The Beast of the East

Killington, VT. The Beast of the East. When you come out of the gates with a grandiose marketing jingle like that you'd better be prepared to back it up with more than just an oh-look-we-got-a-couple-inches app. You'd better be prepared to offer up some of the longest, smoothest, and widest runs this side of the continental divide. You'd better cover said runs with powder so fresh that it makes Dominique Ansel's artisanal sprinklings look like the high fructose residue from a three month old Twinkie. And you'd better make sure you surround the spine of the Beast with enough microbreweries and down-to-earth eateries to send a clear signal that those with color-coordinated Helly Hansens should point their private jets elsewhere.

 

Challenge accepted. Welcome to the Beast! We refer of course to that gnarly black diamond down yonder, not that dude about to go slip-sliding his way to the bottom.

Winter 2014 will long be remembered along the eastern seaboard. The pessimists will grumble about incessant travel delays, slushy curbside puddles, and unrelenting cold for years to come. But the optimists, those who have ridden the Beast at her very finest, will dream of pow pow long after the last flakes have started their inexorable journey down the Hudson to the Atlantic.

It takes two to tame the Beast.

The Beast does have a softer side. How else do you explain a live band belting out the classics and the local Switchback ale on tap right at the bottom of the main lift? The Beast rewards those who persevere.

Walker goes through his pre-competition visualization routine in the Athlete's Village. Or is he Googling those Bud Light promo chicks from the bar? Both involve going downhill rather rapidly.

Day two dawns cold but clear, with two inches of new powder overnight. This is it boys, the Beast in all her glory awaits.

Double check those bindings. The Beast is going to take us for a wild ride.

Even the Beast has a softer side. Glorious undulating blue runs offer a welcome respite from the precipitous blacks.

When it's minus one degree Fahrenheit at the top that should be all the motivation one needs to get to the bottom as quickly as possible. Bring on the black diamonds!

Being a guys trip, it's an opportune time to point out even at 89 bucks for half a day on the lifts, these diamonds are a positive bargain compared to other diamonds one encounters in life.

The Beast bucked, she gnashed her teeth, but she was vanquished. Victory is sweet. As sweet as a pristinely groomed, arrow-straight run without a soul in sight.

 

The Beast is dead. Long live the Beasts.

All Hail Vail, King of the Mountains

After a brutal East Coast winter, more snow is the last thing one wants to see. Unless that snow is comprised of giant, fluffy flakes gently descending on the expansive slopes of Vail. It's pow pow time folks.

 

Vail, despite its rampant popularity, manages to hang on to the small town vibe that's slowly melting away at more salubrious resorts. That's a good thing, given they're attracting clientele like the below, who wouldn't know a Ski Valet from an Eskimo Pie.

There's a palpable energy in any ski town on the eve of an epic powder day, and when that ski town is Vail the buzz is off the charts. The enthusiasm is infectious; there's more photo bombers buzzing around than a daylight B-17 raid.

You do realize Slopestyle means more than a pair of Uggs and a Canada Goose hat? You need to add a Double McTwist 1260 to your repertoire. Unless of course you're in Aspen, in which case you need the Quadruple Carat $126,000.

Rock hasn't even got on the slope yet and they're already immortalizing his epic final run. Looks like the sculptor took a little artistic license and glossed over the snowplow stance and grimace of abject terror.

Powder and popcorn. Mei reckons that's the best combination since chow and mein.

On a snowy evening like this, Ye Olde Inn promises a roaring fire and liquid sustenance for the big day ahead. Unlike Rock's grandiose promise of starting on a double black diamond, it happily keeps its word.

Gentlemen, start your engines! In skiing parlance they call this a bluebird day. The kind of glorious spring day where the powder is fresh, the sky is blue, the runs are immaculately groomed, and it's all systems go... until you hit the lift line and realize that everyone else inconveniently noticed what a cracker of a day it is too.

To be at the peak of a powder-covered mountain is to be at the peak of existence. That's particularly true when all the runs down are blues and blacks and one's existence is about to be sorely tested.

One way or another he'll make it to the bottom. Gravity can be a bitch but at least she's consistent.

First warm up the quads with a gentle green cruiser. Then crash on the cruiser and realize that greens out West aren't quite the same as greens out East. It's parallel or perish out here folks. The snowplow is something De Blasio can't seem to keep on the streets because he's too busy using them to polish the Union's boots.

At least the orange goggles will make it easy for the rescue squad to spot you in that big snow drift down yonder. That's good, because the avalanche rescue St. Bernards have heard bad things about what your people stew in their hot pots on a cold winter day...

A vista like this is much easier to enjoy when you're not about to step off the edge of it.

The good news is you don't need a horrible crash to justify "medicinal" supplements anymore. The new all-you-can smoke pot laws out here mean any snowboarder you cruise past will be happy to fix you up.

There's skiing, and then there's floating down a powder covered runway so wide you could land a jumbo on it. There's also bumping your way down with flailing poles, crisscrossed skis, and a dubious set of brakes, but that spoils the image.

All Hail Vail, King of the Mountains!

Stowe Those East Coast Skiing Sucks Comments

Skiing on the East Coast has a mediocre reputation. The kind of place you go if you're not man enough to conquer the real mountains out West. The kind of place where lodges haven't seen a refresh since the days when skis were actually made of wood. The kind of place where a lift is a metal bench on a wire instead of some carbon fiber, climate controlled contraption manufactured at the base of the Alps by some company with a name that sounds like a Swiss downhill champion.

 

 

But in the 2014 season things are looking up for the Eastsiders. The same mammoth dumps of snow that are bringing Manhattan to a standstill every week are making a mockery of the thin veneer of artificial snow in places like Tahoe this year. Plus, a monster new Stowe Mountain Resort finally brings West Coast amenities, like overpriced rooms, rip-off food, and snobbish concepts like Ski Valets to the Eastern seaboard. 

 

Eat your bircher muesli like that Austrian downhill legend behind you.

Apparently the average skier burns 3,000 calories out on the slopes in a day. That's all the rationalizing Team J00ster needs to tuck into some carbo-loading.

See what we mean about a transformation? Here's a brand new gondola that wouldn't be out of place on Aspen. The occupant, on the other hand, certainly would; where's the monogrammed Louis Vuitton bespoke ski kit?

It's never going to be as visually spectacular as the West, except for Rock's wipe outs of course, which are just as dramatic regardless of the coast. But scenery aside, the slopes are wide and steep, and surprisingly long for what would be a mere foothill of the Rockies.

Remarkably, it's not that cold either, with temperatures sitting around a balmy 30 degrees Fahrenheit. You don't need a thermometer to work that one out, the fact Mei has ventured onto the slopes tells you all you need to know.

A monument to the legendary ski warriors who battled the Nazis in Norway in WWII. There's a reason biathlon is an Olympic sport; skiing and shooting weren't always such a weird combination.

So much for foothills, it's looking a lot steeper from up here. Which way was that green run again?

Don't be fooled by the color of the jacket, this guy is green all the way.

Getting ready to drop for the gold medal run. Or the get-me-the-hell-off-this-blue-run as the case may be.

Not bad for an East Coast vista.

The homey Innsbruck Inn is a temple to the legends of Austrian skiing. These guys tore up the piste in an age when helmets were for sissies and real men wore leather ski pants.

 

Just in case one hasn't had enough cold for one weekend, the Ben & Jerry ice cream factory is conveniently located just down the road from the Stowe slopes.

A reminder that buying Rocky Road may get you more than you bargained for,

Peace, Love, and Ice Cream, in no particular order.

The Ben & Jerry Flavor Hall of Fame. Rock reckons it's a darn sight more impressive than all those dusty Austrian skiers back at the Inn.