Whistler on Faith

I took Whistler on faith—its reputation needed no up-sell. Vodka fueled and red-bull propelled, Whistler was all the adrenaline you could handle and a dance party to boot. It was bigger, steeper, deeper, and more badass than anywhere I’d skied, and it was mine for the taking.

Of course you’ve got to eat a little cockroach to enjoy a Snickers bar, and like any resort, Whistler has its flaws. With all the sick and gnarly we must swallow rent prices that would make a Saudi prince choke on his Al-Kabsa, beer prices that sting even after a few rounds, roommates that would incite Gandhi to violence, and shucks, you might as well just throw your wallet at the grocery store. Powder, when it comes, gets chewed up faster than a pig’s ear at the pound. It’s not just the runs that get tracked out—it’s the tightest trees you could possibly ski, the landings below any cliff, rocky chutes, pillows, hike-to terrain—Whistler’s skiers and riders put lines where they simply don’t belong. Forget scoring freshies by ripping a tougher line than the dude before you, because the dude before you could probably take you to school.

Yesterday was my last day on the mountain. As I blasted huge GS turns down the hill, reveling in the absence of the Mountain Safety Stooges while doing “Mach Rabbit” and whizzing past tourists like tortoises, I reflected on the season. How had 88 days of skiing changed me? For one thing, I tried my old skis the other day, a pair of 175cm Armada ARVs. It was miserable. They were too soft, too light, too squirrelly, too forward, too slow. I’d loved those skis with my heart and soul. They carved, jumped, and bumped— everything I’d ever wanted in a ski. Now they’re just frustrating.

But more than my abilities as a skier changed. In college we’d chase powder, borrowing the old Suburban (God rest her) every time winter storm warnings flashed on the TV. The only way to cure Powder Fever is to die (it infects the soul), so I’ll still ditch my grandma on a powder day, but I’ve also realized that there’s more to skiing than chasing hip-deep fluff. No matter how bad the snow, how flat the light, how tired your legs, or how crowded the hill, every day skiing has something unique to offer. Whether it’s the new trick you mastered, the stranger you met on the lift (thanks Grandpa!), or simply the time spent with all the incredible people you’ve met in one short season, climbing out of bed is all it takes for an exceptional day on the hill.

So was it worth it? Was cramming all my earthly possessions into the “Passat Hound,” and voyaging north without so much as glancing at a Whistler trail map worthwhile? Unconditionally, yes. I learned this year what four years of university never taught me, and collected two fistfuls of exceptional stories along the way. But most importantly, Whistler made me a skier. And I’m damn proud of it.

Ozomatli

At the end of each season, Whistler hosts the Telus Festival--a huge blowout party to end the winter season and kick into summer. It started Friday and will run through Sunday--10 days of events, bands, competitions, and myriad other goings-on.

Saturday night was the Big Air competition. Whistler Parks crew built a truly massive booter right next to the gondola above skier's plaza. Held under the lights, it was a perfect showcase for talent from all corners of the world--Japan, Colorado, California, Idaho, Norway, and of course some of Whistler's local talent. Simon Dumont even showed up to compete. The competition was sick. The winner threw a switch 1440 (that's 4 complete rotations while taking off and landing backwards), and made it look like nothing.

To my delight, Ozomatli was also booked for the festival. Ozomatli is one of my favorite bands. They hail from LA and their music is a mix of Latin, Hip-hop, funk and reggae. They rock., and they've got the Grammys to prove it. I saw them live at the Aggie in Fort Collins a year ago and it was spectacular.

They didn't disappoint. I saw them perform 2x in 1 day--first at the outdoor venue in the afternoon and then in a tiny bar that night, front row both times. It was pretty epic. I've put up a playlist of their music, so listen if you like!!

Shutter (Shudder)

I took pictures on Tuesday: pictures of moss-covered old-growth trees backlit by the early morning sun, a lone skin track cutting through a glittering snowfield of the most dreamy fluff imaginable, slices of the 360* panorama of the coast range mountains in their intimidating glory, profiled shots of the krummholtz trees, their backsides encrusted with wind-etched snow, their frontsides dressed in the purest shade of green.

I deleted every single picture. In my mind's eye they were shots worthy of National Geographic--fit to impress my friends and neighbors with the sheer majesty, the raw beauty, the pristine serenity of the journey. Instead, each photo was a shadowy imitation, totally unrecognizable as any place I had ever traveled.

I had a crisis. What have I done? Have I converted my entire life's story into a collection of half-truths and second-rate landscape architecture? All my adventures, all my journeys, all my fondest memories of nature's most beautiful moments I have reduced to a shabby aggregate of pixels and zeroes.

I remember the Dorado--possibly the most beautiful fish I have ever seen. Sleek and powerful, the fish wears an incandescent skin: golden, now pink and red, then green and blue, sparkling in the brilliant Mexican sunshine. It is a marvel, and it is fleeting. A dead fish does not glimmer; its metallic skin shows the pallor of death.

The metaphor is fitting. The passing moment of regret from killing the fish is redeemed in the eating. The meat of a Dorado is a delicacy: firm and moist, yet flaky. Likewise, snapping a photo is redeemed months or years later. For those who found themselves in that time and place, the photos tickle dormant neurons, bringing back the sights, sounds, smells and exhilaration of the moment. Yet perhaps the image is a crutch, something to show our friends and family, to relieve us the duty of describing in full account the moment encased in that frame.

My most beautiful memories have no pictures.

The Chief (El Jefe)

The Chief is a massive rock face that towers over the town of Squamish, BC. The rock face and surrounding boulder fields are a mecca for world-class climbers who travel to scale the massive face and tackle smaller challenges in the surrounding area.

Polek is a climber, and he gave me a tour of the area. He mentioned one route in particular, called the Dreamcatcher, which was first climbed by Chris Sharma several years ago. We scrambled the boulders up to the route, and saw the carabiners left in place from the climb. The line is ludicrous. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, to hold onto. The initial pitch alone is a sheer face--it'd be like trying to climb the dining room wall using the texture sprayed on before the paint.



I also recommend this video which I stumbled across while viewing the previous clip. It's pretty amazing as well, if you've got a couple minutes.



Though the climbers made my efforts seem somewhat mundane, we did hike to the top of the Chief. The hike, known as the Stairmaster, was very steep and involved a fair bit of scrambling, but the view from the top was spectacular.

Polek, Garibaldi Peak in the background.

I scared myself silly doing this--that crevasse would treat my body like a pinball for about 500 feet before it got completely wedged. But seeing the mountains on the opposite side of the valley upside-down while so precariously perched was quite a trip. Check out the size of the cars below to gain perspective.

Seated on the edge of nothing.

I threw a bunch of snowballs down--average fall time was 7-9 seconds. You do the math.

Fall time was 7-9 seconds for other things as well.

Cool perspective shot by Polek.

Brandyw(h)ine

It was a long day, by the end of which Polek and I were spectacularly slap-happy and so completely exhausted that I fell asleep at 6:30pm trying to watch "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" (my quest to watch the trilogy in three days, needless to say, failed).

There were plenty of early signs it was going to be a trying adventure. The crusty, grouchy miser in charge of collecting the day fee for the parking lot really cheesed me off--not that irritating me at 7:00am is difficult--but this guy really rubbed me the wrong way. Polek had to deal with him to keep me from getting my car towed.

Then I had to take an emergency dig. Blissfully, there was plenty of snow around (thank you natural alternatives to toilet paper!), but doing a 2 minute wall-sit in a mossy tree well with your pants around your ski boots isn't the most auspicious way to start any adventure.


The chafing started around the same time as the hunger pangs and the realization that I'm not in nearly good enough shape to be undertaking massive 10-hour, 2500 vertical foot treks with a 20lb pack and no hope of a quick and painless ski-out. It was a really unfortunate chafe, the one that makes you pick from the following a) keep your self esteem and cherish the sensation of having a sheet of sandpaper wedged amisdst your buttocks or b) a humiliating-duck waddle that would be cause for any self-respecting human to give a prompt "about face" and head down.

The blister on my right heel started about an hour later, and though it wasn't painful enough to eclipse the burning of The Chafe, came close. Oh, I nearly forgot. Both my hip flexors were incredibly sore as well, something that usually happens when I skin. (Vocab check: Skins are something one puts on the bottom of skis to stop them from sliding backwards. They make skis a much faster and more efficient form of transport than the other thing that lets you walk across the snow: snowshoes. Plus you get to ski out.)

Salt in the wound: snowmobiles. More on these irritating contraptions later, but suffice it to say that it isn't good motivation to have some punk-ass snowboarder with baggy pants whizzing by at 40mph and spraying you with snow while you slowly plod, plod, plod upwards.

Anyway, lunch couldn't come soon enough. I plopped straight on my backside like an indignant 5 year old, and busied myself eating two tortillas with tuna salad, chased by a Snickers and an immense gulp of water. Ah.

After lunch we quickly broke treeline and the woes of the hike in were quickly forgotten. The view was absolutely spectacular. The brilliant sunlight showed the surrounding peaks in all their glory, and I found myself stopping frequently to gaze in wonder at the 360 degrees of beauty in which I found myself. I took pictures until my camera died.

Backseat landing!! Had to give the Pollinator a little grief for this particular splash. If you look closely, you can see Whistler in the background.

Polek broke out the beer at the top--it was a remarkable morale booster. I was a little apprehensive when he told me to close my eyes (thought I'd get pushed over), but then I heard the sweet "chh" of the cap opening. I've drunk beer in worse places.

Tour with a view.

It was the perfect shape!

So the ski/hike out was long and arduous--the spring slush bogged us down making what would have been a 20 minute zip into an hour's slog. But, we made it through ok and got McDonalds ice cream cones to top off a whine-derful day.

Check in the Box

Tonight I can't even put together a coherent sentence. Since everything I have tried to write in the past 10 minutes has been backspaced into nonexistence, I'm just going to put up a few pictures with the hope that captions will prove manageable.

It would be a blatant lie to say I'm not proud of this picture. I am. This was the last item on my unwritten list of "Things to Jump Off This Season." Paul has seen this particular cliff in person (bottom of Bushrat) and I promised him I would do it before I left. Check. Polek snapped the photo with my wicked new camera!!

P.S. Don't jump cliffs with your sunglasses in your front coat pocket. The pair of sunglasses I found in the gondola several weeks ago were reduced to 8 pieces. Oops.

Whoosh.

This is Polek jumping off a cliff in Spanky's. It took me about 10 minutes to get into position for this shot because I had to bootpack up underneath the cliffband. Polek and I each hit this cliff several days ago, and he really wanted a photo of it, so we came back.

What for a Tuesday

I have never seen Whistler look so beautiful as it did Tuesday morning. Poleck and I got up the mountain just as the sun was cresting over the Horstman Glacier. The 10cm of snow that fell overnight was followed by brilliant blue skies, and the morning sunlight was fitting of a Warren Miller ski film.

Skiing down to Pakalolo, I had one of those moments that will last a lifetime--the snow was consistent and grippy, perfect conditions to make those huge fast sweeping turns that send powder arcing to the side, instantly turning golden in the sunlight. It was one of those rare moments when I was able to ski the way I picture myself skiing, the way I would want to ski if someone were filming. Fortunately, I have no photos of the day, and forgetting my camera was an excellent accidental decision. The pictures would have been a cheap imitation at best.

Spankys is a gonzo dream. Three bowls, each as steep as the next, a veritable patchwork of rocks, cliff bands, narrow chutes, straightlines, cornices and trees. The lines you can ski are limited only by your "skier's vision" and guts. The morning cold kept the snow light and fast, before the sun could warm it to a heavier paste. We made two laps, stopping briefly to jump a cliff I've been eying all season (PMN: it's the big one to skiers left of Paul's cliff near the top of the bootpack).

In the afternoon we headed to Whistler. The most memorable (and scary) event was watching a skier fall down Air Jordan. Air Jordan is a highly technical double-stage cliff drop. Skiers enter from the top, and jump a 25 foot cliff onto a small patch of snow, the only exit from which is jumping a 40-foot cliff below. A fall on the first stage sends the skier tomahawking at top speed over the lower cliff band. The skier jumped the first cliff, but was bucked to the side. Losing a ski, he flipped twice before falling 20 feet onto a vertical rock face and bouncing off the rocks onto the snowfield below. It was brutal to watch, but thankfully he was OK.

It was one of the best days of the season, and also my last day at Surefoot. My visa expired yesterday, so I had to stop working. That means the month of April will be dedicated to a) skiing and b) all those things I've been meaning to do but haven't had time to accomplish.