Somewhere beyond the slopes of Jay Peak and Stowe, amongst hidden river valleys and thick forests, there are lines waiting to be skied. Big lines. With skins, bikes, perhaps a canoe, these lines hold snow late into the season, serving up 40-plus degree chutes and deep, mid-winter tree lines to eastern skiers willing to seek them out. These old mountains still have some tricks up their sleeves. Sometimes, you just have to dig a little deeper to find them.

The Appalachians are old, hoary-bearded mountains. Listen to them closely, and they will tell you their story.

They’ll say that in their youth, eons ago, tectonic orogenies thrust them to jagged and glorious Himalayan heights, and that they had strength and swagger and geologic sex appeal. But their elders—the sun and the wind; the snow and the rain—had the greater powers of patience and persistence. Indeed, they had all the time in the world. The elements eroded the mountains’ noses and chins, their shoulders and hips, their spines and rumps, until, 480 million years later, the Appalachians became mature rounded hillocks in repose, rolling off into the horizon…

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