Introduction: I decided to share with you my family’s adventures in building ski houses that have been around since I was a little girl.
Over the next few weeks, I will be sharing some memories of my early years at Killington in my columns.
Isn’t it strange how, as we go through life, we lose sight of the special things that stay with us – the people, the places, and all the things that help shape us? As I reminisced about my childhood and wrote down some of my cherished memories (some of which I had forgotten), I realized how unique and amazing it was to build a ski lodge in Killington. Following my father’s dream and commuting every weekend from Montclair, NJ, was a tough life journey. Now that I spend half the year there (with running water and flushing toilets), I cherish the years we spent here, the humble life, and the building of the lodge. I am more grateful than I ever thought I would be for the gift my parents gave me.
Vermont or ruin
We began our weekly pilgrimage to Vermont from Upper Montclair, New Jersey, where we lived. I was seven years old when Killington first opened in 1958. My dad had just bought two acres near the entrance to Roaring Brook Road off the Killington access road. We crossed the creek because there was no bridge there (where the first fire station was later built), turned the corner, walked up the hill, and up the driveway (as steep as Mount Everest). Our house was the first lot on the left. The Ayers’ was a little further, and Preston Smith’s house was a mile from the end.
My father was a mechanical engineer for Foster Wheeler and my mother was a piano teacher, poet and author. My wonderful brothers, Jack and Bill, were 10 and 7 years older than me, respectively. They spent weekends with us in between their other jobs. Jack studied forestry at the University of New Hampshire and Billy played football at Montclair High School and later attended Bates College in Maine.
As a proper young woman from Upper Montclair, heading north to Vermont was the perfect escape for me. It was the polar opposite of my life in New Jersey, where I enjoyed luxury and comfort. I dressed in tomboyish clothes, equipped myself, and prepared for adventure in the great outdoors. Life in Vermont was challenging and demanding, but I enjoyed the freedom it gave me.
Hours into the six hour drive, we stopped for a midnight snack at an eatery like the Silver Dollar Diner in Whitehall, New York, or the Coffee Cup in Castleton, Vermont. Mom adored clam strips and onion rings at Howard Johnson’s until the day McDonalds opened in at the Albany exit off the Northway.
We left New Jersey on Friday evenings as soon as my dad got off work. Sometimes we would go to New York City to pick him up, then we would take the Taconic Parkway or Merritt Parkway, past the famous Taconic Diner. When my dad moved to Summit, NJ, we would take the Garden State Parkway north to Route 17 where the cheapest gas station was, then we would pass the Motel on the Mountain near the start of the New York State Thruway. My mom told me stories of a Japanese architect who used to camp there every week for the best views of sunrise and sunset. He placed the motel based on the aesthetics and feng shui of the place. (Maybe that inspired my mom to want our house to be in a position to see the sunset, Pico, and Killington.) We would take the Northway north, then Route 4 east to Rutland and Killington.
All night long, our Labrador retriever, Black Star of the Highlands, panted on my dad’s shoulder or ear, keeping an eye out for a squirrel, a groundhog, a deer or anything else that moves. My mom sipped hot coffee from a thermos. My dad drank Postam. I savored hot chocolate. We ate bologna and tuna fish sandwiches while searching for our favorite landmarks.
After a few long hours of six-hour drives, we grabbed late-night snacks at eateries like the Silver Dollar Diner in Whitehall, N.Y., and the Coffee Cup in Castleton. My mother loved Howard Johnson’s clam strips and onion rings until a McDonald’s opened at the Albany exit of the Northway. After that, she craved hot coffee, burgers, and fries every weekend. My father loved burgers but preferred Western sandwiches, which reminded him of his childhood when his father was U.S. Consul General in Juarez, Mexico (and I still choose Western sandwiches whenever I can).
It was a dream stop for a meal, as we were already asleep. The food, friendship, tradition, and excitement of heading off on further adventures in the Green Mountain State were well worth waking up for. More next week…
Margaret Jill Dye is an artist and writer who divides her time between Killington and Bradenton, Florida.
Courtesy of Killington Resort
