Jack Drury repairs a broken ski in the backcountry. (Provided photo — Jack Drury)

As ice starts to form on the lake, the days get shorter and the ski season is upon us, I’m reminded of the winter of 1978-79. Lake Placid was abuzz with preparations for the 1980 Winter Olympics, and I was still working on establishing a career in the outdoors.

I’d spent two seasons leading adjudicated youth on wilderness adventures, a couple of winters on the ski patrol at the Lake Placid Club’s Mount Whitney, a winter working at Joe Pete Wilson’s ski shop and started teaching some outdoor courses for NCCC. When a new opportunity arose to get paid to work outdoors, I jumped at it. Dick Beamish, communications director of the Adirondack Park Agency, decided to turn his cabin on McCauley Pond into a cross-country ski lodge.

Marketing was critical to a venture like Dick’s and before the advent of computers, the internet and social media, getting the word out about his Adirondack Shangri-La was challenging, to say the least. Dick was the perfect person to do it: Over the years, he’d developed relationships with writers at the New York Times, so a one-sentence blurb in the Times travel section would fill two weeks at McCauley Pond.

His goal for the first winter was modest. He’d run seven or eight one-week adventures where folks would stay in his cabin, go on guided ski trips during the day and come back for home-cooked meals in the evening. Beyond that, there was entertainment ranging from live music to travelogues up Mount Everest. I was one of two guides, with expertise in the outdoors, cross-country skiing and natural history.

The cabin wasn’t in the middle of the wilderness; it was three-tenths-of-a-mile down an unplowed road. It curled downward, dropping a hundred feet to the lodge. Those guests who could, skied it, but most walked it. I carefully observed the guests as they walked in. It was a good indicator of what kind of shape they were in, for me as their guide: The really good skiers were disappointed because the trips weren’t ambitious enough and the folks in lousy shape were disappointed because they thought the trips too strenuous. Our ideal clients were competent skiers in reasonably good shape who wanted to experience some modest backcountry skiing.

By the end of the second season, I was burned out from tending to clients’ needs. I’ve always considered myself a patient guide, but two winters of too many skiers in too lousy shape had taken their toll. I’d had it with folks who weren’t prepared to ski and snowshoe. They were in such poor shape that they thought walking down to the lodge was the equivalent of climbing the Matterhorn.

One person stood out — for all the wrong reasons. She moved at a pace that would make a slug look speedy. On skis she wobbled and windmilled with poles, clattering and breath puffing. For six long days, I’d coaxed and steadied her along short, flat stretches of trail. All I got for my efforts was a late winter sunburn, and all she got was frustrated and exhausted. Any hint of a hill — up or down — caused panic and she’d hyperventilate. Nothing in my extensive repertoire of ski instruction techniques worked. By the sixth day, I was at the end of my rope.

How did I cope with her? Musically, that’s how. And I mean that in the loosest sense of the word. I’m a hopelessly poor guitar player — the kind who can turn “Don’t Worry Be Happy” into a cry for help. I call myself a closet musician for good reason. But by the end of my second season at Adirondack Ski Tours, I came out of the closet and penned my first — and wisely, my last — musical composition.

It was the final day of the season, one of those glorious, sun-splashed March afternoons when the snow glistened on the trail. We were gliding along what is now the Rail Trail, the air crisp enough to sting my cheeks but warm enough to make me believe spring might actually arrive.

The woman was skiing her way ahead of me. I’m being wildly generous calling it skiing. She inched along the trail in a sort of half-shuffle, half-wobble that produced a faint, rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch. At her pace, a tortoise could have passed her and reached the lodge with enough time to stretch, hydrate and file its taxes before she arrived.

Somewhere in the middle of being trapped in this pathetic excuse for exercise, inspiration struck — and my one and only musical composition sprang forth!

Never in my life had a decent poem, song or creative thought wandered through my brain. But right then, out of nowhere, my mind whipped up a tune called “Springtime Is Coming to the Adirondacks.” It bounced around whatever part of the brain handles ideas and came to me like an unexplained gift.

And for your musical and intellectual pleasure, here from Bushwhack Jack, is “Springtime is Coming to the Adirondacks”:

Springtime is coming to

the Adirondacks

The ice is melting on the

lakes and ponds.

Springtime is coming to

the Adirondacks

The Olympics are over,

and the snow is gone.

Spring comes just once a year

The flowers start blooming,

and I’m glad I live here.

The grouse start drumming,

put away your skis,

Get out the canoe and put

your mind at ease.

[chorus]

I have no need for politics

and government,

All I want is harmony

and life’s content.

Jimmy’s talking of Olympic boycotts,

DEC and APA’s the

government we got.

[chorus]

Adirondack Ski Tours is

finished for another year.

I can’t help it, but I

just want to cheer.

Out-of-shape people

and skiers that are lazy,

Have just about gone

ahead and driven me crazy.

[chorus]

The next summer, I got hired full-time at NCCC. This ended both my guiding and musical career. As much as I loved teaching, I never forgave NCCC for preventing my chance to headline at the Grand Ole Opry.