Becoming Betsy

I’m sitting in Betsy Pratt’s office-turned-living room, surrounded by papers and old photographs, reading a book about cancer cells. I’m not entirely sure why, I should have been out skiing, but Mad River Glen was closed yet again that Saturday. It was the second snowless weekend of January and while other mountains were pumping out fake snow by the foot, Mad River halted their lifts. Today I had my pick of any table in the lodge.

Before I knew it, I was turning right into the parking lot of the Mad River Barn. The Barn could only survive in a place like Vermont. Fifteen disheveled rooms in two separate buildings manage to sell out week after week. The rooms are shabby, musty, and dark. Polyester blankets cover sagging mattresses, and the shower always smells like rotten eggs. On one family vacation I remember sleeping in a closet because the room had no space for my cot.

Funky or not, the Barn Restaurant was my favorite place to go as a kid. We would beg my parents to stop for a post-ski hot chocolate after a long day at the mountain. We ran wild, discovering old staircases and secret hidings spots. Our damp ski socks slid down our feet, and itchy long-underwear made us sweat in the heated building.

My parents sometimes talked about Betsy Pratt, but to me she was just another hand to shake in a blur of adults. A tough old woman who rarely smiled and yelled at us for roughhousing.

For the first time my visit was solely focused on Betsy. I didn’t know if she would be home and hadn’t called ahead. I sort of hoped that she would be out of the office or out of town. I stowed my voice recorder in my coat pockets before walking to the door.

Betsy owns all land between Mad River Glen and The Barn, eight hundred acres of undeveloped Vermont wilderness on the eastern side of General Stark Mountain.

“Can I help you with something?

The deep lines in her face traced a permanent frown and light pink glasses framed her faded blue eyes. Her dark hair was parted and combed, tucked behind her ears. High set cheekbones revealed her aristocratic Greenwich upbringing, though age had left behind sunspots and wrinkles. She wore a blue wool sweater over a white turtleneck. I was surprised to see two beaded bracelets on her wrinkled wrist.

I started to explain why I had come.

“I have a cabin down the road a bit. I grew up skiing at Mad River, and coming to The Barn, I would love to talk to you about what it was like to own--"

“That’s why I sold Mad River.” she interrupted with a snap, before turning back to her reading. “You see, people come here with the story already written.” She was right. I had arrived with the preconception that she was a tired old grouch. This was quickly being confirmed.

“They only hear what they want to hear. No one gets it right. Vassar College couldn’t even get it right.” She looked me over. “So no, I don’t want to talk about Mad River.” I fumbled with my gloves, pulling each finger, slowly, trying hard not to look as nervous as I felt.

Eighty-two year-old Betsy has lived alone since the death of her husband Truxton Pratt in 1975. Truxton purchased Mad River Glen in 1972, and died just three years later, leaving Betsy the mountain. Betsy continued to manage the mountain herself for the next twenty years. Locals talk about her tough ideals, anti-resort mentality, and classic navy blue parka.

At the mention of Betsy, the people who live in the Mad River Valley roll their eyes. In a valley of 3,400 people, people know each others' business. They say that she is solely responsible for Mad River's snowboard ban and as the legend goes she chased away everyone from eager young boarders to Vermont Governor Howard Dean.

In the 1980s Mad River became the first mountain to allow snowboards. Many say that a violent confrontation between then-65-year-old Betsy and some local snowboarders led to the mountain-wide ban. Others believe that the stubborn Yankee simply enjoyed the power that ownership gave her, and banned them on principle.

Ever since 1995 when Betsy sold the mountain, Mad River has been permanently ‘for sale.’ Anyone who can afford it can own a part of the mountain. A few years back my family bought a share in hopes of maintaining the no snowmaking, old-school vibe that make Mad River Glen a part of our family’s traditions. Though my dad loves to say that Betsy scared him into the purchase.

“She once asked me if I was a shareholder at Mad River.” He said “I lied and said yes. I went out and bought a share that day.”

I looked around the room. Betsy stared determinedly down at her book. Finally, the phone rang.

“Hello, Mad River Barn.”

Pause.

“Yes we have space, we have reduced our price.”

Pause.

“Well that works for you, sure.”

She gave me a look as if we were in on the same joke. Her eyes said, “This guy is an idiot, he has no idea what he wants to do.” To the phone, she only nodded.

“Mad River Glen is a nice little mountain. It’s closed now but I think they’ll be opening tomorrow. Especially because their board of directors are having a meeting.”

The person on the other end of the phone was still talking.

“You’re driving up from Boston? Well you’ll be arriving too late for dinner.”

Pause.

“So if you want to come, just go on the internet. Then drive over.”

Pause.

She pulled at the tangled phone cord, placing it back on the wall, then turned to me.

“I do it all on email now. It’s the only way I can keep track of everything.” She glanced at her ancient white desktop computer. “Some guy is saying that he won’t give me his number on email and I’m going to tell him, then go jump.”

I laughed nervously, the first of many nervous laughs during my visit. I was still unsure whether she accepted my presence, but I was determined to stay until she asked me to leave.

“They want to teach their kids to ski.” She went on. “I have eight grandchildren who just learned at Mad River. I think that’s the place for it.” At the mention of her grandchildren, the glint in her weathered eyes ignited, wrinkled frown lines smoothed, and her smile took over.

“They want me to get a Facebook account. The whole thing, it’s crazy. What I care about is that my grandchildren are happy.” She started to sit, and then continued walking around the room. “I can’t see that from one hundred pictures of them on the internet. What does a smiling picture say? It tells me that they can smile for a camera.”

She paced the room as she spoke, picking up newspaper clippings, magazines, and dusty photographs. She planted a pile in front of me.

“They were all up here for Christmas, and every one of my children has an iPad.” I nodded, then made a face to confirm my disgust for such a superfluous piece of technology. “You know, you can get any book in the world sent to you right in your living room. You finish one book, they’ll send you another. You could spend the afternoon reading. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon, if you ask me.” She pointed to one article, it detailed the different technologies like Kindle, iPad, etc and compared their functions.

I spied a book on the edge of her coffee table.

“Well I still sort of prefer print.” I spoke boldly, knowing that I was taking a chance in not saying exactly what she wanted to hear. She looked from me to the book, as if deciding which of us to trust.

“I have to read it over and over and over. Because I don’t understand biology.” She picked up the book and handed it to me. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. “Have a look.” Before I had a chance to open the cover, she was talking again, standing above me as I shifted in my seat.

“You see, my oldest daughter, ‘The Great Brain’ I call her, she’s done everything. Now she’s finishing up her masters in biology. I don’t understand it. I was an economics major, this biology is all so new.”

“Just sit down with that book for two minutes, you’ll enjoy it. You see, I’m fascinated by HeLa cells. Have you heard of them? The story of this woman Henrietta Lacks is really quite remarkable. You see, she had cancer, and her cells kept replicating. It was the first time that doctors were able to study replicating cells. I’m really trying to understand, but I have to keep looking things up.”

As I started to read she turned on the coffee machine. Then she ran up and down the stairs. Six times. “The other day I couldn’t get out of bed.” She admitted. “I’m at the point now where it’s use it or lose it.” Still standing she took a big gulp of her coffee. “But anyway, I’m off to ski.” And with that she snapped into cross-country skis, and slipped behind her barn, into her woods, and was gone.

I drove back to my cabin that night, hiked through the snowy woods alone to a cold room and curled up in my down sleeping bag. I slept through the night, while the snow fell faster and faster, fat flakes completely covering bare ground.

***

The next day I wake up in the loft on a pillow that smells of wood smoke. A frosting of snowflake designs on the cabin’s windows veils my view of the woods outside. The faint light of dawn is barely visible through a fence of trees and the sky is laden with heavy clouds. The woods are still, branches iced in place, swaying occasionally when a faint whisper of wind blows through their icy tangle.

My thoughts turn to the mountains where empty trails await. I pull on too-tight long underwear, one leg at a time, and then creak down the ladder into the cabin’s dark main room. This open space functions as kitchen, dining area, and living room. I check the woodstove and stoke the glowing embers; they are just beginning to cool.

I pack my ski bag in the dark as I wait for the water to boil. My boots laid out next to the woodstove are hot to the touch. I store this warmth away for later when I will find myself engulfed in the frigid single-digit temperatures at Stark Mountain’s 2946-foot peak.

I hike out, snow-shoed feet paving a trail through a bed of fluff. The arctic air freezes my nostrils, and the rising sun bounces across untouched snow. As I make my way out of the woods, I glance up at the snow-spattered Green Mountains, perfectly spaced, one by one to form a ridge north and into Canada.

The lodge door swings closed behind me, and the familiar scent of damp sweat, French fries, and stale heat hangs in the air. Cracked wooden trail signs hang from the ceilings, reminders of Roland Palmedo, the mountain’s original founder. Even at the end of World War Two, Palmedo had a vision for Mad River Glen. He believed that Vermont needed a mountain that existed strictly for love of skiing, and not for profit. With origins at the high-powered, ever-growing Stowe Resort, Palmedo was viewed as a bit of a black sheep in the ski industry. Both he and Betsy have been quoted referring to other ski areas as “mountain amusement parks".

I remember learning to ski at Mad River. My dad taught us that it was all about fear. First you conquer the cold with a bit of hot chocolate and some arm circles. Then brave those rocky, icy patches. “Learn to ski at Mad River and you can ski anywhere," Dad reminded us. Finally, one day we got in line for the single chair lift.  It was on one of those long rides that I truly fell in love with the mountain. I loved the possibility of feeling both alone and together, a chance to reflect, relax, and plan my next run. As we got older, we came to rule the place. We were fluent in the language of the mountain. “Catamount, Lynx, to Glades next run?” We would yell chair to chair. “How about Spilled Milk to Ferret Woods? I want to ski One Way!”

The safety gate creaks as it opens. I slide out, skis skating over packed snow. To the west, the trees frame a patchwork of fields separated by winding roads. To the east the sunny Mad River Valley stretches its tired arms. The valley is an ever-changing landscape, farm, field, and forest. The three towns, Waitsfield, Fayston, and Warren are home to 3,400 people with connections to fields, rivers, hills, and orchards. With roots so deep and intertwined that they have become a part of the land. To the south, clouds approach, but Betsy’s forest is still bathed in sunlight. I owe this all to her.

On my drive home, I go back to The Barn. I park my car out front, and walk into the office, looking for Betsy. The room is quiet, no note indicates that she is out skiing, and no radio plays in the back room. On the table sits an ancient dictionary, and The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Betsy didn’t need the internet, or me to help her figure out biology. Betsy had figured things out just fine her entire life. Showing me the book was her way of sharing that wisdom with me. I sit down and begin to read.