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Back in the Saddle


My bro left for Whistler the next season. Got a gig with the ski school and ditched his engineering job for the mountain life. A move thoroughly endorsed by myself, if not so much by the rest of the clan.

Me, I picked up where I left off. Tried to anyhow. I had one year of school left and I found myself alone in the city. Drinking buddies had graduated and moved on, and ski buddy was finishing his degree in the skiing mecca of Ottawa. His first day of the year would come at the end of December and be an indication of the season he was in for. He made a game effort to get out every other weekend, but it was a sharp contrast to the seasons gone by.

I found myself scrounging for each day trip. Convincing my Dad to ski more than he ever would have otherwise. Signing up for trips through the local sports shop. Renting a car when the big dumps were forecast. Two years later Jay Peak would introduce a cheap bus service from Montreal and I would fume at their late timing.

Perhaps all was for the best though. The less hectic pace and the more mellow ski partners gave my knee a healthy re-introduction to the slopes. It felt strong. I felt strong.

And if the day trips were lacking, two things would make up for it: A trip out west and finally getting to Tuckerman Ravine.

The western trip was almost 5 years in the making. On the plane ride over it felt surreal that we were actually going. We'd finally scraped up enough cash, there was no ice storm to cancel our winter break, and no knee surgery to keep me off the slopes. We were finally on our way. Heading "out West" to do the skiing we'd only ever read about.

As I settled into the passenger seat of our rental car in Vancouver, I turned to T. and did my best Blues Brother impersonation: "1300 kms to Calgary, 8 days before us, skis on the roof, gear in the back, it's snowing, and we're wearing sunglasses. Hit it."

That fact that the skis were actually in the trunk and that it wasn't really snowing did nothing to dull our excitement. The Promised Land waited.

Eight days, four resorts, six days on skis and 1300km in a bad rental car with worn summer tires. That was the final tally. Essentially the trip was divided in three, with old acquaintances waiting for us at each stop.

We picked up W. in Vancouver and quickly fell into the familiar discourse of our college days. Your momma jokes and noxious fumes filled the car. Arriving in Whistler, my brother wasted little time in showing us the bars and we visited three before even securing our spot to sleep the night. Somewhere in there we met up with pig-tails who'd returned here after her spring fling in Montreal. And somewhere in there we all ended up crashing on the floor of a friend's Delta Suites hotel room.

In the morning T. made the rather astute observation that the floor of a fancy-pantsy hotel room is just as uncomfortable as the floor of roadside motel. Nevertheless, we worked out the kinks and made the two minute walk to the lifts.

The two days passed in disorientating spring-like fashion. Strong sunshine and blue skies contrasted nicely with the overcast -20 C days we had left behind. Fresh snow was hard to come by, but we laughed at how easy it was to set an edge in the chalky leftovers. What would have been icy death back home was easily carve-able and a much truer version of the ubiquitous term "packed powder."

One day at Whistler and one day at Blackcomb. Ruby Bowl, Diamond Bowl, Jersey Wall, Purple Haze, Glacier Wall, West Cirque etc. They all fell beneath our skis and were devoured with shit kicking grins. Not always with style and not without a few bails, but always with everything we had.


Two days later, the car packed and ready to roll, we said our goodbyes that felt like see-you-laters. We hit the road back to Vancouver and then eastward towards Hope and Nelson.

As we left the city that morning, Vancouver decided to show its true colours. It started to rain. The road rose and fell, and the precipitation changed from rain to slush to snow and back in a pretty a consistent pattern. Through the low cloud cover, the glimpses of the mountains around us served only as a tease to the scenery we were missing.

So we powered through the drive, singing stupid songs as the radio dial scanned through the numbers, searching for a hint of a station. Heading up the last mountain pass before Castlegar, darkness fell and a sign reading "Check Your Fuel: Next Service Station 74 km" passed into the rearview. Where we're from these types of signs are found right before the last station and you'd better pull in before continuing. Over here it seems they come after the last station and you'd better pull a U-turn if your tank is light. The things you learn the hard way…

It would have been easy to turn around. But it's hard to decide when you should. A look at the fuel gauge and a quick calculation told us that we'd be fine. So we forged ahead. Not long afterwards, the low light came on. And soon after that the radio found a station. A news report. The first words we heard, I shit you not, were "…a shortage of oil and gas." We shared a nervous laugh and continued on in the wet snow, our inadequate tires requiring total concentration as the fresh, wet snow danced in our headlights. Cresting the pass, we gave a small sigh of relief and coasted down the other side.

We missed the first gas station we saw. Drove by it before we could turn in. "It looked closed anyhow," we rationalized. Castelgar came into view and we fueled up with our worries far behind us. Nelson, Whitewater and Red Mountain waited.


A Taste of the Life

In Nelson we were fully immersed in the ski bum culture. Staying with a friend in a home full of Selkirk College students, surrounded by gear, kegs and pot-smoking paraphernalia, it was easy to get a glimpse of the life. Each morning would start with three numbers: the overnight snowfall, the 24hr snowfall, and the temperature at the mountain. The digits would be mulled over and the ski-or-school decision would be made. If a couple of runs on the slopes were called for, a video would be popped into the VCR and images of mountains and powder would be consumed along with breakfast.

For us of course, the choice was clear. With no lack of guides, we headed to Whitewater. The rain on the windshield had us worried, but it was snow that would greet us at the tiny wooded base lodge. It was wet snow, to be sure, but the untouched lines and down-home feel of this throwback resort had us too excited to care. Following the leads through tall trees with bottomless pillows, we'd hoot and holler our way down to the access road where a short walk brought us back to the creaky double.

There was something here, I can remember thinking. Something that Tremblant used to have. Something that lurks in the dark corners of Jay Peak. Something that makes you feel good and at peace without having to dwell on it. Something that makes you smile.

Red Mountain had it too. The trail map had been etched in my mind for years before this trip. The steep tree shots, the 360 degree skiing. It held a strong allure. It also held confusion.

The low cloud cover and lack of trail markers caused constant disorientation. We barely scraped the surface and never really knew where we were, but it hardly mattered. Each run consisted of picking a fresh line through the trees and riding it all the way down to Easy Street (the wonderful catwalk that wound around the mountain, scooping up all manner of skiers popping out of the woods). Our friend, M., led us through some sweet spots where the tight trees would periodically give way to steep, open shots before plunging us back into the darkness of the woods.

Her last trek, however, brought us to a rather sketchy section. We came through a portion of glades and found ourselves perched atop of a rather hairy looking 20-foot cliff. There was a fairly large run-out and I'm sure it would have been no big deal for most maggots, but it was more than we were willing to jump on our last run of the day at a hill we barely knew. So the scrambling began. M. went left, T. tried right, and I stayed put (waiting to see who had the better route). M. side-slipped and butt slid around tight trees and past gnarly rocks. Finally I saw her shoot out into the open below me. Her first words were to T.: "You don't want to be there."

Fair enough; I'd go her way. I tried to remain graceful as I executed a tree assisted jump turn to a more acceptable location. I looked back to see where T. was.

"T.," I called, "You really don't want to be there."

"I know," he shot back, "I'm working on it."

For me, a short straight-run with a small air over some rocks would get me in the clear. No problem I figured as I pointed 'em.

And it wasn't really. Except that one of my skis dove a little too deep under the snow and chose to release shortly after my landing. So I barreled down the run-out, cranking a big-ass, speed-dumping turn on one ski. I threw in a somersault just as I passed M. (you know, just for her entertainment).

After gathering myself I looked back up to where T. had managed to make his way a bit further to the right. He figured he had a more feasible line there. It consisted of a slightly-smaller-than-the-original jump into an area which would leave just enough room to get things under control before skiing out. Not a problem since T. just tubbed the landing. He got up laughing and started gathering his equipment so he could ski down to where M. was continuing with her hysterics.

We made it down the rest of the way with no further events and left the parking lot thoroughly satisfied with the skiing we'd done, but also with a sense that repeat visits would yield so much more. Red Mountain has been filed away as a place I need to get back to.

Whitewater was back on the schedule for our third day in Nelson. A shuttle service was set up and laps of the backside were devoured all day. Every line seemed wide open and allowed for consistent cruising through the fresh powder that had been falling all night. An entirely different type of tree skiing than the gladiator bush-whacking of the East. Fallen trees served as launching pads, steep pitches appeared before us, much air was had and the landings were always pillow soft and sent snow exploding around and over us.

This felt right. The skiing, the hiking, the car dropping and the picking up hitchers just felt right. The whole ride up the lift my mind went back to the ambiguous phrase "this is what it's all about."

Up early the next morning for the final leg. Nelson to Castle for a half day and then on to Calgary. A clearing day ahead of us revealed the true majesty of our surroundings. Granite peaks boxed us in as the road wound its way towards our destination.

We arrived at 11:30 and, anxious to hit the slopes, splurged on a full day ticket. The snow had missed Castle, but the potential was evident. Numerous runs took uncompromising paths directly down the steep fall line. The wind was howling and recycled chalk was the order of the day as we sampled runs that left no doubt that we were in Alberta: Desperado, Lone Star, Outlaw, Showdown.

Here the Rockies lived up to the postcard images we all have ingrained in our minds. Powerfully jagged rocks looming before, above and all around seemed to render us insignificant. Yet at the same time, they filled us with a feeling of importance simply for being there surrounded by the grandeur. The very fact that we are there playing in a field of snow with blue sky and grey peaks as the background seemed meaningful.

The trip ended on the 22nd floor of an apartment building in downtown Calgary. Two friends from University played host to night of drinking and board games as we attempted to unwind from the previous days.

On the flight home the next day I started jotting down notes and contemplating what sort of trip this had been. Had it been a ski trip? A road trip? A reunion trip? The answer, of course, was all three. Skiing was the purpose but it was also the means to a much fuller end. It was the best possible excuse to fly across a country, drive across a province, hook up with old friends, and not have any worries greater than what lay beyond that snowy ridge and who was buying the first round of drinks at the end of the day.

I guess I knew it all along, but it's now been confirmed: skiing was, is, and always will be about so much more than the act itself. It's about escaping from the 'real world' and letting the worries slide off you like the powder off your back.


Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8


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