In fact, the deeper you penetrate into the woods, the more intelligent, and in one sense, less countrified do you find the inhabitants; for always the pioneer has been a traveler, and to some extent, a man of the world; and, as the distances with which he is familiar are greater, so is his information more general and far reaching than the villagers. (Henry David Thoreau, The Maine Woods, page 22)
I like to start the day by getting the Tao rolling. Up early to see the sun rise. Tooth rattling, old frozen snow did not seem like a huge draw to the mountain. Decision making requires data. With the day starting out above 32 degrees, the UV index was high in the morning with clouds predicted to roll in by 11:00 a.m. I ignored the plethora of communications from the Sugarbush marketing team and cleared my third eye, felt the heat of the morning sun, and knew that it was time to go spring skiing.
With luck, I ran into Sir Real, an old friend who shows no sign of growing old. Bubbles surround him as well as the legions of skiers who cross his path in lift line or fall line. He moves through the mountain like a charged particle, drawing people into his orbit. I toured around with him for the better part of the day and took notes. Sir Real does not hesitate at questionable terrain choices; He dives in. No matter what the terrain provides, he rolls with it. He rides up, over and around bumps, across stretches of moss, rock, and grass, never flinching, just rolling with terrain; set the cruise control at the speed limit and enjoy the ride.
Out of bounds is always available and is always an adventure. In Europe or the American west, there are high peaks that require long uphill hikes or hairball traverses. Here at home with limited snow cover, adventure and out of bounds can be found just twenty feet off an open trail or by simply dropping under a rope. Even open trails with thin cover are an adventure when you value your edges.
Being at the summit and here it is--what was imagined back at home, and we are predisposed to dive downhill. But it is spring and there is a tendency to linger and to enjoy the view. Spring skiing is luxurious; the days are long, the sun is high, the snow is receding into the shaded areas along the tree line.
It is 10:37 a.m. and the Tao is rolling. The snow on Ripcord has surpassed the hard state—it is all soft snow now. Truly, this is spring skiing. The feeling is like an exhale after a long, deep inhale of the magnificent and powderful winter of 2026. At some point, you must exhale, and spring is that point.
The winter of 2026 produced more powder days than any season that I have experienced. There was a change in the skier dynamic, a Western-style casualness when it came to skiing dry and untracked powder. There was no need to hurry, it just was. And now it is spring and the wolf is at the door. Snow is rapidly receding into the deep, dark corners of the forest. I’ve seen where the wolf has slipped past along the tree line, like a sliver of a stream or a Sinewave etched into the mountain; tracks that never miss, edge to edge. Happy seventieth, Wolfgang.
The clouds arrive right on schedule at 11 a.m. But time, on a day like this, feels like an artificial construct. Calling it Sunday seems especially wrong. It is neither the first day of the week nor a day reserved for obligation. For those inclined toward transcendence, this is something else entirely—a chance for communion, not with doctrine, but with experience itself.
Skiers talk about “the zone” as if it’s a place that you stumble into after a number of turns, like a rhythm that you eventually catch. But the best skiers, the Sir Reals, the Wolfgangs of the world –they understand something deeper. The zone is not entered midway down the trail. It begins before the first turn, and it starts on the lift.
Focus is built on the ascent. We ride the lift into the thinner air of uncertainty; we become more of ourselves. The very first turn is made in the zone. The entry into a dicey and questionable decision is not a test, it is a continuation. Come what may, we are already committed. The zone is not fleeting. It is constructed over years, over countless turns, over small adjustments and accumulated understanding. It is built to last.
There are things undone in spring. The snowblower and shovels are still not put away. The chainsaw needs a tune. The dog poop needs to be collected and dropped off at the new Vermont State Dog Poop collection site at 188 Harvest Lane, Williston. Anyone violating this state mandate will be deported to El Salvador.
