In Praise of Skiing Upstate

Upstate/Connecticut skiing is a pretty low-key activity, but the area nevertheless attracts a number of well-known celebrity and media types—and locals hardly blink. Less flashy than the Hamptons, the super-rich here tend to be more discreet. Probably precisely because no one makes a fuss of them, Kevin Bacon, Dustin Hoffman, and Matthew Broderick all have houses here, dotted along the Connecticut/New York border.

Litchfield County has plenty of sprawling estates and luxurious gardens. New York social queens Annette de La Renta, Agnes Gund, and the family of late philanthropist Anne Bass, all own vast properties up there. A local paper rather optimistically dubbed Litchfield County “The Beverly Hills of the East.”

While I’m not sure I’d go that far, I have seen business journalist and creator of the hit show Billions Andrew Ross Sorkin, Jenny Bush Hager, and Late Night talk show host Seth Myers all trucking along with plastic lunch trays at the Mohawk Ski Lodge. Many others resemble extras in a White Lotus series. But locals seem to tolerate the army of Canada Goose wearing weekend warriors and freezing cold conditions with equal indifference.

As we have two boisterous boys—now aged 10 and 13—joining a ski programme seemed like a no-brainer. We started them almost five years ago. It turns out that ski classes, like getting into the right Manhattan nursery school, are something you have to know about well in advance. We were forwarded registration for the lottery link to Mohawk Mountain’s ski programme—which runs from the beginning of January until mid-March—in July. (Note: private lessons or simply skiing with your children are easier to achieve.)

Accommodation in this part of the world is quaint and comfortable. And hotels book up early too. We have been staying at the White Hart in Salisbury, Connecticut for years.

Our routine is set. After fighting traffic and Friday-night fatigue, we arrive at the inn to large, well-appointed adjoining rooms. We immediately put our pyjama-clad children down and race to the bar to place our orders before closing. Ryan, the White Hart’s conscientious barman creates his own cocktails, often taking inspiration from famous literary works.

This past fall’s cocktails were entirely named from lines from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. My all-time favorite from an earlier list is the Birth of Carpo—Four Roses bourbon, angostura bitters, black walnut bitters, and maple syrup topped with wood smoke—which immediately erases the stress of travel. The food is always good: hearty fish and chips, or some delicious halibut and maybe a sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Their bread rolls are served hot enough that the butter melts in moments.

The atmosphere couldn’t be more relaxed. Dogs and children roam the rooms and there is always a warm fire. There is convivial conversation to be had—although mostly people moan about the distances they have to drive the next morning for their children’s ski races.

Catamount (in Hillsdale, New York) and Mohawk are two teaching mountains within striking distance of each other. They are the Capulets and Montagues of this ski area—although their rivalry seems to be in name only. Both offer the same range of skiing and have lodges filled on weekends with the claustrophobic fug from hundreds of children and parents clomping through.

Each set says the other is much more social (being understated and low key is a competitive sport in these parts). From what I observed, both mountains are filled with people who have an Herculean ability to smile and chat to one another while in a sleep-deprived state at the drop-off queue at 8:30 a.m.

For those who want nothing to do with skiing, the next town along from Salisbury in nearby Duchess County is Millerton, New York. Geary is a contemporary art gallery a quick stroll away from Oblong Books and across from the fashion-forward outdoor gear store Westerlind.

We come to hit the slopes. Saturday mornings are a  trial. Prising our children out of their warm beds at 7:30am, stuffing them into puffy snow gear and ski boots (tip: always put the boots on in the hotel room, not the freezing cold parking lot), and dragging them into the car when the thermometer reads minus 14°C is not the most relaxing start to the weekend.

But once the task of getting the children deposited in ski school, armed with layers of hand and toe warmers and candy in order to tolerate the intense cold, my husband and I have three blissful hours to ourselves.

After waving them off, we walk back through the Mohawk Lodge parking lot listening to the dulcet tones only other parents can appreciate: the beautiful music of complaining children who are not your problem. (I think the last thing I heard was a shriek of, “Joey tried to poke my eyeball out with his ski pole!”)

Enjoying our adult time together, we hike up a back trail with our dog and then strap “skins” on our skis and skin (the equivalent of Alpine touring) up the mountain a few times. Three hours later, we collect the boys and devour lunch in the lodge—typically lumpy turkey chilli, soggy french fries, and watery hot chocolate—before heading back to the White Hart for naps, reading, and that glorious post-ski feeling.

If Mohawk’s cuisine is not its strongest point, the friendly and fun ski instructors more than make up for it. I am in total awe of my son’s experienced and committed teachers, who transformed our once reluctant skiers into whooping and laughing daredevils, racing down icy terrain without a moment’s hesitation.

That sight makes all the effort worth it. And I often observe other moments of quiet triumph. On Sunday, a man sat in a sun-drenched corner inside Mohawk Lodge with a book open in front of him, completely at peace.

All things being equal, would this man have rather been sunning himself on the deck of Fluhalp Restaurant in Zermatt or warming his hands by the fire at Caldera House in Jackson Hole? Probably—and perhaps in a month or two over Spring Break, he will be. But things are what they are, and he was the father of small children looking for a weekend break outside school vacations. There is little doubt the pleasure he experienced in that calm, stolen moment was just as great as any he would have had in some five-star Alpine retreat. A blast of nature—and happy kids—just a few hours drive from Manhattan is a meditative experience that’s hard to beat.