When we were young travelers, Bill and I bought into a Caribbean timeshare.  When we were older travelers, we bought into a second timeshare at a ski resort in Vermont.   With these two enigmatic accommodations, we are sometimes left with only a couple months to book before the points expire or our exchange evaporates.  That’s what prompted a quick trip to ski in Vermont after Christmas.

I booked the only room available near a ski resort: Killington, Vermont, a ski area a little over two-and-a-half hours north then west from us.  A week before our trip, I heard from our timeshare conglomerate: The place we had reserved had been overbooked, but they had rebooked us in a spot near Stowe, Vermont.  This trip would be a little over three hours; Stowe is farther north than Killington, a straighter northwesterly drive. 

The town of Stowe is a fifteen-minute drive from the ski area.  Stowe was quintessential winter in New England with quaint shops, upscale restaurants, and – most importantly – snow.  I was happy with the change, for Will had never skied there and being farther north perhaps meant more snow.  However, I didn’t let on to that with the timeshare conglomerate; my unhappiness was met with a refund of all fees associated with booking these accommodations.

This was going to be a trip for my older son Will and me.  Liam had plans with friends that week, so Bill and I divided forces: I would ski with Will while Bill would entertain Liam and his friends.  However, after long flights to and from England for Christmas, my hips were back talking.  I couldn’t justify a lift ticket for myself if by chance my hips were not in the mood to ski.  Thinking I would write in our unit during the day and perhaps snowshoe or hike, I packed accordingly: a combined ten-plus pounds of reading books, spiral-bound journals, notebooks, and a leather gratitude journal. I covered all bases for what I might feel like reading or writing.  I took layers of clothes with me, short ankle boots, snowshoes, Yak trak grippers that attach to the bottoms of my boots for hiking, and gators which are clever waterproof pieces of fabric that cover the boot and lower legs to keep the snow out when snowshoeing. 

Will and I arrived in the dark at 5 p.m. on New Year’s Eve to find our keys left in a “Late Arrivals” box outside the door.  In fact, the office was closed the first three days we were there, as only an answering machine picked up when I tried to call the “front desk.” 

The van grumbled a bit going up the hilly drive to building “E” which was built on the side of the hill.  Er, mountain.  Its four floors towered above all the other buildings; it was most impressive until we noticed where the “ground floor” was… up 38 exterior wooden steps.  Our unit was on the third floor.  An additional 34 steps.  We first took groceries up in my trusty, huge, reusable bags from Sainsbury’s (pronounced something like “sanes’-breeze”), a grocery chain in England.  There was no way I could tote my big suitcase up those stairs.  I emptied the grocery bags and took them back down to the van where I moved everything from my suitcase to the two shopping bags.  With four trips, Will and I transported everything we needed up those stairs.

We were staying in a two-bedroom unit with a full kitchen and two bathrooms.  That sounded rather luxurious until its simple truth was revealed.  The lights didn’t work in the bedroom – unless I wrapped the lamp cord just so around the bedside table.  Huge pieces of wallpaper were peeling off the wall under the windows. In looking for an outlet near the bed, I followed a lamp cord behind the bed but couldn’t see to find the outlet.  I pulled the headboard to move the bed away from the wall.  The headboard promptly fell off the wall; it was a wanna-be headboard. In my continued efforts to find the outlet, I leaned on the pillows – and the lamp went out.  When I pulled away from the pillows, the lamp came on.  I tested this phenomenon a dozen times, and it worked like a perfect lab test.

Once unpacked, I decided to watch TV before going to bed.  As I sat down, the creaking springs from the pull-out sofa stuffed inside made me jump.  I felt like I was atop an arrow firmly strung and ready to be launched from the bow.  That night, with the radiator heat spewing forth, I slept with the window six inches open; by morning it was a comfortable 66 degrees in the bedroom.  A hot shower sounded good.  Until I pulled back the shower curtain to see a washcloth under the faucet. The cloth was covered in neon orange goo.  The trail of orange led to the shampoo dispenser anchored above on the shower wall. The washcloth was the apparent “fix” to this leak.  I threw the cloth out and ran the water.  Six inches of the much-too-long shower curtain floated on the bottom of the tub.  Was I any cleaner when I stepped out?

In the wee morning hours at the table near the kitchen, I read the rules and instructions on how to best use our timeshares. Beyond these early morning hours when Will was still asleep, I couldn’t spend my daylight hours in this elevated pit. I dropped Will off each morning at ten to ski; then I donned my snowshoes or boots and went into the snowy landscape.

Out was better than in these three days in Vermont.  Out was pristine.

Check out the New England Photo Gallery for more shots of Snow at Stowe!