In no way did I expect to feel like this. Driving southbound on route 93, headed to drop off Dehlia at Plymouth State College, followed on all sides by rain and fog and rain, my windshield wipers barely keeping up with any of it, I’m fine. Even The Last Trip To Tulsa, a 10 minute psychedelic, acoustic chestnut that closed out Neil Young’s 1968 self-titled release, fails at dropping me into the blue; it shows up on a playlist looking to have at me, but it doesn’t work. I figure something is definitely up. None of the forecasted melancholy is anywhere to be found. Summer was running out of what little steam it started with by the time mid-August showed up. My wife had assembled pallets of supplies dedicated to my daughter’s freshman year. Items ranging broadly from facial creams and feminine stuffs to snacks, a monstrous assemblage of push-pins, an 8″ foam mattress pad and a bushel of barely-red Macintosh Apples. ‘It will be good for her to have apples.’ My wife said. ‘It’s always nice to have apples.’ To the apple and face-cream pallet we added things like refrigerators, industrial-fans, a brown box-kayak-sized-presumably filled with gold bars, and a complex shelving system that I brought up three flights of stairs into the elevator-less Blair House on August 18th at barely 9am. Blair House sits directly across from a spot where Robert Frost lived when he was a teacher at Plymouth State and, closer still, to a severe looking green dumpster with an arrangement of locks protecting it from things like pallets and industrial-fan boxes. Plymouth started as an all-girls college and, as such, the uniform of the day included the wearing of skirts. This 24/7/365 expectation drove the need for, or at the very least an interest in, a subterranean tunnel system connecting all the dorms and classrooms. Legend suggests that 1st year students Blair and Mary Lyon (whose name connects to the abutting dorm) were sister-friends and, breaking curfew one night, were killed inside the tunnel connecting the two dorms. Their spirits apparently still wander the halls scaring kids and making belongings disappear. Given the fruit in Dehlia’s room, it’s possible they pocket several for other ghost-friends with little chance of notice. Blair has the coziness of an urgent-care center with bleached, colorless walls, cold-tile floors, two beds and two under-sized dressers. Dehlia and my wife make things a touch more cheerful by adding some pictures and color and apples, and it feels somewhat less like a sanatorium by the time we head to the dining hall for fajitas. We are dropping our daughter off two weeks prior to classes starting for soccer work outs and the coaches have mentioned that, by 2p, parents need to be (the fuck) out, and ‘headed home.’ I catch myself staring at D, at times, during lunch. Trying to memorize her face a little, and thinking melodramatic thoughts about dropping her at schools for the past 12 years. I note her expressions. The way her eyes bend and shrink, sometimes, when she smiles and the way she purses her lips together when she laughs with food in her mouth. She’s clearly whatever the opposite of nervous is. Maybe it’s happy and maybe it’s relief or maybe it’s something different still. I’m still expecting to get run over by emotion at some point, it just isn’t now. She seems unstressed and excited and it’s difficult for me to drum up anything close to what I thought I’d be feeling. We drive to the field-house where the coaching staff has asked for prompt attendance-starting a two week stretch of flexibility testing, concussion benchmarking and a set of fitness expectations that have concerned Dehlia all summer. If she’s nervous about it now, though, she’s either buried it, or turned it into something else by the time we’re hugging her and saying goodbye. There are no tears and no real threat of them from what I can see. We tell her how we know she can do it and to believe in herself and then we’re gone. She’s gone. She waves at us, without looking back, and disappears into the un-ironic, delicately branded All-Well Center with a small group of girls who have no idea about how close they’re about to become. On the way home, my wife and I talk about how shocked we are about the lack of tears, how strong Dehlia looked and how not-so-awful the fajitas were. We talk about how these events are often emotional let downs and consider the likelihood of coming apart at some point in the future when we have less of an expectation to. At home, I look at some pictures on my phone that I was able to snap. Of Dehlia and Brooke in 330 Blair and of Dehlia and her roommate sitting on 8” foam mattress pads and of Robert Frost and his dumpster. There’s one picture of Dehlia smiling, her eyes shrinking and curling, the way they do when she’s confident, that starts to get into my throat, but it goes away when I flip to a picture of her holding a circus-sized waffle cone with dried chocolate ice cream under her eye. I don’t feel anything resembling sad. Or longing. Or gloom. In an attempt to find something to make me ache a little, I turn on the 3rd game of a 4 game series against the Indians. Giving up 6 runs on 8 hits in 3 and 1/3rd, Red Sox starter Matt Barnes is doing his all to help me out. But he gets out of his jam and the fog stays lifted. Brooke goes to bed and I sit around watching the Sox deflate, trying to process what did and didn’t happen during the day. I walk through some old photo albums trying one last time to flip an emotional switch. I watch an old soccer video on my phone, read a poem she wrote for Father’s Day when she was 14 and re-read some of my old journal entries from when we dropped her off at Newport City in the first grade. “She looks like an old lady” I said, “someone that has some store of knowledge that she doesn’t yet have access to. When I left her there, I felt something new buckle inside of me. I don’t know what it was necessarily but I both never want to feel it again and want to feel it, again, immediately. Weird.” Nothing much moves until I see a tweet come through from her right before I head up to bed. ‘Can’t believe how at home you can feel at a place that feels so little like home.’ I think about that. About her recognizing what things aren’t and what they are. About how relieved her relief makes me. And about how connected parent’s feelings are to those that our kids are experiencing. I go to bed happy and content and relieved and that convinces me a bit, that my girl is feeling something close to that as well.

When given the option to change or stand pat, it seems change is always the more difficult option. Standing pat is simple; you just stand around, do nothing, and pat. Change requires thought and done correctly, it requires that you weigh options, balance opinions and act only after you’ve considered the alternatives. Here in our corner of the world, we’re embracing change with leaps of faith while taking risks that are as well calculated as they are mandatory. In order to meet challenges such as spreading business over 12 months, cracking regional unemployment rates, turning seasonal employees into full timers, and building a future we all get to enjoy, you have to stick your neck out. Or at least that’s the way we feel about it. From the feedback we’ve received from every iteration of Raised Jayer, it seems that’s how the collective feels about it as well. Read about what author Mike Berard thinks of long-term alteration in his Nature of Change piece on pg.39 and weigh such insight against how things never seem to change sous bois in Leslie Anthony’s Deep. Woods. article on pg.6. The Wild, Wild East by Dean Seguin verbalizes how sometimes it takes commitment to a choice for the opportunity of change to present itself. Berard also gives us a front porch look at locals Jim Judd and Luke Hardy—both architects of a changing Jay Peak future in their own right. Writer Ian Reynolds shows us that contrary to cliché, it’s sometimes the younger generation that has its finger on what’s real and important in the article One. Love. In between these pieces are interesting sidebars, connected marginalia and small touches that will either endear you to us or push you away. Whichever the case, it was probably meant to be. We are extraordinarily excited about the upcoming season and hope you find plenty contained inside these pages to help prepare you and inspire you. Much has changed and more is coming. Our commitment, though, is that what we add has to feel like it should be here. Like it’s always been here. Hopefully our actions prove that we’ll try and do our best to change for the better and that above all, the more we change, the more we stay the same. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Same snow, same commitment to skier- and rider-focused service, and same belief that those Raised Jay look at life through a different lens. We look forward to seeing you Move Up this season.

Wouldn’t It Be Nice I have great hopes for myself when it comes to fathering. Even though my daughters are 13 and 9, and I have been in the employ of fatherhood for as many years, I often feel like I’m still in training-still waiting to turn from a frustrated, impatient, reactive, capital D Dad that people mostly, out of fear, listen to, to an understanding, compassionate, thoughtful, capital F Father who everyone loves and rallies around because of their essential wonderfulness. I have a feeling I may get there. If I do, I have my own father to thank for it. Although he doesn’t remember it as such, my father has always been the Father I have eyes on becoming. His memory is much sharper across those moments he felt he was overly sharp with us which I guess is how memories work but completely unfair to reality-at least how reality exists for me. My own memories are punctuated with examples of love, patience and understanding-so strong that a blueprint, however often I choose to look through it, is stamped on me. My father is convinced he punished us too severely. This from a man who’s highest level of condemnation was sentencing my 5 to 15 year old self to the Red Rug Room; a sunny stretch of floor and wall and window in our old home where, after tormenting my brother, sister or upsetting the family balance in one way or another, I was forced to read the Metro/Region section of The Boston Sunday Globe and listen to Gordon Lightfoot, The Beach Boys and Bill Cosby albums; a far cry from the switch, I assure you. My father remembers losing his temper, missing dinners, not ‘being there’ and being negative. I remember him standing, suited, at each of my high school baseball games, leaving work early 3 days a week to be each one. I remember him driving to Providence and Villanova and Seton Hall and St. Johns, Flying to Miami and Stanford and Texas to watch me play in college. I never really thought about what it took for him to be there or what he had to give up in the process. I just remember how important it was to see him in the stands, how infrequently I told him that and how slow I was to realize that it was really love, and not his gas efficient 1985 Chevette, that drove him there. I remember family dinners where, instead of screeching at me for refusing to eat beef burgundy and creamed corn, he waited me out. Sometimes for hours- giving me time to stuff my pockets with partially chewed meats and soupy corn. This also gave me time, on occasion, to sneak into the Red Rug Room so I could empty my pockets into Mom’s Belleek China where the booty would lay undiscovered for months. It wasn’t until much later, when my mother busted out the Beleek to impress her friends, that the decaying protein and kernel residue gave me away. While I must have been punished for this, I don’t remember my father suggesting I finish Beef Burgundy again. I don’t remember much in the way of negativity either. My Dad was the president of bank in and around the Boston area in the 80’s and 90’s and lost his job when the FDIC, fresh off a tear of bank closings resulting from excessive risk and insufficient restraint from supervisory authorities (sound familiar?), came in and, in odd celebratory fashion, chained him to his desk. These were tough times for the family and both I and my sister and new husband moved back home, for a time, to help meet the ends. My father, though emasculated, never let the dark set in. He was always upbeat, always appreciative, and always positive-at least in front of those that needed to see that side of him. Sometimes I really try and remember my Father being negative about something. I simply can’t. As he’s become a Grandfather, my Father continues to refine the blueprint. Whether he’s wedging his 6’4 frame into a 4 year olds desk to play school with my daughter, dancing with anyone possessing the courage to have him or introducing himself to women of all ages as, “Mr. Wright, you know, that guy your Mother said you’d always eventually meet.”, my father never misses an opportunity to show me, through action, how a family leader is supposed to act. With grace and patience and humility, never taking yourself too seriously, always being there, always listening and with the first notes of the Pet Sounds album always playing in the background.

On July 11th, 1999 the American League made quick, efficient work of the National League, 4-1, in Major League Baseball’s 70th Annual All Star Game. It was held at Fenway Park and while Pedro Martinez twirled a nearly flawless two innings, striking out five, it was Ted Williams arriving via golf cart from center field that I really remember. Despite being a prick of herculean levels to many, the guy could never do any wrong in my eyes. Beautiful swing, spoke his mind and only ever wanted to be ‘the greatest hitter who ever lived.’ His philosophy toward hitting was something I memorized and his approach toward nearly everything, at least that I knew of, was easy for me to buy into. “There’s only one way to hit or do anything really.” He used to say, “Just get mad. Go up to the plate and be mad at the ball, mad at the pitcher, Christ be mad at everything.” Sox brass trotted him out as part of the evening’s pomp and, after holding court at the Fenway mound for what seemed like an hour, it took several pleads from the Fens announcer Carl Beane to tear the biggest stars in the game away from him. Even after Beane’s begging, I remember Cal Ripken Jr and Nomar standing pat, shaking William’s hand with both of theirs, patting his shoulder and lingering several seconds longer than most. I remember the roar of the crowd and being surprised when he tipped his cap-an effort he refused as a player, never returning from the dugout to acknowledge the fans—even after ending his career with a home run on his final at bat; his 521st. As John Updike said in his famous accounting of the event in the autumn of 1960, “Gods don’t answer letters.” I thought after they’ve been a God for a while, maybe they sort of grew into it. I didn’t manage to see much more than the opening ceremonies and a few innings of the game. My wife and I had just returned home from the hospital with our new daughter, Dehlia, a few days prior and I had fallen asleep on our painful green futon with the struggling whir of an old window fan in the background. It was hot out but I nodded off easily with my wife and daughter in the other room sleeping dreamless sleep. I remember looking forward to the next morning’s Sportscenter to see how the ‘Knights of the Keyboard’, as Williams used to refer to media, portrayed him now that he was approaching, if not fuzzy, at least warm-status, in his later years. The phone rang around 3am and it was close to my head so I grabbed it immediately-without any time to think about the unlikeliness of good news. It was my friend Liz-at least that’s what the voice said. It took several seconds to come into myself and it was difficult to get a bead on what she was saying. “Steve, Tim is dead. He was killed tonight. Oh my God Steve, he’s dead. I’m so sorry, but he’s really dead.” Something like that at least. All I really remember about the call is hanging up. The fan still struggling. And the television already showing a game recap. I watched Pedro strike out Barry Larkin, Larry Walker and Sammy Sosa on 11 pitches before reality settled. My wife had woken up and was standing a few feet away in the shadow. I told her what I had heard and she put her hand over her mouth. Then I watched Pedro strike out McGwire to start the second before I stood up. Tim Maguire and I had been friends since Junior High School. In a standard group of friends he was anything but. He had interest-bearing IRA’s before any of us even paid for our own movie tickets. He was a ball breaker, and an instigator, a mixer-upper and indefatigably dependable. We belonged to a tight group of friends but even within that orbit, Tim and I connected across a different frequency. His ability to shoot-straight, even during that phase of friendship where it’s easy not to, drew me toward him. Our friendship wasn’t something that we ever really spoke openly about but we both respected and acknowledged the connection. We were lucky to have each other and we each knew it. Even after I had moved to Vermont 5 years prior, we’d speak every day and the space he occupied in my life expanded even as the time we spent together contracted. From what Liz told me, Tim had been killed by a drunk driver-someone that was good at it –as he 3 priors suggested. He was coming home from an apparently successful blind date and was stopped at a light. The driver broadsided him in his green, gas efficient, paid-for Saturn, and reports say he never saw it coming. I have convinced myself that his last thoughts were awesome ones. He was happy to have recently held his new God-daughter, the week prior in Vermont. Thrilled that he had completed what was probably a nervous evening. And excited to drive to his new apartment, where he lived alone in his peaceful quiet, and sleep and dream about playing football for Notre Dame or double digit 401k returns or maybe a second date. I know he was listening to AM sports talk radio-trying to collect enough game data to arm him for our morning call. He’d of suggested that Pedro didn’t deserve an MVP for two innings of work or that Donna Summer, despite being from Boston, didn’t deserve to sing the anthem. They say, while he wasn’t killed instantly, he never regained consciousness and was pronounced dead at the hospital in the first hours of the next day. Just about an hour before my phone rang, and a new line of before and after was drawn for me. After reality settled itself, I packed a few things, said goodbye to my wife, my 9 day old daughter and my mother-in-law (who had the good fortune of dealing with a new life, new parents and now, death), and headed south toward Boston. I wish I remembered the music I chose, the thoughts I had or maybe the color of the sunrise breaking as I crossed into northern Massachusetts. I wish I had more clarity of the memories I called upon or some recollection of the last words we shared, or something, anything, about that ride other than a stop at Chili’s in Lowell. I had been driving for 2 hours at that point-roughly an hour from the town of Lynn where Tim and I were brought up, when I pulled into the parking lot. The sun was just up and I remember feeling something new to me at the time—a real, hard sadness—it had moved in was starting to settle. Walking into the Holiday Inn, which abutted the Chili’s, I remember seeing a newspaper stand jammed with fresh Boston Globes. I stalled long enough to connect with the headlines. The latest in the Harry Potter series, The Prisoner of Azkaban, had just been released a few days prior. Someone had broken the 3:44 mile. Tropical Storm Beatiz was gaining intensity off of Mexico’s Pacific Coast and was expected to nudge hurricane status by the end of the day. On the front page, though, was a picture of Ted Williams talking to long time Sox hanger-on Johnny Pesky, seemingly oblivious to the bedlam around him. The supporting copy was, simply, “What a night.” I went into the bathroom and cried for 20 minutes. The 70th anniversary of MLB’s All Star get together was supposed to pay tribute to the game’s all-time greats and to bid farewell to the ‘old Fenway’ as a new ownership group was well underway with plans to relocate. This game had been scheduled for Milwaukee, but it was moved to Boston when the opening of the Brewers' new field was delayed. The Red Sox had been hoping to host an All-Star game at their own new ballpark, penciled in just across the street, but were so far back in the planning stages that they couldn't be sure when that would be. The plan was to give fans, and players, a chance to say hello and, for some, goodbye. The plan was to also announce MLB’s All-Century team-the top 100 players of all time and, for those still able, assemble inside the game’s oldest park. Williams was 3rd in the voting behind Babe Ruth and Lou Gerhig but was clearly the most revered among those in attendance. Prior to the first pitch, Williams and Pesky made their way, via golf cart, from the cavernous center field of Fenway, all the way to the pitcher’s mound. There, he was mobbed by the MLB elite; fawned over by player’s who idolized him, mimicked his swing and felt the need to pay their respects. He was in his element. Talking baseball, returning the idolatry (he loved Tony Gwynn) and soaking in the adoration as a past-player that he couldn’t or wouldn’t, as an active one. Despite the July heat, he was wearing khakis, a white baseball hat with The Ted Williams Card Company on it and a white t shirt with the word ‘Remember’ in blue. I got home and drove straight to Tim’s parents’ house and it was already a mob scene. The shock was still hanging off of everyone, but we did what we could to share stories and force smiles. I mostly listened. His Mom told me how much he loved me and his Dad hugged me for what seemed like the perfect amount of time. “You were always his guy Steve, always.” He said. Tim’s parents asked that I prepare and offer the eulogy and I did. I didn’t have enough time to write anything like what he deserved, but I talked about his dependability, his love for his friends and family and how some holes are bigger than anyone’s ability to fill. I told a story about my 29th birthday. In response to me taking him to Atlantic City for his, he got me a balloon ride. Up in Vermont. Just he and I and a bottle of champagne. I thought it was about the strangest thing anyone had ever done for me-amplified only by the image of two heterosexual males drinking champagne and eating strawberries, which I hate, in a yellow balloon over the hills of southern Vermont. “I didn’t know what the hell to do for you—it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fuck you.” Was his response after I busted his balls about it. “I love you my man.” I said. He said fuck you again in response. We put him in the ground quickly, went and ate sandwiches and drank coffee, and then I drove home. I thought about Tim and the things he wouldn’t become. A husband, a father, a grandfather; he would forever be a son, a brother, a best friend. I thought I was dry until a recap of the game came across the radio. Williams said something to the effect of “That night was absolute magic, it was beautiful. I wouldn’t have changed a thing, not a single thing.” It was the only disagreement Williams and I ever had.

Our approaching Disney vacation meant three things. Our dilapidated roof was going to have to tough it out another winter. My wife and I, after beginning the process of packing with good intentions, would be gnashing at each other like dogs by the time we were through. And my daughter, who possesses an almost professional understanding of Cinderella, would realize a 3-year dream of eating buffet food with the good Princess. She had once seen a cheery brochure showing Cinderella kissing a boy on the cheek in front of what appeared to be an omelet station that had piqued her curiosity. “You can eat with Cinderella?” I remember her asking, “Does she eat Mac and Cheese?” Come to find out, Cinderella eats the living hell out of Mac and Cheese. We were told to make dinner reservations well in advance of our trip and, while we thought 3 months covered the ‘well-in-advance’ part, we ended up getting ‘shut out of the castle’ as insiders would tell us, and had to settle for a banquet room inside the well-meaning Grand Floridian Hotel. The ‘Castle’ dinner was a sit-down affair located inside the Magic Kingdom and was reserved for families that had made reservations 18 months in advance. Stories told of marbled floors, exquisite food, impeccable service and attentive characters that fawned over wide-eyed kids and signed autographs until their fingers, and in some cases paws, cramped. Our experience would be, in a word, different. After an hour-long process of fitting my daughter into her costume-complete with the requisite blue dress, elbow-long white gloves, black throat-choker, tiara and ill-fitted slippers, we stopped at the Hotel reservation desk exactly 15 minutes before our scheduled reservation. Our hostess told us we could wait in a short line to get Fairy Godmother’s autograph while they prepared our table. Godmother was a meaty Chinese woman in her 60’s that didn’t omit any sort of fairy charm. She seemed a little angry to me and, as she passed by me on the way to her ‘break’ I wondered to myself what the Godmother at the Varsity dinner was like and whether or not she smelled like hot dogs the way that ours did. Dehlia, who had been a bundle of overstimulation all week, was quiet and reserved and ignored the lady altogether. She was staring inside the banquet room with her hands folded, her eyes wide and her lips pursed. She kept her eyes on Cinderella and watched her move from table to table. I called her name a few times but she couldn’t blink, much less answer me. She wanted to say something, she just wasn’t sure what. Our waitress quickly shuffled us to the farthest corner of the room, past a Stepford army of miniature princesses. The room was packed with 4-8 year old girls-all of them dressed in varying combinations of Princessery. Some sported crowns. Some violently shook magic wands. And others simply sat up in their Cinderella strollers and screamed. All of them, it appeared, were exhausted from Park hopping and appeared to be in the throes of turning back into pumpkins. The intent of the Character dinner was simple. Two mice, Godmother, Prince Charming and Cinderella herself would rotate throughout the entire room, stopping at each table for autographs, pictures and, at least in Cinderella’s case, anything buttered or fried. While waiting for characters to land, families visited the buffet lines—an adult version-complete with bloody-red prime rib, steaming whitefish and some sort of off-green vegetable buried in something white. If there’s a Hell, and they eat dinner there, this is what’ll be on my plate. For the kids.

I want to be nocturnal; like a bat or a giraffe (the image of a pair of eyes in the dark, blinking once, then a light being turned on showing it’s a giraffe, may be funny) I won’t ever kill a lady bug (maybe a small child looking at an enormous lady bug who’s rapping a rolling pin in one of its hands would be funny) I want it to always be winter and always be summer I won’t ever eat my steak medium again (a kid sticks a fork in the backside of a live cow-cow raises its eyebrows) I want to be a Unimaid (Half unicorn and half mermaid) I want to live at the top of Jay Peak with my llama I’m going to drink wine every day-sometimes by myself. I will only golf if I can use colored balls I’ll always get green (?) I will watch The Walking Dead all day and probably not get scared I will always eat more than one scoop of ice cream. I will be the boss of me. When I’m big I will read big books.  And I will write long books. I will learn things.  I will invent things. I will say a lot of things I will be better at peeing in the woods. I will be a snowboard instructor I will be a princess that doesn’t care about princes. When I throw snowballs at my sisters heads, I will never miss. I won’t be scared to jump from the highest ledge. I still won’t drink Orange Juice with pulp in it. I will be in charge of the grill. I will loan my parent’s money if they need it.  They don’t even need to pay it back, you know, right away. I will expect a lot from myself. I won’t cut people in line unless I have to.  (Thought about powder day/lift line possibilities here) I will always get the last slice. I will share stuff.  Even stuff I like. I will go barefoot in the summer, everywhere I go, as long as I can wear sandals. In the winter, I will ride other places then Jay Peak, as long as they take pictures of me and give me lunch I will never forget my season pass again.  Although I probably still will I’ll probably marry Bill Stenger.  He’ll probably be really old, but nice. I will care more about snow storms than my homework I will like snow days more than beach days although beach days are better than rainy days and rainy days are better than no days. If someone falls down in Moonwalk Woods, even if they aren’t crying, I’ll make sure they’re ok I will still like snowboarding better than skiing, and skiing better than bowling and bowling better than nothing. I will eat ribs a lot and probably wipe my face on my shirt, but not if my mom is watching. I won’t catch butterflies in a net because people don’t do that. I won’t lay in a hammock because they aren’t that comfortable is you ask me plus when you fall out you could get a commission (she meant to say concussion) I will put sunblock on because it helps prevent cancer and makes you smell like you had a bath even if you haven’t for like 9 days. I will eat outside even if there are ants and grasshoppers and dirt I will play golf if I can drive the cart and not play golf.

We’ve always been a little more nuts than bolts with a few loose screws (or, possibly, just tools in general).  Too much fresh air and altitude over the years may be to blame, who knows.  Thankfully, it appears many of our guests (or those that would have us believe they’re so) are in the same rudderless boat.  The affinity toward social media extends past posting, tweeting and hashtagging.  There’s something more primal about offering people your thoughts and then being acknowledged for them.  Lucky for you, we listen and acknowledge.  Unfortunately, for you, we listen and acknowledge. If you stay, ski, ride, eat, etc, you may be hearing from us and, when you respond, you may win things.  Regardless, we appreciate your thoughts.  Even the crazy ones.  Especially the crazy ones actually.

Steve Wright talks to Jay Peak’s new Executive Chef about food, the depths we’ll travel to in the name of love, and frozen Fava Beans. Joey Buttendorf Dossier 3p.  Steve’s office. Eating popcorn.

The Jay Way is an uncommon take It’s easy to follow but tougher to fake It’s seniors and juniors and never before's It’s powder and puddles and not keeping score Just do what you say, then say what you do Your friends might not get it, but that’s ok too (You’re much better looking and much smarter too) It’s here when you’re ready, this ground you can walk It doesn’t take luggage, but pack some good socks Because when it’s all said, it still isn’t done You’ll meet uncommon people and have uncommon fun It’ll unfold before you this season, this day Maybe you’ll join us, it’s this way to Jay.

Wise men say, only fools rush in. Senior year has been less than it was marketed to be and getting to the finish line, a line separating yesterday from tomorrow, was a feat onto itself. I am alone in a condo writing this and forecasting what that day will be like. Waking up here and you, there. I can already feel the result of pride running up my arms and goose-bumping them the way Eyes of the World does (to both of us). What you’ve overcome to get here. The things you’ve said yes to, what you’ve said no to, and what you’ve pressed pause on. From the day you were born, you’ve been resilient. You had a gear available to you that you didn’t quite know how to access yet. But you have. This year, you’ve shifted into it. Juggling senior year issues and breaking parents and the weight that comes when things get heavy. I knew you were resilient for sure, but I didn’t know the extent of it. I do now. You, standing here at both a finish line and a starting gate, I wonder how you’ve survived it, and I can’t help but wonder if, given similar circumstances, I would of. And that’s what you hope for as a parent; that all the love and effort and sacrifice you put into raising your kids, raises them up and past anything you could have accomplished yourself. That’s what I’m thinking about here as I write this. Where you are against where you started and how many steps existed between there and here. Shall I Stay, Would it be a Sin? You are 4. Possibly 5. The age is less important than the reality that you’re too young to be doing what you’re doing. And I’m videoing it. On an ancient JVC-180 camcorder that weighed as much as a toaster oven and had similar output quality. You would always turn on when it was turned on, but this was unique even for you. You had acquired the phrase, ‘I’m thinking Up, I’m thinking down’ from some teen Disney movie, or inappropriate Cartoon Network slop or some interaction with a classmate and future Newport City felon. Regardless, you were singing it over and over (and over and over) again into a battery-less plastic microphone and growing more sincere with each stanza. The pace of your phrasing continued to quicken until you caught yourself and noticed the crowd of family members that had assembled to quietly take in your performance. Rather than let the shyness overtake you, you drop into a slow, very deliberate ‘I’m thinking down sometimes, sometimes…”, end the show and immediately ask to see the footage. I had yet to put together that this was your essence. Performing. Adjusting. Recalibrating. And Reviewing. This approach to life would come to serve you. You just didn’t know it yet. I remember looking at the video myself wondering where this kid came from. But also feeling very sure about where you might go. Like a River Flows, Surely to the Sea. We are in the pit at Gillette Stadium. You are wearing a yellow-flowered sundress with pink pansies and a flower crown you bought in the parking lot. Your hair is curled. Your makeup is there but just enough to make someone wonder if it’s perfect skin. We are 15’ away from the stage, with your sister and associated group of friends, close enough to see the deep lines in Bob Weir’s face, but I can’t take my eyes off of you. You light up when you realize, after a few seconds, that the first notes of Eyes of the World are landing. And you scream once the song settles in. You’re moving to the music in a way that is not normal for someone your age and with so few songs under your tour belt. But it is the result of more than a decade of dancing and discipline and practice. And while I’m sure I was listening to the music, all I can remember is thinking about how gracefully you moved, how you knew exactly where to bend and dip-even with your eyes completely closed- and how your smile would build from the corners of your mouth, slowly, and spread across your face. The way it always does when you realize that the moment you were in, was one worth savoring. I took your lead and closed my own eyes and thought about all of my good fortunes and how every single one of them took a back seat to this one. Darling, so it Goes-Some Things Are Meant to be. You’re dancing again. This time at Olivia’s wedding. And this time you’ve drained a combination of Courvoisier, several glasses of wine, an assemblage of High Noon’s and, to your definition, ‘Something red and peppery, and disgusting.’ But no one can keep up with you. Not your family. Not your friends in attendance. Not the twenty-somethings contorting themselves to keep pace. I pull you aside and tell you what I’ve always told you. That if all these dance lessons did nothing more than make you a beast at weddings, it was worth it. You laugh it off and head back onto the floor and a small circle has widened and folks take turns dropping into your orbit until they burn up and beg off. I am on the periphery, taking it all in having no interest in even trying to keep up. I am watching you command the floor, the room, without you having much of an idea about what you’re doing. I swallow down the lump forming in my throat that visits anytime a mix of emotion and love and daughter come together. I think about your own wedding. What it might look like. Knowing that Elvis will be playing, and I am projecting forward to what I might say in front of a room. Trying to parse all of the love I have for you into some small consumable bite. I think about how impossible that will be and I’m lost for a minute. 2 Be Loved by Lizzo ends and you walk back over to me, sweating, and put your arm around me and ask me where I am. I mention that I’m right here and you say ‘No you’re not Dad, but I love you’ and I think, for a minute, about writing that down. I don’t, realizing there’s little chance I’d ever forget it. Take My hand, Take My Whole Life Too. You’ve been working on this one with Kaleb for a while. Your duet. You’re only 14 but carry yourself, longer and cooler than that. You’re performing to the Hollies, Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress and are about to be thrown into the air, multiple times, across the 2:30 performance. You are nervous but you have your version of a game-face bolted on. I’m standing alone at the front of the North Country Auditorium, within a few feet of the stage after being asked to not stand and not be within a few feet of the stage. You are wearing a short black dress; black patent leather dance shoes and your hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a black ribbon. For the first few minutes you and Kaleb interact with each other, he is pursuing you, the Long Cool Woman, while you duck and dive away from him in an attempt to create a certain amount of tension between pursuer and pursuee. He finally catches you and, following script, throws you into the air across what seems an impossible distance. Your form is flawless and when you stick the landing, and at the height of the Hollies singing, ‘That Long Cool Woman Had it all. Had it All.’ you strut off-stage looking back at the pursuer with a smirk that takes the air out of the room. I’m happy the crowd is going crazy, both for your own ego, but so that no one notices the puddle I’ve been reduced to. I’m feeling something more than pride, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. You come out from backstage and high five me but you keep sauntering past and I wonder, not for the first time, where you came from. For I Can’t Help, Falling in Love With You. It is your first day at United Christian Academy. You are about to turn 9. You started a few years prior at Newport City but after a series of startling events, not the least of which was being named ‘person in charge of calling the principal if any of the students flip over a desk and attack the teacher’, we decide to initiate a move for you. As with punches before, you roll with these and are happy to don a uniform made up of a green plaid skirt, white blouse, and polished black shoes. We park the car; I remind you to grab your lunch and ask if you’re nervous. ‘I’m not sure’ I remember you saying which suggested to me you both were and were not. You’re holding my hand and I can’t delineate where your sweat ends and mine begins. We walk up a flight of stairs and then another and someone holds the door open for us and someone that I no longer remember asks, ‘Are you Maeve’ You say ‘Yeah’ and we keep walking past her into the front foyer. I make the assumption you’re too old, or too nervous or too not nervous to kiss goodbye so I tell you to have a great day and that I can’t wait to talk to you after you’re done from school and to remember to eat your grapes because they’re green and firm just how you like them. I spit all of this out as quickly as possible because a bell rings and it’s a Christian school and I feel like an interloper. I spin to leave, and you ask me if I’m forgetting something and then take full two strides to me, throw your arms around my neck, kiss me and say, ‘I Love you Dad.’ You turn, dip around a corner and you’re gone. I walk back through the front door, down the steps, past more skirts and pleated pants and white blouses and into my car. I toggle to Elvis’ I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You on Spotify, a song you’ve already identified, at 7 years old, as being your wedding song and realize that falling deeper in love, at least with your daughter, is beyond anyone’s help, even the King’s.

Long before the notion of gaming went from verb to noun, and even before either dungeons or dragons came forward to introduce fantasy wargames to a set that had been previously stuffed into lockers (and who, now, are busy running corporations), playing games, playing in general, was pretty simple. A favorite of mine, along with my semi-willing brother, were rock fights. Simple. I counted to three, by brother would sprint away in the other direction, and I would throw rocks at him. Not so much rock fights as it was, rock dodging or target practice—perspective depending. We’d also build forts out of forlorn furniture boxes, arm ourselves with a season’s worth of acorns and do battle until well after the street lights blinked on. While it remains unclear as to what drove our interest in physical, however tactical, violence, the formula of fun was as plain as it was simple; fair weather + willing participants + pretty much anything we could get our hands on = game on. It’s not that we don’t all want a return to the simple, carefree days of throwing actual rocks at each other, it’s that the notion of games has turned from real to virtual and, in the process, gaming has lost its, er, sharp edge. At the very least, this is where we, Jay Peak, can bridge the metaphorical gap. Home to the very real. Mountains and rivers and grass and wind and ice. While giving nod to the slightly unreal, indoor waterparks with sliding glass roof systems, candied bacon, climbing walls, swimming pools and amphitheaters. We have secure footings in each camp-real and unreal-and it’s from that point-of-vantage we present this year’s Jay Peak Summer Magazine. Our breathtaking and award-raking Jay Peak Championship Golf Course comes to life through the eyes of the smallish in Putt, Putt Goose (pg 8) while more indoor, and slightly slicker, pursuits are chased after in Stick Tricks (pg 12). If you’re game for a birthday party, we provide the perfect backdrop (says Ariel Toohey) in Pumped Up Party (pg 17). And if you’re still left climbing the walls, check out Erector Set (page 31) to see how you’ll get up, then get down, when winter drops next season. In between we tell you how to plan, what to eat, what to wear and, how to identify those in the know. They’re generally the ones climbing walls, or walking fairways, running trails or icing pucks. If you check, they probably also have rocks in their pockets.

Before Gluskab of the Abenaki made the world safe for humans, the Monts–mountain-like children of the creator and Gaia–walked and talked like men. Despite being mystical children of ancient spirits, I reckon they got lonely like men, too–because, they got together often to play a game called Ranges. Standing hand-in-hand, teams competed in casting the biggest shadows. Yes, it was painfully boring, but hockey wouldn’t be invented for millennia and they didn’t have cable–so it was popular. So popular that its inventors, Birki and his brother Jaya, were rewarded a kingdom to share. The Great Coronation Confrontation Monts from everywhere came for the brothers’ coronation. A Ranges tournament was to be held, followed by a feast of fresh Catamount (no stir fry jokes, it’s an important plot point). Now, as is often the case when bands of ancient, elemental creatures get together–you know how it is–they had too much wine and a dispute broke out about Ranges official rules. Himy (the tallest Mont) argued that biggest shadow meant highest, while Andy’s team (from far south) argued it meant longest. For an official ruling, they took it to the game’s inventors, the soon-to-be brother kings. Jaya, being taller, confidently answered “higher”, just as his older brother answered “longer.” A mildly embarrassing contradiction, that started a calm discussion as each pointed out how the other had misunderstood a fairly obvious rule. A discussion that quickly escalated, because if one thing’s true of Monts, it’s that you can’t move them. You can go over, around–even through them–but you’ll never move them. So neither brother would budge from his position. And the argument raged on until most of the guests, bored, went home to wait on the official ruling. And the coronation was put on hold. The Cat’s Divide Now the wise–many say handsome–Catamount, saw a way off the menu and spoke. “You Monts aren’t aware, but I am a master of gamesmanship.” Which was true. “Let’s settle this with a King Contest. Both of you create a crown. One will, undoubtedly, be more magnificent and its wearer will be king and decide the rules. If, somehow, you can’t agree on a winning crown, I volunteer to judge. With no dog in this fight, I’m impartial.” An odd choice of words, since dogs hadn’t been created yet, but the rest made sense. So they went with it. The brothers stormed off to create their thrown-winning crowns. But as Birki walked, he cooled off. Being right about a stupid game wasn’t worth losing his brother. Why not play with two sets of rules? Set up two leagues? And then, at the end of a season, the champions of both leagues could square off in a seven-game series. Alternating rules. No one could ever argue with that, could they? Just call it the Gaia Series. Problem solved. And it would have been, had his path back not taken him past the clever–dare we say brilliant–Catamount. After hearing Birki’s plan, the Catamount shook his nearly perfect head while crafting another ingenious way out of being dinner. “Birki,” he said, “Your brother’s name, Jaya, means victory. Yours means birch wood. The younger Monts are naïve and think winning is his birthright. Those young, green Monts will line up behind Jaya. So if you bring up this idea, they’re gonna laugh. You have to take victory and make it a part of you. It’s the only way.” With that, a dejected Birki fled to the edge of the kingdom to think and the handsome Catamount lived another day. A Clash of Crowns The Day of Crowns came. Jaya presented first. Taller, he could just reach the clouds and had pulled one from the sky, covering it with white crystals that fell down his back. The Monts cheered, unknowingly supporting the Catamount’s clever ruse. You can’t blame them, he had a cloud resting on his head, it’s impressive. An angry Birki then presented a crown made of every tree in the forest, vast and beautiful. But before any could react, he put it on and yelled, “This forest is my crown, it is called Victory. And no Mont can take Victory from me.” Now Jaya, too was enraged. And a scuffle broke out that threatened to destroy the whole kingdom, until the voice of the Catamount–silky might describe it best–calmed them. “Fellas, you agreed that if you couldn’t pick a winner, I would be The Judge. Now, I’m surprised at anyone, but this appears to be the case. It will be hard, both are beautiful, but I will bear the burden. Perhaps if you untie me and I can walk a bit, the decision will come easier.” Blinded by the need to win, the brothers let their coronation feast stroll off. “I’ll go North,” the charming Catamount said over his shoulder. “You two wait, here.” and disappeared. The brothers, still angry, went to opposite sides of the Kingdom. Birki to the East, sat with Victory forest at his side. Jaya to the west with the Green Monts, frightened of Birki, falling in behind him. There they sat. Too stubborn and proud to speak to one another, time turned them both to stone. Forever apart, the story of the Monts–mountains as people call them was forgotten and only their names remained. And the Catamount was never seen in the Kingdom again. Fast Forward. In the summer of 2012 a business decision was made that would reunite these mythical brothers. It was business. Prompted by a phone call. Or that’s what they would have you believe. But maybe, just maybe, softened by age or guilt the Catamount whispered to two boys in their dreams–a spirit guide of sorts–and shaped the course of their lives. Boys who, maybe, grew up to be respected men–business owners, financial partners. The kind of men who don’t talk of spirit cats guiding decisions–well, not without being considered even crazier, at least. Who would believe them? How could anyone? This is the real world, right? Men aren’t guided to right ancient wrongs. Even if it was true, they could never tell. And what of the charismatic, clever Catamount, the Judge? Well, I’m not talking either.