This week started off on the right foot. Unfortunately, Monday's bitter cold made it near impossible to tell which foot one was standing on, them being completely numb and all. The cold is ironic, actually, considering that for so long we were plagued with warm temperatures that sent rain to the highest elevations of these costal mountains, obliterating the little snowpack we have and sending skiers and snowboarders alike into spiraling waves of depression and negativity. Ironic because, at these temperatures, it's too cold to snow.
Cold and Dark, that's my December. The sun hasn't even seen fit to rise properly like it should. Instead it just lolls indolently amongst the craggy peaks that form the Whistler horizon, like an insolent child who's been sent to his room peering around the door down the hallway to make sure his mother isn't watching. When the sun does decide to show its face, it casts that crisp low-angle light that highlights even the most subtle contours of the slope. The lines between light and shadow are mathematically precise--majesty reduced to numbers. It's as if one were skiing through an Ansel Adams photo revamped in Technicolor and remastered with THX digital surround sound (wwWWWaaaaaAAAAAAAAA). Aesthetics aside, this is no Colorado-esque sunshine that browns the face and whisks away the chill of winter. The warm tones of the orange-tinted light are a clever disguise for the bitter cold of midwinter.
Make no bones about it--December has been cold. It's the kind of cold that crackles when you walk through it, like you're shattering microscopic layers of the finest frozen vapors suspended in the air. It's the kind of cold that makes you wish you could make like Michael Jackson and temporarily relocate your nose to your pocket so that it not be frosbitten into oblivion by the biting wind on the chairlift. It's the kind of cold that makes you second-guess the desire to whiz in the woods--accidents can and will happen after all. Better to head for the lodge to ensure everything runs smoothly. It's the kind of cold that prevents the removal of ski boots pending a 10 minute warming cycle in the restaurant. It's the kind of cold that makes you wish you could grow a beard like Grizzly Adams', instead of one that resembles Havarti cheese (in pattern, not texture). It's the kind of cold that is very, very cold.
Even the cold air has its perks (nipples not excluded), and the cold front has brought remarkably clear air. The visibility from the peak is unparalleled. In all directions, glacier-encrusted peaks yearn skyward, begging to be climbed and skied, pleading to have their avalanches triggered and their crevasses inadvertantly explored, their powder stashes pillaged and their itchy couloirs scratched by the steel edge of a ski. It is little wonder to me that so many young, driven, idealistic young people fall hopelessly in love with these mountains. Litle wonder, indeed. Don't worry though, mom; I'll come home someday.
Cold and Dark, that's my December. The sun hasn't even seen fit to rise properly like it should. Instead it just lolls indolently amongst the craggy peaks that form the Whistler horizon, like an insolent child who's been sent to his room peering around the door down the hallway to make sure his mother isn't watching. When the sun does decide to show its face, it casts that crisp low-angle light that highlights even the most subtle contours of the slope. The lines between light and shadow are mathematically precise--majesty reduced to numbers. It's as if one were skiing through an Ansel Adams photo revamped in Technicolor and remastered with THX digital surround sound (wwWWWaaaaaAAAAAAAAA). Aesthetics aside, this is no Colorado-esque sunshine that browns the face and whisks away the chill of winter. The warm tones of the orange-tinted light are a clever disguise for the bitter cold of midwinter.
Make no bones about it--December has been cold. It's the kind of cold that crackles when you walk through it, like you're shattering microscopic layers of the finest frozen vapors suspended in the air. It's the kind of cold that makes you wish you could make like Michael Jackson and temporarily relocate your nose to your pocket so that it not be frosbitten into oblivion by the biting wind on the chairlift. It's the kind of cold that makes you second-guess the desire to whiz in the woods--accidents can and will happen after all. Better to head for the lodge to ensure everything runs smoothly. It's the kind of cold that prevents the removal of ski boots pending a 10 minute warming cycle in the restaurant. It's the kind of cold that makes you wish you could grow a beard like Grizzly Adams', instead of one that resembles Havarti cheese (in pattern, not texture). It's the kind of cold that is very, very cold.
Even the cold air has its perks (nipples not excluded), and the cold front has brought remarkably clear air. The visibility from the peak is unparalleled. In all directions, glacier-encrusted peaks yearn skyward, begging to be climbed and skied, pleading to have their avalanches triggered and their crevasses inadvertantly explored, their powder stashes pillaged and their itchy couloirs scratched by the steel edge of a ski. It is little wonder to me that so many young, driven, idealistic young people fall hopelessly in love with these mountains. Litle wonder, indeed. Don't worry though, mom; I'll come home someday.
