, I know there will be a time when I’ll want to once again spend more peaceful winter hours back out in the woods. Buster’s gone, but now I have an excuse to get over losing him and to find another faithful dog to traipse the back country with me.

Which brings me to an observation: There are lots of skiers in Maine who, like me, for one reason or another, leave the sport for a while. When I was in the business, I remember discussing with my fellow ski-area operators the attrition rate as so many skiers focused more on careers, businesses and families.

But many do return when they, as I, had children who reached the skiing age and wanted to expose them to the sport they had loved so much.

Here’s another observation, and I’ll be eager to hear if this resonates with others: I think I enjoy and appreciate skiing more now as a result of having left it for a while, and the whole experience is richer than it might have been if I hadn’t taken a 15-year sabbatical.

Finally, there’s nothing like the feeling of coming home when you return to the haunts of your youth, and the hospitality of the staffs at any ski area in Maine.

My favorite story about returning to skiing after a few years away was told to me by my friend Peter Roy of Ellsworth. He had been a Sugarloaf regular since his days at Colby, but his law practice kept him away for about 10 years.

As Roy approached the lift for the first time in a decade, he was met by the attendant, one Dennis Parsons, whom I had hired in 1963 to run a T-bar and who became the hospitable face of Sugarloaf for over 40 years. Parsons, seeing him approach, greeted him with, “Hey, Peter, how you doin? Haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks!”

That’s skiing in Maine.

John Christie is a former ski racer and ski area manager and owner, a ski historian and member of the Maine Ski Hall of Fame. He and his son, Josh, will write ski columns on alternating weeks. John can be reached at:

jchristie@fairpoint.net

 

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