But if you’re a young lad growing up in northern New England near Canada the month of March is not all bad. For one thing the skiing can be glorious with corn snow acting like thousands of tiny ball bearings on the bottom of your skies. You fly down the hill. Teachers in classrooms may be warning about the horrors of dangling participles, but your eyes are fixed on the near-by mountain as you wonder just how quickly you can get on the hill once he stops blathering.
Late February and early March – with cold nights and warmer days -- is also the time when the sugar maple trees release the sap that is turned into maple syrup. Groups of us would help the farmers by trudging through the snow to trees with metal buckets hanging from spouts hammered into the trees. We would dump the sap into large containers that were then taken to the sugar house where the sap was slowly reduced into syrup. It takes about 30 gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup. Now, most of that manual labour has been replaced with plastic tubing that runs directly from the trees into the collection vats.
One day I had the bright idea of trying this at home. I duly tapped a huge sugar maple in our yard and collected about half a bucket of sap over a couple of days. Carefully timing my experiment with the absence of my mother I emptied the sap into a large pot on the stove and turned the heat up high. Slowly, very slowly the sap began to reduce. But the vapour with its cloying, sweet odour swept through much of the house and clung to walls like glue. At the end, I was very proud of my tiny glass of syrup. My mother, however, did not share my joy as fully as I had hoped, and I spent the next several days cleaning grime off the walls. And my next several allowances went toward a new pot.
Rather than sit home cooped up with hyper-active, under-exercised children my mother and some friends came up with a great plan. They packed us and our skies into a couple of cars and headed off for a Canadian ski area about 100 miles north of Montreal. We had no idea how long we would stay. No one could tell when the mud would dry out. In the early 1950s the Canadian border was notional at best, and we soon found ourselves in a place with different road signs, some even in French. We weren’t entirely sure how to get to Mt. Tremblant. But there weren’t that many roads to start with and surely one of them would lead where we wanted to go – or so we thought.
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| Our local mountain |
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| Maple sap buckets and sugaring house |
One day I had the bright idea of trying this at home. I duly tapped a huge sugar maple in our yard and collected about half a bucket of sap over a couple of days. Carefully timing my experiment with the absence of my mother I emptied the sap into a large pot on the stove and turned the heat up high. Slowly, very slowly the sap began to reduce. But the vapour with its cloying, sweet odour swept through much of the house and clung to walls like glue. At the end, I was very proud of my tiny glass of syrup. My mother, however, did not share my joy as fully as I had hoped, and I spent the next several days cleaning grime off the walls. And my next several allowances went toward a new pot.
Most of the roads around our house were – and still are – unpaved. Again, a paradise for reckless young boys. Most of the winter the roads were frozen solid and covered with ice and a few inches of snow. Perfect for long sleds with heavy metal runners. At the top of the hill above our house, right by the old cemetery with its tilting headstones carved with barely legible names dating back to the early 19th century, we would choose teams and four or five of us would pile onto each sled. These sleds were almost impossible to steer, and as we sped down the icy track we prayed that this was not the time the farmer next door decided to take his tractor up the hill.
By mid-March the roads had begun to thaw, and the hard dirt turned to deep, oozing mud that went up to the axles of cars. That was good news and bad news. Bad news that the sledding was done for the year. Good news that the roads would soon be impassable. That meant the school bus couldn’t make it down the narrow valleys or up the steep hills. No school bus, no school. The unofficial, indeterminate Mud Season holiday had begun.
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| Tough for a school bus to manage |
Rather than sit home cooped up with hyper-active, under-exercised children my mother and some friends came up with a great plan. They packed us and our skies into a couple of cars and headed off for a Canadian ski area about 100 miles north of Montreal. We had no idea how long we would stay. No one could tell when the mud would dry out. In the early 1950s the Canadian border was notional at best, and we soon found ourselves in a place with different road signs, some even in French. We weren’t entirely sure how to get to Mt. Tremblant. But there weren’t that many roads to start with and surely one of them would lead where we wanted to go – or so we thought.
There was another complicating factor. We were not going to the chic side of the mountain with proper hotels and restaurants. No, no. We were headed around the mountain to a small lodge that had a bunkhouse nearby.
Long after sunset and after many false starts and vain attempts to communicate in the Canadian version of French we discovered the road to our side of the mountain. Actually, road is a euphemism. It was little more than an old, narrow, pot-holed slippery logging track that wound around the mountain under a canopy of snow-laden spruce trees and perilously close to a rushing stream filled with huge chunks of ice.
Finally, we saw the welcoming lights of the lodge where my mother and sister were staying. The boys, however, were treated to the bunkhouse that resembled something out of a German POW camp. Two-tier bunks with metal springs and thin mattresses lined the walls, a single weak bulb hanging from a long cord provided the sole light, and whatever heat there was came from a seldom-lit coal burning stove. I now saw the purpose of my sleeping bag. At $1/night my mother pronounced it fine as she and my smirking sister headed off for the warmth of the lodge. Bunkhouse inmates got their food in the nearby Bear Den where meals cost 25 cents.
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| Morning on the top of Mt. Tremblant |
The next few days proved that the hardships of the bunkhouse were meaningless compared with the thrill of exploring this mountain. Canadian winters are not for the faint-hearted and sometimes made ours seem like a weekend in Miami. The air had a freezing January dry crispness to it and the snow was light and fluffy. Perfect. While my sister and her friends investigated the Austrian ski instructors my brother and I explored every trail on the mountain. Once we even made down to the chic side of the mountain and its village with Tyrolean look-alike buildings. No bunkhouses there. We scoffed at the relative poshness and considered them wimps for needing things like heat and hot running water.
Eventually, all good things come to an end. About a week later we learned that the roads at home had dried out and school would soon start again. And I could turn my mind to more important things – like were the Boston Red Sox ever going to climb out of last place in the upcoming baseball season that began in April.
