I went skiing last winter for the first time in 25 years. A refreshingly quaint area in my new town got me with its “Home of the Fifteen Dollar Ticket” promotion. I could not bear missing the fun when grand baby, three-year-old “little man” Jack started bombing the runs.

On a beaten, old pair of donated boards and used boots, I wobbled back on roots first carved in a valley called Hidden, above Estes Park, Colorado. I don’t remember what lift tickets cost at Hidden Valley in 1962 but I don’t think it was all that much less than the 15 bucks at Black – an inconceivable warp in time.

Never a gifted skier, with luck, pluck and precious little grace I learned to survive any terrain the Rockies threw at me. I skied through college and beyond, spending weekends bashing through traffic from Boulder to parts west, over mountains, surviving blizzards and drinking occasional peppermint Schnapps in hot chocolate.

After finding new love late in life, inexplicably, I followed my damsel to the back woods of Maine last year. No bard informed this western man, Mainers are like salmon, they always return home. I was on boards once again, as well as the governing board of this intriguing ski area with a storied past and a history of surviving, one season at a time.

Black Mountain of Maine is organized as a tax-deductible, not-for-profit and it lives up to the model merely because not enough people are yet hip to the secret. Black is not about making a fortune, only mirth and merriment for those fortunate enough to discover this gem.

Ten years ago a white queen in the form of a well-endowed foundation rescued Black and over that time about 10 million dollars in improvements were made. Black now has a triple chair going all the way to the top and boasts the fourth largest vertical in the state, not bad, and snow making, not necessarily state-of-the-art, but artfully stitched together by a brilliant mountain manager and his knights of round bogey wheels.

There is a charming new post-and-beam lodge with an intimate bar and killer chili in the kitchen (among a host of other deliciousness). Because city slickers ran the foundation, they paid to pave the parking area so as not to sully their shoes — no slogging through mud in the spring, no toddlers gone missing in sinkholes.

But the predictable happened. Having other dragons to slay, the well-endowed queen decided to stop throwing money into Black’s pit. Our sugar cookies stopped last summer and opening the area this season was just not going to happen. At the press conference to announce this dark turn of events, tears from the littlest of the little people flowed freely.

Then a miracle happened. The little people said “Wait, what can we do?” Calls echoed all over the land. They mounted steeds and fundraisers, bracelets appeared, purchased with coin of the realm, worn as amulets against the darkness of lights switched off, lifts not operating and chili not warmed. Children promoted fundraising runs and cracked open their piggy banks. Local banks, not piggy and not too-big-to-fail, heard the cries and magic matching grants began to appear.

The well-endowed queen heard the clamor, had a big heart under her hardware and did the honorable thing. She donated all the assets of the area, 10 million or so, to the little people of Rumford, backwoods Maine. It’s up to us now, as it should be, to fall or flow or flounder or fly – as we will.

I’ve noticed the people at Black are friendly, not because they trained to be, but because they’re western-mountain honest; if you forget gloves or hat or wallet on the table, chances are it’ll still be there after your run. There are even free cubbies to stash your stuff – imagine, an area not bent on hoarding the last quarter!

I like how attendants remember me when I get back on the lift, like going to a small town’s grill, standing by the fire blaze, catching up on life’s comings and goings – hot-chocolate moments (hot Schnnocolate for those possessing legal palates). Black Mountain is simply the coolest secret sliding spot in the world and I am as biased as it gets – unabashedly so.

It is said necessity is the mother of invention. I wonder if we harken back to simpler times, out of necessity, times when neighbors called on one another for assistance, when we offered our hands to someone needing a lift, when generous spirits and charity were much honored.

It may be, in so many ways, the princes and princesses of Rumford, these kings and queens of New England are in the van of a movement to reclaim the virtue of freedom through a monumental act of self-reliance. They not only saved Black Mountain resort, they are improving the place with new runs and fresh cannons blasting snow — at least for the moment. In the end, as told by masters, moments are all we ever really have, and you’ll cherish this one with your family, of this I am certain.

When donning skiwear in realms where lift lines are banished and tickets remain 15 bucks a pop, moments become priceless, inconceivable in this day and fast-fleeting age.