The problem with the Blue Lodge, all these years later, is that when you try and honestly tell people about it, they just assume that you’re some kind of exaggerating psycho, who is out of touch with reality.
It’s actually a hilarious problem to have and I’m grateful for it.
This story starts up at the Cannon jump, which is way north, way up in Franconia Notch. GG Allin territory.
But I guess even before that, you need to know that we’re in Plymouth, New Hampshire, and the year is 1997. The first year many of us ever went onto the internet. My friends and I were doing donuts in the parking lot at Cannon Ski Area, I think it was Eric Larochelle, myself, and maybe Andy Benhardt.
So we’re probably in Eric’s Geo Storm ripping around the lot, cranking on the e-brake, when we discovered some sort of service road, which snaked through the woods and then emptied out into a huge open area. Freezing and icy, yet completely private, removed, not a soul in sight. Great for donuts.
However, as they came into view, we also noticed that out on the far end of the lot, there were two giant ski jumps with these crazy long landings. One had about eighty-feet of flat to clear, until the down-slope, and the other was closer to forty. We hiked up to inspect the takeoff and ended up hitting the smaller of the two. From then on we started bringing friends to the jump after good snowstorms. We just called it the ‘Cannon’ jump.
The Cannon jump. Whoever shot this (Mike Messenti, I think) has their back to the takeoff and what you see below is the landing. Built for distance with trees on each side, no satellite tricks! Open lot below is where we pulled in.
Estrada!
AUTUMN 1998
The next October we ended up borrowing a couple of those bright green Poulan chainsaws from Mike Barb, and Bri brought them up to the Cannon jump. We cut up fallen trees and reshaped the jump a bit, anticipating snow in a few short months. After the first big storm we braved 93 North up into the ‘Notch’ only to find the jump was somehow occupied! Another crew, some friggin’ woodboogahs, had a whole photoshoot going and we either didn’t feel welcome, or I think we were even told that we couldn’t hit the jump right now.
But thank god for that, or there would be no Blue Lodge. Really.
We followed a big orange snowplow back towards Plymouth, probably feeling discouraged. We had time to kill so we made a stop at LaHout’s, in Lincoln, to check in and grab some wax. We wove our way through racks of late-90’s ski suits and down to the basement ‘Snowboard Shop Area’ to lament about getting booted off of the Cannon jump to the familiar safety of Jared and Andrew, (local snowboard encyclopedias).
They started brain-storming and told us that there might be another jump back near our college, just outside of Plymouth, or at the very least, a place to build one. ‘You can see it off the highway, if you look out beyond the Pemigewasset River.’ They started talking about how there used to be a little ski area there called, ‘Lynx Creek’ and before that it was originally called, ‘Frontenac Ski Area.’ They said that in the forties and fifties people would take the train up from Boston and stay at the little lodge for ski camps, but it had been closed down for years.
We immediately got back on 93 South, but now we’re headed toward a ridiculous, unimaginable future.
At first we couldn’t figure out where the hell you’re supposed to turn off of Route 3 to access this place, although we did see it from the highway. It was out past the river, as they said it would be.
I think Eric had class and we bailed on it for a minute, but I decided I’d try going out solo, up Thurlow street and approach it from the top. I figured I was close when I turned left onto something called, ‘Ski Lift Road’ but it just looped, so I pulled over at the east end, put my boots and gloves on, and took off to wander around the woods, heading towards the sound of the highway.
Eventually I saw the top of the T-bar as I trudged through about a foot or two of snow, over dead branches, and colonial-era stone walls. It was almost getting dark as I walked out to the crest of the trail, but after a short ways I saw something that was so much more amazing than an old ski jump. I could hardly believe my eyes, there was this Swiss-chalet-styled ‘Blue Lodge’ sitting silently in the snow, in a clearing, at the base of the slope.
I could see my breath as I hustled back to the car to get my snowboard, doubled-back, and strapped in where it was steep enough to get some movement in the untouched snow. I probably got four or five turns in before I pointed it toward the lodge and carried right up to the side door, which faced the driveway. I unstrapped and went up a few steps to peer into the windows of a glossy red door with ornate little patterns hand-painted across the midrail. The door was cute, but I still figured that inside it was going to look like the restaurant from the Goonies.
To my surprise, it was actually pretty nice in there and from this window you were forced to look out over a giant bar-top, a slab of a fir tree covered in epoxy. The Pepsi-branded drink menu-board was still posted up behind it and you could see a row of chest freezers, Hobart dishwashing equipment, and giant stainless steel refrigerators. In the distance there was a main door with a lot of glass that faced the ski slope and rope tow. I made my way back down the step and through the snow to the giant deck. From there, I probably looked in every single window I could find. No Fratelli’s, nobody, nothing but room after room of crazy opportunity.
The next day I went to the town hall and inquired as to who owned ‘Frontenac Ski Area?’ They flipped through a giant directory until they found it. “George Greer,” they said, and then gave me his landline (since that’s all there was at this point in history). I called George’s house, down at Lake Winnipesaukee, and by the next summer I’m out waterskiing with him and spending the night at his place.
He was so hyped that we wanted to do anything with the space and give him twenty-five hundred dollars a month. The previous years of vacancy may have really worked in our favor, but in fairness, we had been running the ‘White Mountain Snowboard Camp’ for two winters already, just out of apartments, which I don’t think you’d get away with nowadays. I don’t know.
Regardless, the Director of the Andover Youth Services, Bill Fahey, had our back, and that was good enough for George.
One scary last minute detail though, the Lodge was zoned ‘Commercial’ so no one could sleep there at night. My heart sank as the last eight months of dreams started crumbling in my mind.
“Although,” George began, “You could house commercial staff on-site, if you register as an LLC, take out a multi-million dollar liability policy, and get a workers compensation package set up for any employees of this new venture.”
I should note here, I’m only twenty years old, I go to a state school because it’s close to ski hills and the kids party hard, so this all sounds very intimidating to me. Bill reassures me it’s doable and the next thing I know Preston’s dad, who was a CPA, helped me jump through all the bureaucratic bullshit in a couple of hours and we’re off to the ‘The Common Man’ for dinner, thanks Terry! At this point I had a list of seventeen friends who were officially employees of ‘The Blue Lodge LLC,’ home to the ‘White Mountain Snowboard Camp.’
It was nuts, I couldn’t believe it, but come September first, 1999, we were officially in business and took up residence with insane levels of excitement.
We lived at the Blue Lodge for two years, just over thirty of us in total. Each Sunday night we rotated cooking shifts and always had dinner together in the dining area. Afterwards, promptly at seven, we’d each take our dessert over to the living room, light up the giant fireplace, and watch the Simpsons.
In addition to running the snowboard camps every chance we got, we also rented out rooms to the Harvard and Tufts Snowboard Clubs. They packed in like really smart sardines covered in Patagonia gear. We loved having them and we often acted like total hillbillies when they were around, Mickey & Dave in particular. Pranking the future leaders of the world became an entertaining pastime for us.
And then of course, as long as George never got wind of it, we could always invite some of our twenty-thousand fellow Plymouth State undergrads over, throw crazy parties, charge five bucks at the door, and make bank. Our neighbor, Kathy, and her husband Rich, were into it. They asked if they could roast pigs and sell plates and jello shots in the front yard. I told them that we had no problem with that.
Fun fact: Billy Fahey, pictured here, was not only the Director for the Youth Services, he was also the bouncer at the famous Phoenix Club in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Why do we care? Because that means right around the time that he was making these tacos, his side-hustle on weekend nights included keeping Mark Zuckerberg from entering the club, which according to the movie ‘The Social Network,’ was a huge motivation behind him starting Facebook.
So next time you see Bill, thank him for AYS, for the Andover Skatepark, the Cormier Youth Center, for the Blue Lodge, for being a solid human, but also for being the gatekeeper who inadvertently spawned a multi-billion dollar empire that would change the world in really ridiculous ways.
VIDEO OVERVIEW
Ben Fee and I edited this ridiculously over-the-top montage of all things Blue Lodge to the sound of the Scorpions, mixed with the Berlin philharmonic orchestra, and the results are intense. May not be suitable for viewers averse to eighties ego-rock or folks who take life too seriously.
Pictured in the title card are Preston and Shane jumping off some pahkin’ garhaaage in Boston, or Woburn, or friggin’ Peeeabody guy.
Intro - 02:44