Down time

At Loon Mountain, disabled skiers discover that where there's a hill, there's a way

Instructors Taylor White (left) and Joanne Clark take a run with Alexandra ‘‘Dolly’’ Ross, 7, at Loon Mountain in Lincoln, N.H. (Boston Globe Photo / Aram Boghosian)

Cruising down white ribbons of trails on Loon Mountain, swarms of skiers stream into view.

Among the expected packs of families and snowboarders with Red Bull-stuffed pockets, there are some less common sights: people who zip across the snow on tethered sleds, or ride in bucket seats attached to skis. Figures in fluorescent-orange "blind skier" vests crisscross to shouted commands from closely shadowing coaches.

At the White Mountain Adaptive Snowsports School at Loon, the rush of the slopes can be an experience for everyone.

Every weekend, the school's volunteer instructors from north of Boston and southern New Hampshire drive two or more hours to Loon, in Lincoln, N.H. - frequently braving slippery rides or white-out conditions near the mountain-carving Kancamagus Highway - to introduce skiing and other snow sports to physically or cognitively disabled children and adults.

"Our goal is to get them to the highest level of ability as possible," volunteer instructor Beth Potier of Durham explained as she stood at the base of the wind-whipped mountain, snow gathering in a pile on her wool hat. "We want to remove as much equipment as we can so they're skiing as much as possible on their own."

"I love to ski, and I like to see people with different abilities be able to ski, too," said instructor Barbara White of West Newbury, who coaches alongside her three grown children. She added: "It's an equalizing playing field. You can be in a wheelchair and kick butt on the mountain."

Introduced in the 1980s, the school has roughly 200 volunteer coaches from all over Massachusetts and New Hampshire, ranging from college students to doctors to deans. "Our instructors are completely diverse," said coach John Imbrescia of Lynnfield.

Ski students, too, trek in from around New England - a few even from upstate New York and New Jersey. Some, including Chris Devlin-Young and Laurie Stephens, have gone on to compete in the Paralympics, the official Olympic games for disabled athletes.

As of mid-February, the program had held 1,300 lessons this season. On weekends, that could be as many as 80 a day, with at least two coaches going out with every disabled skier.

Given its popularity, WMASS' headquarters at Loon's base lodge - lined with clothing-stuffed cubicles, squat benches, and neatly lined rows of adaptive equipment - can become a chaotic jumble of puffed-coat-jostling bodies and snow-melting ski boots before and after weekend lessons. By next season, the largely donation-driven program hopes to move into a new 2,300-square-foot, $500,000 facility at the mountain.

As they slipped out of damp clothing and wrung icy hands in the cramped space on a recent snowy Sunday, local volunteers explained that - in addition to the joy of skiing - they're lured by the network of people. Many are parents or siblings to disabled individuals, so the program gives them a place to swap stories and share concerns.

"The sense of despair can be overwhelming," said coach Andrea Harney of Winthrop, mother of a 26-year-old daughter with autism. "It goes beyond teaching."

Relationships are formed on the slopes, too - Imbrescia said he has been to eight weddings of people who met through WMASS.

"You get such a feeling of accomplishment," he said. "You really do change people's lives."

He described one particularly touching case involving a nonverbal man with cerebral palsy who could only stick out his tongue to indicate "yes" or close his mouth for "no."

One afternoon, without his father's knowledge, instructors zipped him down a black-diamond trail in a bucket sled. Later, Dad was crying: Given his limitations, his son had never before had the chance to be "naughty."

"There are so many of these kinds of stories," Imbrescia explained as he stood at the base of the mountain below the converging trails.

He pointed to a young man winding down the slope in a tethered bucket sled; despite his wind-burned face and dripping nose, he was grinning. "Look at the smile," Imbrescia said.

Other instructors agreed that the experience is inspiring - but very often a challenge, as well.

When teaching, for instance, coaches have to adapt, noted White: They can't simply say "put your feet together like a pizza wedge" and expect students to understand.

"You have to figure out how they see the world," White, a professor who works in the occupational therapy department at the University of New Hampshire, said between spoonfuls of chocolate pudding at the base lodge. "It's about careful instruction and one-on-one."

Seated beside her, her 20-year-old son, Colin, added that getting students to have fun can also be trying. Sometimes, they get dizzy or nauseous; others will retreat into themselves. But when they do let go, it can be "exhilarating."

And also life-altering, noted Dr. Robert Harney of Winthrop, a coach who skis with his 26-year-old autistic daughter, Kimberly.

By nature, Kimberly is introverted, socially immature, and slow to process information. "You can say to her, 'Hi, how are you?' and by the time she says "I'm fine," you're off on something else," said Harney, a surgeon with North Suburban Orthopedic Associates. "But this has brought a personality out, for sure."

It has similarly improved her balance and social skills, he said.

Her mother, Andrea, agreed. "It gives her something to look forward to. She has a sense of pride in being able to go out there and see the black diamonds."

Sitting beside her parents in the humid base lodge, eyes downturned, Kimberly sipped from a plastic water bottle. Red polish colored her nails; a white scrunchie held back her long brown hair.

When not riding the slopes, she bowls, plays golf and basketball, rides her bike independently, goes out dancing with her boyfriend, Bobby, and bakes bread at the Winthrop Marketplace.

When asked what she enjoys about skiing, she answered in a slow whisper, "It's nice being out here with my friends."

She grew silent, fidgeting with the strap on a puffy white lunch box.

After a beat, she added, "Doing it myself."

The nonprofit WMASS is supported largely through donations and fund-raising events, as well as membership dues and program fees. Its largest annual fund-raiser - raising $70,000 of the program's roughly $139,000 annual budget - is the Kostick Kup, to be held on Saturday at Loon. The event includes a daytime race and a nighttime silent auction and dinner; money raised goes toward general operating expenses and the purchase of adaptive ski equipment.

For more on the program, check dsusa-ne.org.