The Bag and Loaf
Not just another ski trip
The Bag at Sugarloaf is a classic, slopeside, bottom of the mountain, ski bar. I remember drinking a beer at the Bag when I skied “the Loaf” for the first time in February of 1975; I just walked out, not an hour ago, with the same, two beer, après ski buzz on. “Half in the bag isn’t half bad” so the sign hanging above the bar says. Amen.
Sporting obligatory dark sunglasses, I had one hundred yards to navigate in tightly buckled ski boots over freshly fallen snow, a pair of Solomons over my shoulder, occasionally catching the wind like a jib sail. Theoretically, check out time at the Sugarloaf Mountain Hotel, across the way, is eleven am. I wasn’t in a hurry in these conditions even though it was Friday morning and the parking lots would be filling up with new guests soon.
I was running at least an hour late getting to my rental car, packed with most of my things, and headed to Bangor International Airport, two hours away. But no worries, the hotel staff has been to this dance before. They are holding the doors open for me, treating me like royalty at this fine hotel at the base of the mountain, not far from the main lift at the resort. The only thing lacking at the Sugarloaf Mountain Hotel is a way to ski right into it. Just saying that it could be done if you were drunk and foolish enough to try.
I was spotted going up the mountain on the first Super Quad chair of the day, the bell hop reported. He looked older than me, but that’s to be expected in this part of Maine; the average age of the custodial staff at the hotel appears to easily qualify for Social Security. Men and woman working into old age at odd jobs to avoid spending their nest egg too early in this isolated and poor area of Maine where every penny counts. The demographics of this part of Maine skew elderly; there are not a lot of youngsters moving here, certainly no foreign workers of any kind to help out with the chores.
The day before, I had skied for about six hours and got in nearly twenty thousand vertical feet of skiing. Came back a wreck; making a scene as I hobbled through the hotel lobby, after storing my equipment away in the hotel locker room. I was at the Loaf to get in as many “old man” turns as I could, and it was duly noted by the staff at the hotel that I was keeping myself and them very busy.
At times it seemed like they were rooting for me — and not just to keep me skiing and out of their hair inside the hotel. We were all urging each other to fight through the arthritic pain of old age, though they were doing it on the job every day and I was having fun. Getting old isn’t for sissies; you got to keep moving. We acknowledged this painful truth as we said our goodbyes and I tipped them more than adequately for their fine service and wished them well. Hospitality where we all spoke the same language, imagine that!
What brought me here to Sugarloaf, on this solo ski trip, during the first week in March in 2025? Well, celebrating fifty years of skiing at this classic Maine Ski Resort for starters. I have skied Sugarloaf many, many times over the years and I have watched the Loaf grow into this, the second largest ski resort east of the Mississippi. Very impressive; never thought that I would see that happen.
I’ve been returning every decade or so to check up on a destination that has was a big part of my formative years of skiing and growing up. A touchstone of sorts, for a life spent on the slopes and in the mountains, adventuring on ski trips. The Loaf is more or less what I compare all other ski resorts to. The skiing here has always been unlike anything else in New England except maybe Jay Peak or Stowe. Big mountain skiing in the East.
I am also simultaneously reliving my past, while taking another critical assessment of my future skiing. Sugarloaf USA, as it was once called, is a great place to test your skiing abilities on steep and varied terrain. I determined, after overcoming some pain in my right knee this year, that I am not ready to hang the boards up just yet. All in all, the trip was a success.
I skied well enough this year— all four days on snow! I tackled a few black diamond trails and even once ventured into something more difficult, White Nitro, an ungroomed double black diamond with a steep pitch and plenty of heaves and moguls. Fortunately, the snow was soft that day, almost spring like conditions. I find that easier at this age to navigate.
I was also skiing Sugarloaf, perhaps one last time, paying my respects to Roger “Tally” Foster, a great skier and fellow Colby College grad, who passed away on February 28, 2025, in a memory care unit in Westford Mass at 76. Tally was a fixture at the Loaf in the early seventies, and though we never skied there together, we did numerous trips to Tuckerman’s Ravine, Cannon, and Wildcat later in life. We had the same love of the mountains, skiing, and the same vintage Lange boots for a while!
When I last visited Tally back in June of 2023, we talked about the great times that we had at the Loaf and in the Bag, and I promised him that I would ski Narrow Gauge on the upper mountain for him if I could, one last time. I would certainly hoist and toss down a cold draft at the Bag, that was the least that I could do for him. He told me that he gave up skiing and drinking at age seventy when things started to go south HealthWise for him. He was proud of his sobriety but ashamed to admit that he was a shell of his former physical self in his seventies.
I’m also skiing solo because I have reached an age when it is preferable to ski alone. I can still make the turns, handle the difficult terrain, but I couldn’t keep up with really good skiers these days. I’ve lost my confidence for one thing. I know this because I haven’t fallen in the last several outings; I am not comfortable getting aggressive, and I am skiing with some trepidation. Quite honestly, I am thinking about the pain of falling and the difficulty I would have getting myself up. That is no way to ski.
I do not have the confidence in my abilities that I had just two years ago. I am also just not as strong as I was on my last ski trip. Various heart issues and a daily regimen of beta blockers, blood thinners, and statins have sapped the stamina that I once had, not long ago. The one thing that I have to hold onto, however, is my leg strength, balance, my reflexes, and foot speed. The turns were flowing, one right after another, on this ski trip to the Loaf, and for that I am eternally grateful. There is hope.
Five to six inches of snow fell overnight, settling into the narrowest of trails at random corners and even on the leeward side of the steeps. The temperatures were tumbling back into the twenties on a sporadic, howling wind and the snow was still falling, like specks of dirt flying in the desert. Hard little pellets scouring my face as I skied and sticking to my goggles. Winter returning after two balmy, foggy weather days before. The pendulum swinging from one extreme to another: past and future, hot and cold, slick and powdery, blustery and still.
It did not take me long to find out where the good snow was holding. I kept my skis and head pointed down the slope and skied alone, on the lookout for untracked snow, without hardly stopping for three straight hours. Never so much as shared a chairlift ride with anyone, nor did I have to contend with a single boarder pressing me from above. The shrieking of the hardened snow getting plowed by the sharp edge of the board, like I did yesterday all day long.
You realize just how annoying it is, on a day like this one, where the silence of the snow is like a blanket settling over you as you nap. It was strangely peaceful at the Loaf, and I let that sink in on my last lift ride. Like Tally, I may never get back to ski here again I thought to myself; we are all following in the footsteps of others, so to speak. Time to savor every last turn just in case and make the best of these fine conditions that I have found here mid mountain.
Over the last few years, Sugarloaf has added cat skiing, more glade skiing, additional terrain parks, and more ungroomed back country runs in Bracketts Basin, to the legendary snow fields that Sugarloaf was famous for. A hundred acres or so above the tree line, though not open for skiing this past weekend. It is one of the few places in the East where you can ski as they do out west, without concern for grooming, trails, and ropes. Plenty of elbow room.
I skied the snowfields once or twice in pretty good conditions in the past. Most of the time they are icy, windswept, and gnarly, however. Back in the day, you could ride a small Gondola to the top of this mountain, and it would not be uncommon to see a hang glider launch overhead, shadowing your run as you headed down the face of the mountain at breakneck speed. The pilot with skis on his feet. As if skiing above tree line wasn’t dangerous enough; lets add wings and flight as well!
The only thing that is better than a great day of great skiing, is sitting in a great ski saloon after a great day of skiing, holding court and making great points with a great draft beer in your hand. Sugarloaf has always had a reputation for having great skiing and great fun. The Red Stallion down the street in Kingfield was infamous in skiing circles; perennially making the top ten list of ski town saloons for all the right reasons. Back in the day, Sugarloaf had just the right mix of college students, draft dodgers, Hippies, and off the grid, rugged and crazy Maniacs. A splash of French Canadians from across the border too, just for color.
That was my assessment which the few people sitting within earshot at the Bag appreciated hearing. Someone had asked me a question. At seventy-two, and fifty years out of nearby Colby College, I can pass for a regular here. I blend in well in Northern Maine, very familiar with the territory. I can trot out the down east accent and use it at will if necessary and I can be amusing under certain circumstances.
I also have a certain look of credibility when it comes to the drinking and skiing scene here at the Loaf. “So where should we hang out tonight?” the group asked. “I wouldn’t move if I were you” I suggested. It’s Friday night and there will be good music here later. The Bag attracts quality acts. I certainly, sounded like I knew what I was talking about. There was still snow melting off my Nordica boots at the time and I had just taken my first pull on a pint of locally brewed Joe Stout. “A barley sandwich” an old ski buddy of mine used to call it.
The drive in and out of the Loaf follows the Kennebec and Carrabassett rivers like the grey veins on the back of my old man hands. The small cities and towns along the route in from route 95 look very much like they did in 1975. Skowhegan Maine for example looks exactly as it did fifty years ago which is not a compliment. My family roots there go back much further. We Danes settled in this area of Maine around the civil war; family lore suggests that someone in our family tree may have left a small fortune there buried in a family plot. No one has found it yet!
I needed this ski trip which came at just the right time for me. I cancelled out of the BC backcountry ski trip this year and then gained 15 unwanted pounds after the Holidays. Late in December after concerning results from a ten-day Holter monitoring, I was advised that I am a candidate for a pacemaker eventually. Evidently, I have frequent bouts of irregular heartbeats. I had to curtail my training and change my medications as a result of the diagnosis.
Roger’s certain demise had been discussed since the New Year, and it was time to bury those negative thoughts and move on. It is too easy to get caught up in the self-pity that accompanies old age— particularly with the loss of old friends and abrupt changes in circumstances that comes with medical issues and other impairments. Better to focus on the future and keep your eyes on the terrain that you will be skiing soon. Life is for the living after all.
My dad, who lived well into his nineties used to tell me that life was all about anticipation— preparing yourself for what you should expect next. He was obviously not wrong about that, and the advice that he offered me was good and I took it to heart. Some of us are just wired differently, for me the operative word is reflection. I have a hard time letting go of the past, the good times that I have enjoyed, as well as the bittersweet defeats that I have endured. I spend as much time looking backwards as I look forward it seems.
Skiing the Loaf, taking a ski trip here at this stage in my life was an eye-opening experience. I love this place which hardly resembles the ski area that I first encountered at twenty-two. The vibe is still the same, but the accommodations and the infrastructure is much improved. The skiing is no better than I remember it, just that there is much more terrain to explore, and the snowmaking is top notch. It did my heart good to see the place thriving, as much or more so than it did in the seventies. However, in the end I had to admit that Sugarloaf was moving on without me. I may not be back here again; my days of skiing above tree line are limited.
I close my eyes, and I can see myself at this resort in every decade over the last fifty years. Skiing Sugarloaf with roommates and friends from Colby. Taking a trip to the loaf in my thirties, before children, and reconnecting and reuniting again with skiing friends. Visiting Sugarloaf with family, taking my daughters on trips to tour the small colleges of the north; showing them this gem of a resort which is skied by serious students from a half dozen good colleges within a three-hour drive. It is a hard resort to reach, but worth the drive once you get there.
The fog earlier in the week had taken big bites out of the snow on the frozen streams leading out of the valley. My drive out was more graphic than the ride in. I could see the dark blue water churning up through the ice like a caldron, bubbling over in agitation. I had survived another ski trip to the Loaf and already my mind was consumed by this thought that I just couldn’t shake for the next hour: where would I ski next?
