Sugarloaf, A Love Story

Hello and welcome to Kate’s Holiday Letter 2024! 

Some of you may be new to this format, though I know many of you have received my letters in the past. If you like my holiday stories, be sure to let me know and you will keep receiving them. I do enjoy my one opportunity a year to share my writing and experiences with you guys. This year, I’m excited to share something very special with you.

As many of you are aware, this is the time of year when my family becomes basically unavailable because we are skiing almost every weekend. For us, ski season is the most beloved time of year. It’s a time when we clear our calendars of social obligations and devote ourselves to the worship of snow. 

However, perhaps you do not understand our love of this cold, expensive, intense activity - and that is the impetus behind this year’s story. I want you to catch a glimpse of what it’s like for us, and in doing so, you will understand more of what it means to be a Sydney/Cook.

Our story begins when Ryan and I met.

As you probably know, Ryan and I met at a ski shop. He was the handsome manager and I was a tall blonde in need of a new pair of skis. At that time in my life, I had made a conscious decision that I wanted to date a skier. I’d just broken up with yet another business-school-type and was feeling horribly discouraged. I’d been skiing in New Hampshire that winter with friends and was starting to observe the “ski bros” in line around me, realizing that perhaps that’s where I should put my focus. These ski bros represented something different and exciting, and I was drawn to them - swarthy under their helmets, whooping from the chairlifts, loudly discussing après ski parties with beers and bands and fire pits. I decided I wanted these things in my life. 

When Ryan and I met that day at the ski shop, the chemistry was instant and obvious. He was the epitome of my type with his dark hair and mischievous eyes and amazing smile and accompanying confidence-bordering-on-cockiness. I listened to him rapturously as he pulled skis off the ski wall, using terminology such as “camber” and “turning radius” and “rocker”. Ryan’s take on this encounter was that he was equally as attracted to me, that I talked a good game and could flex a ski boot, but that he was not entirely convinced that my skiing lived up to my hype. And because of this, after dating only two weeks, we decided that we needed to go skiing together.

We were both ready to really invest in a real relationship, but neither of us could do this if the other couldn’t keep up on the slopes. I had dated men before who had told me they could ski or they could learn to ski, and watching them struggle was a horrible turn-off. He had dated women before who had claimed the same, and then his ski days had been ruined as he turned from date into ski instructor. It seems most people talk a big game about their ski skills, but very few really follow through.

So, one cold Friday night in late March, 2011, Ryan picked me up in his blue Nissan Murano, carefully placed my white and purple Volkl Kenjas in the back (the skis he had recommended I buy only a few weeks prior), and we made our first drive up to Sugarloaf mountain in Maine.

I had actually never been skiing at Sugarloaf. My family tended to stick with mountains that were within the three-hour driving range. Sugarloaf was at least a four-hour drive and I was nervous. I told all of my girlfriends where I was going and where I was staying and insisted that if they didn’t hear from me, they should alert the authorities. I had really only gone on about three dates with Ryan at that point. He was still labeled as “Ryan Ski Shop” on my phone and I couldn’t be absolutely sure he wasn’t a very cute axe murderer.

I don’t remember what we talked about on that first ride to Sugarloaf. I do remember our first day skiing together though - how great he was and how he fell spectacularly on a jump while showing off. 

There is nothing in the world that’s like being outside and up on a mountain in the winter, especially when there is good snow. What Ryan and I learned about each other that trip was that we both share this love in equal measure. We love tree branches covered in puffs of white or encased by glittering ice. We love the intense, cold blue of a cloudless day just as much as the eerie silence of a snow squall at dusk on the last run of the day. We love the sound of snow crunching under boots and the feeling of strength and momentum and perfection and cold gulps of breath after a challenging, perfect run.

We drove home that first ski weekend as a couple, and neither of us has looked back since.

Actual photo of Kate and Ryan on first ski date at Sugarloaf, 2011

When Ryan and I got married and decided to have children, we knew that we would usher our children into this ski world with us. It has been an incredible labor of love, as you can probably imagine. 

Last year, the the kids turned a corner and now both can ski with us all over the mountain. Ryan and I agree that there is little that we have experience in life thus far that can measure up to the happiness we feel when we ski with our kids.

And so now, I shall take you to the present day, and share with you a typical ski weekend for the Cook/Sydney Family.

It is a Friday in January, and I’m working from home. 

The kids are at school, Ryan is at the ski shop, and the house is lovely and silent and cozy and it’s time for me to put down my computer and pack us up for our ski weekend. 

I experience a fair amount of pride in my level of organization about our ski trips - just the way I feel a deep sense of satisfaction in any project that requires organization. My ski weekend packing is an art that I have refined over many years with the ultimate goal of bringing nothing along that is not absolutely necessary. This has resulted in a maximum of seven bags to be packed in the car: The “Technology Bag”, the “Laundry Bag”, the “Grocery Bag” and of course each of our four boot bags.

Whereas I am in charge of packing clothes and technology, Ryan is in charge of ski weekend food planning. He often goes to Wegmans on a Thursday night to buy us a loaf of bread, sandwich meats, cheeses, chips, avocados, special drinks, peanut butter m&ms, granola bars and other snacks. We have learned that Ryan’s sandwiches are 500% better than any food we could ever buy in a ski lodge. Also, one of his wedding vows to me was that he would always make me sandwiches, and he has pretty much followed through.

Packing everything has actually become quite a simple task, given my finely tuned plan. Ryan gets our gigantic Thule box out of the shed and fastens it to our Honda Pilot, which Sebastian has aptly named “Ripjaws”. Ryan quizzes me about what pair of skis I’d like to bring, which all depends on the snow conditions at the mountain. Sometimes I have a hard time picking, and I make him pack two pairs. Ryan has given me a new pair of skis or boots every year we have been together, and so I have amassed quite a collection. Having more than one pair of skis pre-Ryan would have been unheard of, sort of like being a single person and owning two cars. But since Ryan is in the ski industry, he has introduced me to a whole new world of gear, and now I am spoiled. Plus, I think Ryan likes the idea of his lady having lots of pairs of skis.

He carefully packs four to six pairs of skis, four sets of poles, and four boot bags. He carries the laundry and technology and grocery bags down the stairs and tucks them into the trunk. I can see him from Sydney’s bedroom window, as I walk around the apartment, prepping for the cat sitter and turning off lights and locking doors. Ryan and I are unbelievably efficient as a team. I like this about us.

It is 3PM and the sun is low in the sky. The temperature outside is cold, but not frigid, and it smells just right because there’s a snowstorm coming tonight. As per usual, I am feeling some anxiety about our three hour drive to Wilton, Maine, where we stay in The Comfort Inn.  I don’t love driving in the snow, which is not to say I’m not good at it, but does give me anxiety. Ryan and I have a solid arrangement which is that he will do all of the driving if there is any inclement weather. I am grateful for my manly, snow-driving man and Ripjaws' all-wheel drive. 

Before we get on the highway, though, we have to go pick up the kids at school. Always, they are freaking out with excitement about the ski trip. They come running out of the school and tumble into the back seat, shedding jackets and backpacks. I make them wear their ski jackets and hats on Fridays so that we have zero extra jackets and hats to keep track of over the weekend. You see, I am very efficient.

The kids are excited to ski, but they are mostly excited because they get to watch iPads in the car. While the kids are back there, headphones on, eyes trained on the screen, it’s like Ryan and I are alone in the car together. We start to talk about our work weeks, the kids, skiing, our families, politics, religion, our marriage and each other. In the months of January through March, Ryan I spend more time talking to each other than I think we do at any other time of the year. I have grown to love these long drives with him because it affords us time to simply talk to each other. I actually find it quite romantic.

Tonight, though, I am quiet because of the snowstorm. The driving isn’t fun. Ryan’s eyes are laser focused on the road. My job is to make sure the playlist meets his expectations, and I play loud house music to help him concentrate.

And so we continue north, eventually exiting 95N and heading up into the darkness of Maine’s state highways. We drive through Lewiston, Maine, and Ryan asks if I want to stop at the Denny’s and I make a face. We pass a Dollar Store and Ryan puts on his Maine accent and says, “OH HEY THEAH MARTHA! IT’S THE DOLLA GENERAL, BUB!”

Finally, finally we get there. The glowing orange Comfort Inn sign appears around the bend. It’s about 8 o’clock and the snow is still falling. The air up here is FAR colder than down in Newton. It’s hard to be outside without a coat on. Ryan grabs the luggage cart and loads up our stuff while I check us in. We always do it this way. We don’t even have to talk about it. 

Once in our little room, we do the same thing each time - moving the little dining table and chairs to the side, arranging the cot for Sebastian up against the wall, unfolding the sleepaway sofa for Syd and then making both beds up for the kids. I tell the kids to unpack their clothes into their drawers, which they do. I take their ski outfits for the next day and arrange them on chairs so that they can hop out of bed the next morning and get dressed without having to look for anything. I unpack my stuff. I set up the Firestick so Ryan and I can watch a movie. Ryan unpacks our food. The kids take showers and get into bed. Suddenly, all is quiet and Ryan is fast asleep in our bed, his beautiful hands next to the pillow. He’s exhausted from that drive, and I love him so much for the effort he’s just put forth in getting us safely here. No movie tonight. It’s time for bed.

Six AM comes quickly. 

The kids are already awake, having jumped eagerly up to don all their ski gear and head downstairs for breakfast. I go to the window and draw back the curtain. There it is - our miracle - ten inches of fresh snow coats the silent world outside, and it’s still falling. 

Being up in Maine makes me so happy. Many of my friends and family have woofed when I tell them that my family goes to Sugarloaf almost every weekend. We are lucky that we’ve come up with this plan that gets us to our hotel in three and a half hours and we save the last forty minutes or so for the morning. But it’s worth it to come so far north. At home, our last six snow seasons have been pitiful. I sincerely miss the snow falling and sticking, instead of falling and washing away to brown. In Maine, it’s still properly winter and doesn’t feel as touched by climate change.

Breakfast for Sebastian is Coco Puffs, a waffle, a danish and a muffin. Breakfast for Ryan is a whole bunch of powdered eggs and sausages. Breakfast for Sydney and me is yogurt and banana and granola. I don’t trust powdered eggs, and I guess neither does Sydney. 

When we’re done with breakfast, we rush out into the white, crisp morning and Ryan cleans off Ripjaws and warms her up while the kids play in a huge snowbank.

The ride from the Comfort Inn to Sugarloaf is about forty minutes to an hour, depending on the roads. Today, the roads are snowy, so Ryan drives slowly. After exiting town, we end up on a long, two way route that winds through the extremely tall fir trees on either side, weighed down heavily with snow. We exclaim over our luck in being gifted with this snow. We play 90s R&B on our “Cook Family Ski Mix” Spotify playlist. Ryan tells us that we’ll see the mountain when we come around the next curve, but we don’t, so he says, “Oh, it must be the next one”. This happens about 3 times before we really DO come around the bend where we see the mountain, all of a sudden filling up the sky with its familiar pattern. “YAY!!!!!” We all yell as Ripjaws slows and takes a left onto the mountain road.

We usually park in Lot B or C, because we’re arriving at around 8AM, and Lot A always fills up early. The kids jump out of the car and I position their boot backpacks over their shoulders and place their skis and poles in their stiff little parka arms. Then, we wait for the big school buses that drive us from the parking lot to the lodge. There are stickers on peoples’ cars that say,  “I survived the Sugarloaf bus”, which makes sense to anyone who has ever ridden one of these. The parking lots are packed dirt with huge humps and crevices. It is a very bumpy ride.

On the bus, we are packed into standing room only, as we are chauffeured to the mountain lodge. It is on this bus ride that I think a lot about the fact that most people would think Ryan and I are maniacs, going through this every weekend. For most people, all this lugging of gear and wearing of layers and driving all over the place would be a detested activity, and yet Ryan and I still love it. We have always loved it, and we will likely continue to love it. We even have a plan for how we want to retire and live in a house near a mountain and ski during the week and come home and make a wood fire and he would throw clay on a wheel and I would practice the piano and then we would go out to dinner. And maybe we would also eat a marijuana gummy together and then watch The Matrix. 

We arrive at the mountain lodge and carry all our ski gear and lunch bag to a humongous, carpeted room with big, round cafeteria tables and matching seats. It’s then that we actually relax for the first time this day. The hard work is over - we’ve schlepped all our gear from the car, it’s a beautiful, snowy day, this place isn’t that crowded, and we have about thirty minutes before the kids have to be in ski school. I walk outside onto The Beach, an expanse of bricks with a firepit in the middle surrounded by Adirondack chairs and ski racks. 

I walk down the stairs to the lower level of the little town, past the entrance to the hotel, and into the teeny tiny Carrabassett Valley coffee shop, where I order a dirty chai and hold it in my mitten as I walk back to the outside of the lodge, where my kids are standing, waiting for me. I sip my chai while Sydney brags about what trails she will ski that day.

Then it’s time for the kids to put on their gear, which they can now do themselves - a SIGNIFICANT improvement to our experience. I watch Purple Snowpants Lady dealing with her young daughter, who, every single Saturday screams bloody murder while her mom tries to get her dressed for ski lessons. I feel grateful that this only happened to me once and feel bad that it happens to this lady every weekend. I feel grateful that my own two kids have buckled their boots, pulled on their balaclavas, fastened their helmets, zipped their jackets and adjusted their goggles. 

Sebastian is ALWAYS ready first, and will run out to put on his skis and try to get a run in on the kids trail before his lesson. Ryan loves this. “The stoke is high!” He says.

After dropping the kids at ski school, Ryan and I slide down to the lift to really start our day. The little double chairlift sweeps us up and Ryan puts his gloved hand on my heavily padded snow pants knee and says, “Look at us!  We’re here!” I look down at our skis, next to each other - a sweet and comfortable view. He puts his arm around me and takes a deep breath of the air, and I can tell he’s really happy. Ryan is always happiest when he is skiing. 

After a few warm-up runs to get a feel for the snow and get our blood pumping, we decide to go straight to our favorite steep run, Gondi Line. I like skiing Gondi Line because I know Ryan thinks I look good skiing Gondi Line and when Ryan thinks I look good skiing, it makes me feel so proud. Today, he suggests I go first, “Go on, show me what you can do!” 

On a day like today, where there’s all this groomed snow and hardly any ice to worry about, I can really go for it. Much of the time I’m skiing, I’m constantly checking my speed, holding my skis back from their full potential - skiing very fast, but not truly driving myself down with all possible momentum. Today, the conditions are perfect. My ski edges bite solidly and comfortingly into the snow so I can confidently take turns on this steep pitch. I feel amazing. I feel every muscle in my body moving. I am conscious of my toes in my boots, subtly flexing to adjust the ski direction. This is hard work though, and my breath is fast when I come to a stop at the bottom to watch Ryan. 

Ryan is better than I am for two reasons: He is stronger and he is braver. He pushes his skis harder than I do, crouching low to his center of gravity, driving forward as he takes huge, swooping turns that carve beautiful ellipses into the snow. I love to watch him. He sails past me so fast that I feel the whoosh of air, and just like that, he’s already gone and around the bend. 

And so our day is spent, skiing fast and breathless down snowy trails, laughing at each others’ antics, stopping to talk in line and on the lift, remarking on the beauty, constantly keeping an eye out for the kids to see if we can spy on them in their lesson. On almost every chairlift ride, Ryan chats up the people next to us, bringing his Maine accent to the fore - “Beautiful day eh? You come up here a lot?” And so we meet different people and then say goodbye after knowing them for a 15 minute lift ride.

We stop for Ryan’s delicious sandwiches for lunch and then go right out to keep skiing. It’s never quite as good after lunch, though. You’re always colder and noticing the aches in pains in your legs and core. The warmth of the cafeteria and the weight of the sandwich in your stomach has ruined you, and now you sort of want to take a nap. 

The kids finish with their lessons, and though he is exhausted and his feet hurt, Ryan accompanies them on a final run of the day so that the kids can show off what they’ve learned. I say “No Thank You”, take off my soul-crushingly tight boots and jam my feet into some Ugg boots and nothing has ever felt so good. The kids and Ryan come back and we change into sweatpants and head over to Uno Mas, which is a Mexican restaurant at Sugarloaf that is owned by Ryan’s friend Ryan. Ryan’s friend Ryan always gives us the best seat in the restaurant, next to the wood stove. 

We order chips and guacamole and queso and tacos and chat with Ryan’s friend Ryan. It’s getting dark outside the big window behind us, and there is a huge pile of snow in the middle of the town “square” that the kids are desperate to play around in, so we let them go.

Finally, it’s time to get back to the car, so we gather up all our gear and trudge back to the Sugarloaf bus stop. The mountain hosts chat with us about our day while we wait, and Sebastian leans heavily against me. On the bus, Sebastian slouches against the window as I try to keep my poles from poking his feet. He immediately falls asleep in a crazy position. When we are dropped in Parking Lot C, in the cold and dark, with few cars left around us, Sebastian has basically had it. He whines and drags his bag behind him over to the car. I take his stuff from him and he climbs into his seat. 

Good old Ripjaws roars to life like the glorious, dependable creature she is, blowing us with nice, hot air and heating our butts. Ryan bumps us out of the parking lot, and we are mostly silent on the way back - both kids fast asleep. 

I remember being a child during these drives home from the mountain when my dad was driving. I remember the drowsiness hitting me with the warmth of the car after the effort of the day and my inability to keep my eyes open. Tonight, even though my eyes want to drift closed, I keep myself awake to make it fair. If Ryan can’t rest, neither can I.

We stop at Steve’s Family Market in Wilton for an affordable dinner. Ryan loves Steve’s Family Market a little too much, if you know what I mean. When he was a teen, I guess he ate a lot of ham hoagies from there. He likes to tell a story about how he had a ham hoagie from Steve’s Market in his car when it slid off the road (the car, not the ham hoagie) and he ran all the way home in sweatpants and slippers. Steve’s Market also has really yummy pizza. The lobster rolls are so big that it makes me suspicious that maybe it’s not actually lobster. It is this pizza and this lobster(??) roll that we pick up from Steve’s and then drive back to the Comfort Inn.

By the time we get to the hotel, it’s about 7PM and the kids are awake again. They want to go in the pool, because…of course they do. 

The pool at The Comfort Inn is a party almost every weekend night. There’s a hot tub too, which fundamentally creeps me out and I’m not sure how often it’s cleaned. It’s the kind of hot tub that produces so much foam that the kids start picking it up and wearing it like a beard. You can feel little piles of sand in the corners with your toes. Sebastian likes to put on his goggles and spend most of his time under the foam, like a little hot water eel, popping up now and then to peer around and then sinking under the soup below. There are often adults in this hot tub as well, and I know that no one has actually followed the instructions on the wall to take a “cleansing shower” before hopping in. So, sometimes I will skip the hot tub. 

After dinner and pool and showers, we enter into a state of comfortable drowsiness. We will put on a show or a movie. Last year, we were in the habit of finding some sort of mind-bending educational show about the universe. Imagine the scene: All of us in towels, sitting on the cot and the pull-out sofa, mouths agape, watching a computer simulation of two super massive black holes intersecting with each other. This is what we do until we can no longer keep our eyes open and it’s bedtime. 

Sunday is a different vibe. 

Our bodies are tired, our toes are sore, and we are keenly aware that we have a long drive ahead of us. Nonetheless, once we get ourselves back out on the slopes, the energy quickly returns. While the kids are in lessons, Ryan and I find ourselves making excuses about why we would stop at the mid-mountain restaurant, Bullwinkles, to partake in a hot cocoa and a large pile of fries and cheese. 

Bullwinkles can only be reached by ski lift or snowmobile. I love how people line their skis up on the snow outside like parked cars. Music is playing, people are standing around the fire pit, drinking beers. The sun comes out and reflects off sunglasses and goggles all around us. We eat our fries and drink some hot cocoa and do not feel guilty about lingering here.

We’ll often pull the kids out of lessons to have this lunch with us, and to make sure we have time to take runs with them. But by around 2PM, we’ve basically had it, and it’s time to wrap up the day and pack it into the car.

Ryan drives us home, our trusty chauffeur. The kids are quiet in the back, dozing. Sebastian only gets carsick sometimes, and pukes even less frequently, so we are lucky that way. As we head south, the beautiful white becomes increasingly brown, until we are back in Massachusetts and Ripjaws is covered in road salt and mud.

Back at 108 Athelstane, the sun is almost down when we return, skis placed carefully in their rack, skis bags in the laundry room for processing, kids upstairs stripping off base layers and getting ready for bed.

Ryan and I, tired, stiff from the car ride, a little cranky and a lot grateful, make our way through the remaining tasks of the evening, happy to be home, but already thinking about what the next weekend’s ski adventure will bring.