The truth is, I can't. I'd last one run, return my equipment and limp to the parking lot. I grew up on this mountain and the two on the south side and we had a membership with the Hartford Ski Club that allowed us a bunk at the base of the mountain for four dollars a night. There was, and still is, a timeshare on the south side called The Eagles and I brought my family there until 2008 and that was the last time I stepped into the bindings and strapped on a helmet until 2015 when I met Beaver Creek face first. I lasted two half days before my thighs gave out.
Me and deep powder, not so much. I never did get the hang of it. This far north on ungroomed, natural snow slopes made me an ice, rock, and mud girl. That's just Mad River, the other two can work up a four foot base by the end of December if the temps drop soon enough and a four inch substance called powder on ice isn't all that unusual.
I didn't notice the mountains until this last snowfall. I noticed the mountains, but not MOUNTAINS. Now there's snow on the trails and I drive around that god awful bend on VT 17 whenever I need something on the other side. That god awful bend is forty yards or less from the first lift and I got an eye-full late Sunday afternoon my way home from CT.
I pulled into the mostly empty lot and gave that mountain a good hard look. I might have gotten out and wandered around but the pavement was damp and the sun was going down. The snow dusted (six to eight inches) rocks and ice drove home what I believe is the truth.
This morning I think I might be wrong.