On the top of Our Mountain, Mt. Mansfield, there sits an old stone
hut. You can rent it for the night
through the winter, which can be an adventure. It is now very sought after and a prized ticket to win the
lottery and gain a night in the hut.
It’s not always been so.
This is a story about the day the state almost tore the Stone Hut
down. But first some background.
The Stone Hut, perched on the top of Mt. Mansfield, was built in
1936 by the Civilian Conservation Corps. Many of the same men who cut some of
Stowe’s first ski trails also built the hut, which served as a shelter for the
workers, hikers and skiers. At some point in its long history the hut became
the property of the state’s department of Forests, Parks and Recreation.
The State conducts a lottery each fall and lucky winners are
assigned a night during winter to sleep in the rustic cabin. The resort allows ‘Stone Hutters’ to
ride up a ski lift at the end of the day to reach the hut. If stone hutters miss the lift it’s
walk or give it up. Once on the
summit of the mountain hutters are on their own.
A wood stove heats the cabin and, although the state provides
firewood, campers are responsible for everything else, from kindling to cooking.
Once the lifts shut down and the top
stations locked up, staying in the Stone Hut is truly winter camping. And in the hut, with the darkness, the inevitable
smoke filling the room, the heat from sweaty bodies contrasted to the cold
stone walls, it is as close to medieval we will ever come.
For many years the allure of such rustic camping on the top of a
mountain, being able to greet the dawn on Mansfield in silence and peace, just
wasn’t that popular. And that
brings us to today’s story.
Sitting some weeks ago in the ski patrol hut, on a day before the
good snows came, sitting and drinking coffee rather than skiing in the rain,
another patroller, Brian Lindner, and I started talking about the Stone
Hut. I think I noticed there was
smoke coming out of the chimney or said something about people being in the hut
earlier than usual. Brian didn’t
respond directly. He said ‘I can
tell you a story about the day the state told me to tear that hut down.’
Two summers in the early Seventies Brian worked as a Straw Boss running
summer crews of the Youth Conservation Corps. What could be better?
Young, strong and enthusiastic people working all summer improving the
trail system, building shelters and otherwise making themselves useful.
This nice summer’s day long ago Brian was sent with a crew to
Mansfield to do some trail work.
As he was heading out one of his bosses said ‘and tear down that stone
hut up there.’ It seems the
department was sick of the responsibility of caring for the hut. At the time no one really used it anymore;
to those running the program it was a nuisance. But the order didn’t sit well with Brian. Brian grew up with
Mansfield and the Hut as backdrop; his father ran the hut in the ‘40s and ‘50s.
He did take his crew out.
They worked their way up the mountain. Idealistic kids, fit as rain, made their way up the steep
slopes of Mansfield. When they got
to the top they stopped for a break in the shadow of the hut.
While the crew munched on their snacks and drank their water,
Brian told them the order from Montpelier. We can imagine some of the group looking up, stopping as
they chewed their PB&J’s, others carrying on, not really hearing or caring.
Brian said something to the effect, before we tear it down, maybe
they’d all like to know a bit of its history. A few of the crew likely nodded. A story beats work.
Young men and women leaning back against the rocks, faces into the sun, arms
behind heads, feet crossed; A story beats work.
Brian probably told them about Charlie Lord and the otherhardscrabble ski pioneers who built the original trails. How they worked to carve paths down the steep chaos of our
mountain. How they had a vision
for making turns down steep slopes on long wooden skis. How hard it must have been – compared
to cutting a hiking trail – to cut the Bruce or the Nose Dive Curves or old
S-53. How on one summer’s day,
someone sitting right where they were sitting, might have decided it was a good
idea to build a stone hut. And
they just did it. They didn’t
study it, or fundraise for it, or contract it out. They stopped what they were doing and built a camp hut,
stone by stone, on the top of the State’s highest mountain. And it wasn’t even for them. It was for us.
Brian doesn’t really remember who, but one of the crew stood up
and said, ‘no!’ I’m not going to tear it down!’ The others joined in.
This was the early 1970’s, so getting students to protest was
about as hard as asking them to drink beer. On the other hand, Brian struck a nerve. These kids were
builders and creators. They would
appreciate, after a summer trying to move probably more than one large chunk of
Mansfield granite off a trail, the incredible effort and difficulty required to
build the hut. It would not be in
their nature to want to tear it down.
And so they didn’t.
Brian asked if they were refusing. They said yes.
They stood there for a minute.
Brian said ‘okay.’ That was
that. The crew picked up their tools and got back to productive trail work. The next day, when Brian reported in,
no one asked about the Stone Hut. Brian
didn’t volunteer a word. It never
came up again.
A good day’s work, the day the crew wouldn’t tear down the smoke
filled hut on the top of Mansfield.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2013 David Rocchio
