Well, we made it. We’ve gotten through (or almost, I guess) the cold and wind of another Maine winter, and we’re now ready to taste the dessert that we think about when we’re bundled up on the lift and thawing out frostbitten toes, fingers and noses abused by negative wind chills.

Spring skiing, and specifically long April (and occasionally May) sun-drenched days and soft corn, constitutes the perfect reward for having endured the abuses of January and February. And this year, even March has been uncharacteristically chilly.

The upside, of course, has been midwinter-like powder conditions day after day right through the vernal equinox. It’s hard to remember a year with such consistency, thanks to copious amounts of snow and the absence of a January thaw. And, it seems to me, grooming techniques and machinery that easily turn marginal conditions into superior corduroy, morning after morning.

But now it’s time to celebrate the silly season, when ski areas and skiers seem to pull out all the stops on conservative decorum and just let loose with planned and unplanned events, and general foolishness.

From cardboard box races and pond skimming competitions to costume parades and music fests, there’s nothing to compare with what some warm sun and spring conditions can do for both the psyche and the atmosphere.

Just think about the tempting aroma of sap boiling in the sugar house by the Sugarloaf base lodge, and of burgers grilling on the deck in the sun in front of Saddleback’s lodge.

From area to area there’s a palpable feeling of celebration, and just plain appreciation for the sport.

My mind always goes back to spring ski days of yore, when the sheer joy of celebrating the arrival of spring provoked Peter Roy (aka Captain America) to attempt his infamous descent of the Narrow Gauge in a refrigerator; when my old racing buddy, Rip McManus, thought it would be fun to ski down by the base lodge at then-Pleasant Mountain, leap off the banking above the parking lot, and land on (and substantially depress) the roof of my old yellow Plymouth; when Playboy Magazine sent a crew to capture in print and on film the Dump Party at the Carrabassett landfill just up past the Red Stallion, thus establishing Sugarloaf as one of the rowdiest spring skiing spots in the East.

How many of you remember the gatherings on The Beach, the deck on the South side of the original Harvey Boynton Ski Shop at Sugarloaf, and the throngs of occasionally scantily clad skiers ascending the metal roof to bask in the warm spring sun?

And how about the ever-popular pastime of assembling at the bottom of Chicken Pitch on Tote Road, in the days when we built moguls to bask in the sun and gasp at egg-beaters on the trail above us?

Perhaps one of the best historic examples of the foolishness some of us older denizens invented to occupy ourselves in April was the creation of the World Heavyweight Ski Championships. Credit must go to the now-deceased legendary sports journalist and television personality, Bud Leavitt, who, with yours truly, conceived of this unlikely way to bring a little notoriety to Sugarloaf.

Bud was the perfect symbol for this event that in the late 1960s and early 1970s gained some considerable traction.

The race was in the best tradition of charity fundraisers, as revenues were generated by charging competitors by the pound for every ounce over 250 pounds, but the quid pro quo was that they got a reciprocal benefit in seconds off their time. The heavier they were, the more they paid … but their chances of winning improved with every pound. So, although University of Maine (and later professional) football players Roger Ellis and Thurlow Cooper skied faster, 365-pound John Truden of Springfield, Massachusetts, was able to wipe out the field.

It was Bud who staged an early April photograph of me standing beside him on skis while he cast a dry fly in the stream as a gondola passed overhead, thus celebrating both spring skiing and the first day of fishing season. That made The Associated Press wire and appeared in newspapers as far away as Arizona.

So it was, back in the day, when foolishness prevailed on the slopes of Maine in the spring. And I, for one, love it that the same sense of release and joyous rambunctiousness survives to this day.

John Christie is a former ski racer and ski area manager and owner, a ski historian and member of the Maine Ski Hall of Fame. He and his son, Josh, write columns on alternating weeks. He can be reached at:

jchristie@fairpoint.net