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Woodstock Inn Introduces Snowsports Packages
When former Dartmouth ski coach, Bunny Bertram, installed one of the first tow ropes on a Vermont slope in 1937, he played an integral role in establishing one of the state’s top winter locales. In 1961, that ski area, Suicide Six, was sold to Laurence Rockefeller, owner of the Woodstock Inn and Resort, and it became the primary ski resort for their guests. Celebrating its 50th anniversary, the Woodstock Inn Nordic Center provides 45 kilometers of groomed trails surrounding Mt. Peg. Guests can explore the trail network on x-c skis, fat tire bikes, or snowshoes. Another option for backcountry skiers and snowshoers is the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historic Park, where you can glide or walk under the old-growth forest and around a pond called the Pogue. The Woodstock Inn is now offering four different ski packages, depending on whether you downhill or cross-country ski and bring the family. From January 1 through March 15, the Unlimited Snowsports Package offers accommodations for two nights, breakfast daily, ski passes at Suicide Six Ski Area for two days (rentals not included), and Nordic Center ski passes for two days of cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and fat tire biking (rentals are included). Package rates for two adults start at $475 midweek, $668 on weekends.
Lake George Week, Adventures on the Water
"Towards you, towards you, pull it towards you," my father yells to my mom, referring to the tiller that sits on her lap. We’re aboard my dad’s 22-foot Catalina, sailing at a good 10-knot clip across the cobalt waters of Lake George on our way back to his dock. Mom’s steering, dad’s barking orders, and I’m on the bow of the boat, ready to jump onto terra firma, but first I have to listen to my parent’s banter, a routine I’ve witnessed far too many times.
“What the hell are you doing? Aim for the house,” my dad bellows, pointing to a small white house that stands on the hillside above our dock. My father’s voice always seems to rise a notch or two in volume every time he steps foot into his sailboat. That’s usually what happens to former Lieutenants in the Navy. They resign their commission in the military, buy a small boat of their own, and quickly ascend to the rank of Admiral. Nevertheless, my mom always remains as cool as the water in this lake, easily gliding the boat into the dock without a scratch. Once the lines are tied, she stands up, and ends with the tag line, “not bad for a Bronx girl.” “Yeah, not bad,” my father mutters back, forgetting that Mom also taught him how to drive.
Those two paragraphs are the first words I ever wrote on Lake George, for a magazine called Endless Vacation back in 1996. Both my parents are gone, but I have incredible memories of our family sailing, paddling, and boating this 32-mile gem in the Adirondacks. And I continue to create new memories. This week, I’m traveling with my brother Jim as we kayak around the Sagamore, boat with Ron Miller aboard his 1971 Lyman, and take a paddlewheeler cruise aboard The Mohican.
I’ve been sailing the waters of Lake George before I learned to walk, or so I’m told. Growing up in these sylvan surroundings, I took its beauty for granted; the verdant mountainside that slopes to the lake’s edge on either side, the pine-studded islands that provide perfect anchorages for boaters, the narrow width that’s easily mistaken for a long rambling river. Working as a travel writer, I’ve had the good fortune to visit many of the world’s most famous lakes—Tahoe, Como in Italy, Taupo in New Zealand, Lucerne in Switzerland, but given the choice, I’ll take Lake George on a weekday (on summer weekends, the influx of motorboats and jet skies makes the lake seem a lot smaller). It’s the reason why “Sailing Lake George” topped my list of “5 Family Adventures Not Soon Forgotten,” my most recent article on the lake in a March issue of The Boston Globe.
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Larry Meehan, In Memoriam
“Steve, do you realize we’re standing at the junction of King and Queen Streets?” Larry Meehan asked in his typical animated tone. “No, Larry. Actually, I thought we were dining at a seafood restaurant,” I muttered. “This is the heart of Colonial Boston,” he would say to me, even more passionate. “Where it all happened!” Every conversation I had with Larry Meehan was peppered with some historical tidbit about his beloved city. Sure, he often spoke about the success of his wife and boys, biking around Martha’s Vineyard the week after Labor Day, when most of the crowds were gone, all the new hotels and restaurants that were popping up all over the city. And he couldn’t resist teasing me about my next Sabena Belgium assignment. One of the first stories I ever wrote was on a store in Faneuil Hall that sold detritus from the city, like seats from the old Boston Garden or a century-old street lamppost. “Is this for Sabena magazine?” he would say with a smile years later, referring to the now defunct inflight magazine.