All-Natural Wisconsin
Sitting around the crackling fire, we all toast “To the mountain!” and clink our Budweisers, bourbons and Napowan Nectars—a homemade cocktail named after the frozen lake just beyond the trees.
The “mountain” is five minutes down the road from my family cabin in rural Wisconsin, just three hours north of our childhood home in Chicago, IL. Almost all the ski runs at Nordic Mountain lead to the lodge, which always emits a distinct Midwest aroma—fryers frying everything under the sun, especially cheese. Its fragrance is strongest in the winter, but I only smell it during the walk from the car to the ticket office. I’m acclimated once my lungs fill with the sharp Wisconsin air.
I am the middle child of five. We all learned to ski at Nordic Mountain, most of us too young to remember. Maisie was for sure two, I mean three. Mom told her to say three instead—Nordic Mountain’s minimum age for ski school.
Subscribe for access to this article plus the entire archive of The Ski Journal content—and receive a discount on all products. Subscribe Now