Cochran's heart, soul go on

to know Mickey Cochran better. I knew he was the guy behind the bullwheel,

barely visible amid his machinery, camouflaged by his greasy coveralls. But I

was too intimidated to approach a Skiing Legend. From what I’ve learned in the

past couple of weeks, I gather he’d have gotten a laugh out of that.

    Even though I didn't know him well, I was always intensely worried about his

health. If he died, what would become of Cochran's? Then I learned a few weeks

ago that he was gravely ill. I selfishly feared the worst: that if I couldn't

get in another visit this year, I never would.

    Fortunately, that’s not the case. Thanks to the efforts of an energetic group

of people who appreciate Cochran’s for the gem it is, the ski area will

continue to operate. That’s great news for Vermont skiing.

    The first time I tried to find Cochran's, I must have driven past that

weather-beaten little sign five times before it caught my eye. Easing into the

driveway by the house, I felt like a trespasser. A dog barked at my beat up

Volkswagen. My dog returned fire. The driveway gave way to a couple of very

muddy parking lots, and for a moment I feared never making it back out.

    When I was fairly certain I had found a space that wouldn’t swallow my car, I

got out and had my first look around. What I saw was a humble little community

ski hill spread across a gentle north-facing hillside, and it was swarming

with little kids.

    For me, it was love at first sight. Part of the appeal was that it resembled

the hill I grew up on 40 miles away -- now gone, like virtually all Vermont’s

small ski areas.

    I was delighted to see a working rope tow. Hadn’t seen one of

those in 20 years. But the real action was on the littlest lift, the Mighty-

Mite, where knee-high skiers clung for dear life on the way up so they could

bomb back down in perfect little flying wedges, unconcerned by repeated near-

collisions with their hill-mates.

    I booted up, clicked into my skis, and since it appeared that the way to get

to the rope tow was to first ride the Mighty-Mite, I got in line between tikes

and grabbed a bar.

    I was the only one on the tow who measured more than three-

and-a-half feet, so I had to scooch my 6-3 frame down to avoid clotheslining

my half-dozen pint-sized liftmates. I’m fairly certain there is no videotape

of the incident. I’ve since learned that it is much quicker -- not to mention

far more dignified -- to simply skate-and-pole up to the rope tow.

    Ah, the rope tow. It runs parallel to the T-bar, through the woods to the

top. I was lucky that day: Mickey had it running. U.S. downhiller Doug Lewis

-- a veteran of Cochran’s races -- is said to have remarked that Cochran’s has

both the world’s slowest and fastest lifts. The rope tow is as fast as the T-

bar is poky, and when it’s running, you can cover as much terrain (I won’t say

vertical feet) as anywhere in Vermont. The thing rips, and you’d better be

ready when you grab on.

    The rope tow whisked me to the top, making quick work of the 400 vertical

feet. I soon had the wind rushing past my ears, though it hadn’t been five

minutes since I slammed my car door.

    The terrain was gentle and rolling, and since there was only natural snow,

and not more than five inches of it, the surface followed every natural

contour of the hill. This keeps you on your toes if you’re used to the

homogenized feel of groomed runs.

    A few bare patches poked through, but they were grassy, not rocky. This is

another Cochran’s hallmark. Mickey knew that a little grass can’t hurt a ski

base, though exposed rock can. So he guarded against erosion, keeping his

heavy machinery -- and pesky mountain bikers -- off the ski hill.

    I cycled perhaps 20 times up the rope tow, getting to know the three trails

and practicing in the gates set up on I-89. They were apparently there to be

used by whoever wanted to -- a rare thing at most hills. It was a pleasant way

to spend eight bucks and a Sunday afternoon.

    By the time I decided to peek in the lodge, I was already sold on the place.

What I saw there cemented my adoration.

    Evidently, the place had been recently savaged by hordes of children. Toys

and mittens and peanut butter sandwich crusts littered the floor. Children’s

ski equipment cascaded from a doorway at one end. A noisy knot of toddlers had

logged the ski day and were now alternately playing and arguing in the corner.

    A yawning teen-ager manned the snack bar window, selling candy bars and

cookies and hot chocolate. And the walls were covered with photos:

professional shots of the handsome Cochran kids -- Marilyn and Barbara and

Bobby and Lindy -- and amateur shots of the countless kids who have skied

Cochran’s.

    The best part was the race bibs, which hung from the rafters -- mementos,

obviously, from the racing careers of the Cochran kids, who from the humblest

beginnings raced to the highest peaks in ski racing.

    Side-by-side hung bibsfrom Ascutney and Val d’Isere, from Smuggs and Kitzbuehel.

There was even one from the 1972 Sapporo Olympics, where Barbara Ann won the gold

and Bobby came so close. And there it hung, above a table still strewn with the juice spills

and lunchtime detritus of unimpressed 8-year-olds.

    As I left, I vowed to return. And the sleepy teen began the daunting task of

cleaning the place up.

    Little ski areas are wonderful things. They are the heart and soul of

skiing. Cochran’s is doubly special because Mickey and his wife, Ginny, always

knew what was important, which was getting kids to the top of a snowy slope,

then letting the appeal of skiing take over. To do that, you don’t need 2,000

vertical, six-minute quads and fleets of groomers. A grassy, north-facing

slope with a few serviceable surface lifts works fine.

    Smallness even has advantages. Where else can you park your carload of kids

within 50 yards of the lift, and be on the hill in minutes? (And then be able

to leave three hours later, when their enthusiasm flags, instead of forcing

them to stay because you’ve got $100 and an entire day invested.)

    From top to bottom, Cochran’s is the hill that Mickey built. It reverberates

with his presence, from the snowguns and ski tows that he designed or

redesigned, to the scatterings of vintage bulldozers and Ski-Doos that lurk in

the bushes, right where he could find them when he needed a part. It will

surely miss him.

    The good news is that it will live on without him. With the blessing of the

family, a group of Cochran’s regulars has stepped up to run the hill as a non-

profit. It will lease the land from Ginny, generating a needed retirement

income for her. There is even talk of modest improvements: a fresh coat of

gravel for the parking lot, some sprucing up, enough additional snowmaking to

ensure decent skiing when the weather doesn’t cooperate.

    Running a ski area takes money, and a capital campaign is planned. I hope

people will give what they can. More importantly, I hope that more people,

especially in Chittenden County, will discover and utilize a great community

asset.

    If you haven’t been to Cochran’s, you owe it to yourself to ski the hill that