Lost But Not Forgotten: Growing up on King Ridge
Nov 18, 2022 01:10PM ● By Susan Nye - Photography Courtesy of the Laurids Lauriden Ski School
Spend
any time traveling the highways and byways of New England and you’re
bound to spot one or a dozen lost ski areas. Located in quiet, rural
areas, most had a lift, maybe two, possibly a warming hut but more
likely an outdoor firepit and not much more. Size didn’t matter. At
least during the long winter, they were the heart and soul of the
surrounding towns.
Often
run on a shoestring and without snowmaking, a few bad winters could put
these hills out of business. All these years later, bankrupt and
abandoned or transformed into housing developments, the faint outlines
of old trails are all that remain. That and many wonderful memories of
growing up on skis.
The Good Old Days
I
grew up on one of those lost ski hills. Between the gentle trails and
the ski school, King Ridge was a great place to learn to ski. Perfect
for families, the trails, lift lines, and lodge were jammed with moms
and dads and kids. You could always find a friend to ski with and, if
your own weren’t around, someone else’s mom or dad would do their best
to keep you from misbehaving.
Okay,
maybe it was the times, the good old days, but King Ridge was one of
those places where parents dropped off their kids at 8:30 or 9 in the
morning and picked them up six or seven hours later. If you had an
emergency—like it was 10 below zero, it started to rain, or your brother
broke his leg—and needed an earlier pickup, no problem. You didn’t even
need a dime to call home. You simply called your number. When your mom
answered, the operator told you to deposit 10 cents. Instead of dropping
a dime, you quickly shouted, “Come get us! It’s too [icy, cold, or
whatever excuse]” and hoped she’d come.
A Happy Accident
Our
King Ridge adventure started one sunny Saturday morning. Driving up
from the Boston suburbs, Dad missed the turn to Pat’s Peak and we
discovered King Ridge. Accident turned into coincidence when we bumped
into some neighbors at lunchtime. While my sister Brenda and I continued
skiing, Dad joined our friends on the deck of their ski house for lunch
and a bloody Mary. One thing led to another and 11 months later, we had
our own little vacation house in the woods near Pleasant Lake. Even
better, we were the proud owners of season passes to King Ridge.
As
far as Brenda and I were concerned, we’d hit the big time. Up until
then, we’d been skiing in an apple orchard somewhere in central
Massachusetts. Dad was our instructor and the ride up the hill was on a
rope spun around the wheel of an ancient Ford. With loads of other
beginners, dozens of apple trees, and old stone walls, skiing down was
an obstacle course. There was no real lodge, just a barely heated
farmstand that sold apples and lukewarm cocoa.
King
Ridge, on the other hand, had the Laurid Lauridson Ski School, about a
dozen trails, a couple of T-bars, and at least one dreaded rope tow.
Luckily, our rapidly improving skills kept us off the beginners’ slope
and away from the rope tow. Unlike the no-name trails at the apple
orchard, the runs were named after the colorful cast of characters from Alice in Wonderland.
The
resort also had a real lodge. While we mostly brown-bagged it, on a few
lucky occasions we splurged on lunch. A definite treat, even if the
lady behind the counter complained loudly about the out-of-towners while
she flipped burgers and rattled the French-fry basket.
Let the Fun Begin
Now,
all those upgrades didn’t come cheap. As long as we bought before Labor
Day, a season pass for our family of five (Mom and my little brother
took up skiing once we built the little house in the woods) was just
over $100.
Every
morning as we backed out of the driveway, Mom or Dad would insist we
show proof that we had our hats, gloves, goggles, and ski pass. If you
forgot any of the first three, you could rummage through the lost and
found and, hopefully, find something to keep your fingers and/or ears
from freezing. If you forgot our pass, well, that was another story. For
that, you had to go to the office and see Mrs. Badmington. If you
thought a trip to the principal’s office was bad, it was nothing
compared to Mrs. Badmington’s third degree.
King
Ridge was the perfect place to learn to ski. The short, gentle runs
were groomed to perfection. Dad used to joke that between Monday and
Friday the crew shoveled snow out of the woods and onto the trails. They
probably did. But, pre-snowmaking, the season was short. That meant
that no matter how cold it was, if there was snow, we went skiing. No
questions, no arguments. A thrifty Yankee, Dad expected us get our
money’s worth out of those passes. (Mom was more of a softy on that
score. She didn’t like the cold.)
Changing Times and Fond Memories
From
our first ski on that sunny Saturday morning, King Ridge steadily
expanded, adding trails, lifts, and eventually snowmaking. Even with
snowmaking, intermittent snow droughts have ensured that skiing is and
always will be a tough industry in New England, especially for small
mountains with limited elevation and terrain. By the mid-nineties, King
Ridge had 20 trails and seven lifts, including three chairlifts and not a
single rope tow. It also had accumulated significant debt.
King Ridge [10 Images]
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