Skiing Vermont's Pre-pre-Season Isn't for the Faint of Heart

To everything there is a season, and the first flakes in the forecast mean it is time for pre-pre season skiing.

Pre-pre is an autumnal ritual that was established long before I stumbled into town, including all who see skis and knees as a renewable resource. As soon as the slightest hint of winter-ish precipitation seems likely, a ragtag band assembles. Preceded by panicked dives into musty gear bins and resurfaced memories of buckles that barely limped to the end of the season, the gang assembled at a relaxed 7:30 a.m. at the Stowe base. 

Unlike previous years, it seemed that the forecast failed us. Despite my dear friend and weather fiend Aaron Rice’s assurances, the snow didn’t arrive. The father of a two-week-old can be forgiven for meteorological misses.

The soft morning light revealed not coveted snowliage, but rather past-peak yellows and stick season knocking at the door. As the low cloud slowly lifted, white appeared high above us. SOMETHING. Something frozen, something worth walking up the hill for. Our collection of rock skis runs the gamut from a couple of pairs of mid-2010s pow skis with frame bindings to a mismatched pair of seventy-something underfoot. Three of us, including myself, chose to throw skins on while the rest chose to throw skis on a pack and march up the grass. We took the usual uphill route, Nosedive, making our way nicely through the freshly-mowed grass. Windy and slightly damp, the skinning is rather easy and truly quite comparable to the mid-winter experience, a bit of a shocking revelation. There is no snow here. A few bits of graupel dot the ground, if you seek them out. Nonetheless, we are here and up we go. 

It all feels so familiar, the first steep punch, the sharp right-hand turn into the flats, the stream that drains across the trail that we jumped over in May. Six months later we are back in the same place with the same people, friends hanging out, chatting, bickering, and catching up. This year, the ritual feels a bit different; two in the group have had kids since last year, so the banter is tamer and more focused on human development than on late-twentysomething debauchery. We keep getting older, but the allure of early-season turns keeps us dumb. 

About forty minutes into our day we hit the frost. The coefficient of friction underfoot drops considerably. Surely this grass will be fast. Up the Nosedive headwall we plod; the sight of many mid-season backward Bambi slides. Luckily, we make it through unscathed. The last couple of pitches pass quickly; it’s chilly now, and if you look at the rime-covered trees, it feels like  ski season. 

As experienced optimists, the optimal route down the mountain is clearly mapped in our minds. Avoiding rocks is the number one goal, followed by ensuring there is enough pitch to make some sliding happen. Luckily, the Queen Green Mountains provide ample terrain. 

With just a bit of faffing around, we point them downhill. A deep breath or two, a little smile, and all of a sudden the wind is in my face. Going in a straight line of frozen grass feels like skiing. It is skiing. Turning is a different story as the skis disengage from the grass. I’ve learned from Aaron that a little hop at the start of the turn is crucial. Quickly, Jeff takes a digger but luckily avoids catastrophe. The speeds are slow, but the ground is far scarier than snow.

After a few hundred feet, the frost runs out. Our joy doesn‘t, and with the anticipation of fallen leaves on the lower slopes we pick our way down through the rocky bits. We know it’s silly, but we deeply don’t care. Actually, we do care; it makes us love it more. Finally, on the top of North Slope, the levers have stacked up on skiers’ right. Now we are cooking, we can even make some semblance of turns. Dennis gets dared to take a side hit; he does, and of course backslaps. When we hit the road at the bottom, he also somehow manages to go head over heels and double eject, mud staining his entire back. 

Moments later, we arrive in the parking lot to the chagrin of leaf-peeping tourists. They are mostly confused and a little bit horrified. Soon I am horrified by Dennis’s request for a second lap. All the others scatter to their kids and families, but I acquiesce. Skins back on, we march upwards under the gondola, putting on a show for the flatlanders. It feels right to go up again since what’s better than one lap? Two. 

When we finally reach the top, instead of ripping skins, I click out of my skis. “Enough is enough,” I think to myself as I download the gondola. We’ve had our fun for now. It’s only mid-October, and the forecast calls for sunshine for the foreseeable future, so our next chance will have to wait. It will snow; we will all gather again, but it won’t be the first time for the first frost.

Later, Jeff calls me to go mountain biking. As we ride, it begins snowing. How about that?!

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