Wlmot Mountain (sic)

Recently, Emily moved back home and around Christmas went skiing with a friend at Wilmot Mountain…..and I use the term “mountain” quite loosely….and was offered a job as a ski instructor. Well, this brought back a flood of memories of early ski trips to Wilmot and Alpine Valley in the late 60’s and early 70’s – long before we discovered that skiing could be done on anything but ice. Wilmot was a favorite weekend destination, but I have few recollections of daytime skiing and exclusive memories of nighttime skiing in subzero temps with a biting wind chill and long lift (ha!) lines. We went at night because we were cheap and the price dropped after 5 pm. We were, of course, well-fortified with hot spiced wine and beer.

Waiting in long lift lines for a 5 minute run was the bane of our existence. The rope tow offered a potentially shorter wait but ran the risk that someone would fall going up, and like a series of dominos, everyone behind him would stop and then fall over. We were well-dressed for chic Midwestern night skiing with blue jeans and navy pea-coats. After an hour, our jeans would become stiff with ice. Our ski boots were a late form of medieval torture with something called “flow foam” that was supposed to form around your feet as it warmed up but never did. Nirvana was taking off your ski boots and having blood return to your painful feet. New Years Eve was a particularly interesting time to ski Wilmot….and I recall seeing a drunken skier face down on the slope with his skis crossed behind him and he was laughing and saying “I can’t get up! I just can’t get up!”.

The long drive home down Wilmot Road to Route 12 to Barrington was filled with recounting tales of bravado and daring-do. Ahhhh, memories!