The news about Black came out of the blue. And it left me emotionally black-and-blue.
Black Mountain, in Jackson, N.H., was never one of the leading ski resorts of North America. Its lifts were antiquated, its grooming episodic, its lodge primitive, its terrain idiosyncratic. Almost nobody got on an airplane to spend a week at Black Mountain. Almost nobody in recent years even got in a car to spend a day at Black Mountain.
All of those things are why I love the place. All of those things are why the morning I heard the news that Black would not open this year set me into mourning—and why the next week, when the rescue of Black was announced, I felt I had a new lease on life.
Resurrection on a hill in the Mount Washington Valley!