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Over the weekend, we got a little snow.  It wasn’t a big storm by any means.  It was a pretty storm.  I have windows that look out over the Ottaquechee River and the flakes were very beautiful coming down. 

My husband took this gentle storm to mean that the skiing would be fantastic on Sunday.  Jake was up at the crack of dawn so that he could walk the dog and rush over to Killington to get “first tracks.”He and thousands of others.  Unfortunately, the wind had other ideas of what to do with the beautiful ten inches of new snow fall.  With all the ice that had built up from the week before, the wind swept the new snow from the trails before the early birds even had a chance to take a run.

My husband is an old hand with the unpredictability of New England skiing.  He moved around to more protected trails in hopes of discovering some untouched white gold, but the famous woods trails didn’t have enough snow cover.   He took a few runs on groomed trails—at least there the snow stuck.  Two runs in, the new bubble chair broke down so he called it a day at 10:00 a.m.

On his way out, the Gondola line filled their switchbacks and stretched three hundred feet back up the mountain.   The parking lots were filled to overflowing lining the access road in both directions. Cars were still pouring in. 

Being a numbers guy, Jake tried to figure out just how much money would be spent by skiers who would soon discover that the gentle storm had not produced amazing conditions, several key lifts were closed due to high winds, and that the crowds were record breaking.  Would they care  Or was he just being a spoiled season-pass holder who is fortunate enough to ski over a hundred days a year and could comfortably call it a day?

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