Pulling the Kids Out of School for Two Weeks at Killington — Megan Taylor

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Set an intention with me: I am not going to apologize in this post.

On Friday at 4 a.m. Jeff and I are loading Hazel (8) and Owen (5) into the car, driving to SLC, flying to Burlington, and driving the last hour and a half to my parents' farm outside Killington. Two weeks. Eight missed school days. Their teachers at Jeremy Ranch Elementary know. The French Immersion office knows. I have done the polite Google Doc dance with the lead teacher about what Hazel will miss in Unit 4 (les fractions, en français, naturellement). I have a Bonjour French workbook in the carry-on and a strong feeling that what they're going to learn in the next two weeks is not on a worksheet.

They are going to learn what it is to ski East Coast ice in a January nor'easter with their grandfather, who is 71 and still skis bumps. That is the curriculum. Le programme.

Utah Powder Will Never Compare To East Coast Concrete

I'm going to say this and then I'm going to keep saying it.

Utah powder will never compare to East Coast concrete.

I love Park City. I came out on a gap year between undergrad and a yoga teacher training in Sedona, got off the bus at the old Transit Center, and never bought a ticket home. Twenty years this winter. Park City Mountain is where my kids learned to ski.

But.

Powder is forgiving. Powder is wide and soft and it makes a confident skier out of a six-year-old in a single afternoon. Ice does not do that. Ice tells the truth. If your weight is on the back of the ski, ice will let you know. If your edges are dull, ice will let you know.

You learn to ski in Utah. You learn to actually ski in Vermont. This is a bit. It is also true.

The Killington Peak gondola disappearing into fog on a gray Vermont morning — Friday morning at Killington, 80% of the season: 28 degrees, fog, snow guns running, every single person in the lift line wearing a Carhartt over their shell because that is the East Coast uniform. I love it here.

I Grew Up On This Mountain

My parents bought their farm outside Pittsfield, Vermont in 1979. They were ex-hippies with my grandfather's money, an idea about composting, and a flock of chickens. My dad picked up skiing at 38 and never put it down. He still skis four days a week. He is the reason Hazel is going to learn to carve on something other than corduroy this month.

I learned in the trees off Skye Peak when I was seven, which is exactly Hazel's age. My mom packed peanut butter sandwiches in tinfoil and we ate them on the chair. The bar for childhood comfort was on the floor.

Hazel And Owen Are Not On A Ski Team. This Is On Purpose.

It comes up at every birthday party. Hazel is eight, Owen is five, neither is on a development team, and we're not in line for one.

It is because I have watched what the team track does to nine-year-olds in this town and I am not interested. I want them on the mountain because the mountain is a good place to be a person. I do not want them in a bib at age six being told their tuck is sloppy.

Hazel's French Immersion teacher told me Hazel can write a one-page journal de voyage when she comes back, in French, about something she noticed on the mountain. That is exactly the assignment I would have given.

Warmly lit Vermont farmhouse kitchen at night with a long wooden table set for dinner — My parents' kitchen on a Sunday night in January. The table is the same one I ate peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches at after ski days when I was Hazel's age. The wood stove is the same wood stove. The chickens are different chickens.

Dinner At The Farm

We stay at the farm, which is the only reason a two-week trip is financially sane. For anyone without a Vermont grandparent in the equation, search the Killington and Pittsfield area on Booking — the move is a small house in Pittsfield or Plymouth with a wood stove and a kitchen.

Dinner at the farm is the same every visit. My mom puts a pot of soup on at 4 p.m. My dad pours himself a finger of bourbon and tells the same story about the year the wind blew the gondola sideways. My mother lights a candle, which she does every night, and which Jeff finds genuinely soothing in a way he did not expect when he first married into this family.

Snow guns running on a Killington trail at dawn — Killington runs snow guns until April. You learn to read manufactured snow vs. natural in your first season or you do not improve.

What I Pack For Killington That I Do Not Pack For Park City

Heavier base layers. Park City is dry-cold; Killington is wet-cold. A merino base that works at Canyons in February will not be enough on a 28-degree foggy morning at Snowshed.
Mittens, not gloves. Owen especially.
Goggles with a low-light lens. Killington's gray-sky days will eat a Park City lens for breakfast.
The Bonjour French workbook. Hazel does it on the plane.
My travel mat. I roll out a Manduka eKO Lite in the upstairs hallway at 6 a.m. and that's my practice for the trip.
A lavender eye pillow for the flight and the inevitable jet-lagged 4 a.m. wake-up.
Palo Santo for the farmhouse guest room. My mother encourages this and frankly so do I.

One More Thing About The School Conversation

To any other Park City mom thinking about pulling the kids for a winter trip: you don't need permission. You need a plan and an email to the teachers. The school is staffed by humans who understand that the reason most of us are in this valley involves a mountain. Hazel's teacher said the words "I think this counts as social studies" and I about cried.

See You On The Other Side

I will not be posting much for the next two weeks. There is, by design, very little Wi-Fi at the farm. My mother does not believe in it.

Hazel will learn what ice feels like. Owen will fall down a lot in front of his grandfather and laugh about it. Jeff will ski with my dad and they will have the same long conversation about lift maintenance they have every January, even though Jeff hasn't worked the lifts in nine years. I will drink coffee on the back porch at 6 a.m. and watch the sun come up over the same ridge I watched it come up over when I was seven.

Someone will ask me at drop-off if it was worth it. Yes. It was worth it before we left. — M.