Pale morning sunlight poked seductively through breaks in thick clouds as the sleek, high-speed gondola purred quietly along its ribbon to the sky. Sitting comfortably inside, I watched my skis, attached to the outside of the red cubicle, whiz past the barren trees.

“This your first run today?” I asked the two young men seated across from me.

“Nope. We’ve come down already.”

The first guy balanced a snowboard between his boots. His heavy stubble told me that he had just rolled out of bed and headed directly for the slopes. Looks like me in the ’70s as I would dash to an 8 a.m. Psych 101 class, I thought.

“What’s it like?” I asked.

“New powder at the top. Awesome run.”

I noticed season lift tickets strapped around their arms in protective plastic cases. “You guys ski instructors?”

“Naw. We work in the ski dorm,” he answered.

“College students?”

“Uh, sort of post college …,” the second guy joined in. “We don’t know what we want to do yet.”

“Yeah, ski bums.” Snowboard smirked. “We get a season pass and hang out for a while.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that,” I said. “Now’s the time to do it.” I watched the base lodge grow smaller and smaller.

The sun grew brighter and I gaped at the incredible incandescent swirling patchwork of blue sky and clouds that scraped the eye-level 4,000-foot peaks and cast everchanging silvery shadows on the valley below. The gondola slowed to a crawl and wedged itself into the tracks of the summit station. The doors automatically slid open, Murphy Brown elevator-style, to release the compartment’s odd combination of characters onto an alpine stage.

Snowboard stepped out and his friend grabbed a pair of racing skis from the rack. “Have a good run, sir,” he said with a brand of politeness I found annoying. They saw me as their elder, someone to whom a respectful tone is due. So, maybe I’m not the scruffy vagabond anymore. But I’m not old.

We trudged onto the crunchy packed powder with our clunky ski boots and stepped into our respective sliding equipment.

Snowboard and Co. bolted gracefully down the mountain while I clung tentatively to the edge like a frayed piece of Velcro ready to be ripped loose at any moment. I was at that awkward stage in my skiing development — not a beginner but not quite good enough to navigate the intermediate trails without a tumble now and then.

There was a moment of hesitation — no, fear — as I looked at the steep pitch lying below me. I’m told that even experienced racers feel this trepidation every time they start out. I found little solace in the thought that Italy’s World Cup racer, Alberto Tomba, might be suppressing the same flutter before he hurtled down the slalom run in Stowe’s Annual World Military Ski Championships in March. After all, his warm-up probably consisted of a couple runs over the double black diamond “Nosedive” trail.

I pushed off and felt the rush of bitterly cold air against my cheeks. But I warmed quickly as I gently swooshed back and forth over the wide “Gondolier” trail, retracing the route we had just ascended to the crest of Mount Mansfield, Vermont’s highest peak. My skis danced over the glittering snow, the meticulous grooming, reminding me that, even here, I was never far from the amenities for which Stowe is renowned. From the five-course luncheon in a mountaintop restaurant to the ski-up deck and cafe featuring freshly baked muffins and croissants, I might just as well have been in Austria as northern New England.

If the slopeside accoutrements provided a few creature comforts with a quaint international flair, Stowe village was a cosmopolitan skier’s vision carried to the limit. Could the singing von Trapp family who settled the area in the 1940s have predicted their simple lodge would spawn the proliferation of the imitation-German inns, restaurants and gift shops that lined the main road through town? The Salzburg Inn, Winterhaus, Romy’s Alpen Haus, Timberholm Inn, The Stowehof Inn, The Yodler Inn …. Was it a parody run amok?

“I’m convinced that skiing is totally alien to the human survival mechanism.” These weren’t the words I wanted to hear, especially coming from Sherm White, the assistant ski school director.

We spilled out of the office and took the two-person chairlift up Morse Mountain. The lift reached the top and our skis skimmed the small hump in the terrain next to the attendant’s station. The chair pulled itself from my body as I stood up and slid away.

“Go ahead,” Sherm called. “I’ll follow you. I want to watch your form.”

I turned down the “Garden Path” trail. Imagining myself inside a big triangle, I skied back and forth down the trail.

“Good! Stop here.” Sherm magically appeared at my side. “I want to point out a few things.”

His easy, nonthreatening manner made me eager to hear his thoughts. He praised the things I was doing right and then gently made some suggestions for improvement. We skied a little bit further down the trail and then he offered additional pointers. Eventually we arrived back at the lift. We repeated the scenario several times that afternoon. By the end of the day, I felt that I was a better skier — a claim that I wouldn’t have made after spending a week in posh St. Moritz, Switzerland, several years ago.

With more than 200 ski instructors, Smugglers’ program for hiring and training personnel seemed gargantuan. A four-day job interview, including two days spent in a team-centered ropes adventure course, kicked off the selection process. In addition to technical skiing expertise, the key to a successful ski instructor was obviously an ability to work with people’s personalities and build trust.

David Lee Drotar of upstate New York is the author of “Hiking: Pure & Simple” and “Hiking the U.S.A.: A Sourcebook for Maps, Guidebooks & Inspiration,” (Stone Wall Press).