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Doing the torch thing: A New Year's ritual for the ages

It all started at the dawn of human time, in an era when much of the world was terrorized by long vicious winters. Most tribes sought immediate shelter from these attacks; few regarded the cold months with any pleasure.
1602alta

It all started at the dawn of human time, in an era when much of the world was terrorized by long vicious winters. Most tribes sought immediate shelter from these attacks; few regarded the cold months with any pleasure. But the Snoweaters were different. They loved the cold. They loved the snow. Favoured by both Eagle and Raven, this hardy tribe of adventurers had been taught how to fly over the frozen white stuff on ingenious wings made of wood and leather. And so they gave thanks annually. Across the snow-covered hills and mountains of the land, families of Snoweaters would assemble on their favourite summits each New Year’s Eve to welcome the incoming year. Toasts would be given, firewater consumed, and sacrifices made. This done, the family elders would then set flame to massive torches to help light their group’s snowflying ride back down to the valley. They say that the serpents of light swaying down the slopes on the first night of the year bestowed good health on both performers and audience…

– Excerpt from The Legends of the Snoweaters, Stormy Press

By Michel Beaudry

Sure it’s kitschy. Like wineskins and turtlenecks and guitar-strumming blond boys by the fire, the cliché image of the torchlight descent is framed in a 1960s ski context coloured by equal parts nostalgia and ridicule. Think ski instructors in tight black stretch pants and red V-neck sweaters wedelning down the hill with flaming torches in hand; think gluewein and yodels and girls in flip hairdos doing the twist. As I said, so-o-o-o kitschy…

But maybe kitschy isn’t such a bad thing. At a time when our world seems to be slowly falling apart — an economy down the rabbit hole, a stretch of winter weather both nasty and uncompromising, and a spate of local accidents whose timing couldn’t have been worse — celebrating tribe-defining rituals like Whistler Mountain’s annual torchlight descent may be the best thing we can do for our self esteem right now.

As Socrates said so many times: Know Thyself . And for Whistlerites, that dictum couldn’t be more appropriate than it is this season. So who the heck are we?

Until somebody shows me numbers that clearly indicate otherwise, I still firmly believe that Whistler is primarily a ski (and snowboard) town. In fact, after nearly three years of writing this column, I’ve yet to come across anybody who moved to Whistler “for the fine summer weather.” Don’t get me wrong. The off-season sector has shown promise in recent years. But it’s nowhere near what the winter business accounts for. Snow. Fun. Sliding. Adventure. Discovery. Camaraderie. This is what people are looking for when they come here. But they’re also looking to connect with the local culture. And that’s what distinguishes us from most other industrial-sized resorts.

Why? Because Whistlerites are still passionate about their mountain play; they still live their snow dreams. Yet they’re surprisingly generous about sharing their local treasures with others.

Indeed, a great deal of goodwill has come Whistler’s way over the years due to the unique Snoweater culture here. It’s an easy-going, friendly culture, to be sure, but one whose go-for-it aspects are tantalizingly edgy. And it travels surprisingly well. From Chamonix to Bariloche, from Riksgransen to Niseko, folks in snow regions around the world all have a favourite Whistler-visitor story to tell. And that too has added to the community’s lustre.

So where was I? Oh yeah — Whistler Mountain’s kitschy annual torchlight parade…

There are few cultural trappings that endure from Whistler’s early years. Creekside has been gentrified to a point where longtime locals barely recognize it. The Roundhouse is no longer round. The Ski Boot has been booted out of town. The Mouton Cadet race is but a faint memory. Even Citta’ is a thing of the past. But the torchlight descent endures. And many of today’s participants have a lifelong connection to it.

“In the old days, the skiers came down the westside of the mountain,” says perennial participant Binty Massey. “And it was huge. You could see the light of the torches coming down the mountain from just about anywhere in the valley. I remember being a little kid and wishing and hoping that I’d be allowed to take part in it. It was all about family — all about getting together and celebrating the beginning of the New Year on the mountain.”

I can still remember my first torchlight descent at Whistler. It was the winter of 1974-75. A rookie instructor in Jim McConkey’s ski school, I had jumped at the chance to be part of the group that would be torching that year. But come the big night, I suddenly found myself afflicted with a terrible bout of the flu. Running a fever, dizzy, phlegmy and totally out of it, I still insisted I could do the job. But I’d forgotten what a long ride it was to the Roundhouse…

The ride up the gondola wasn’t so bad. But it was the next stage — the painful 25-minute ride up the old Red Chair — that nearly did me in. By the time I got to the top, I was nearly hypothermic. Shaking with cold, I slowly made my way to the assembly point. I was so sick at that point that I could barely stand. I wasn’t even sure that I could actually make it back down the mountain to the base (remember, in those days, “grooming” was more imaginary than real). That’s when a smiling Bob Dufour pulled me aside and offered me a quick nip from his flask.

I know, I know. Booze and skiing don’t mix. But nobody realized that back then. The torchlight descent in those days was a liberally lubricated activity where everyone, it seemed, could put down a fair bit of alcohol and still make it to the valley floor unharmed… and still smiling!

But I digress. I don’t know what was in Bob’s flask that night. I never asked. But whatever it was, it gave me such a jolt of energy that I was able to grab my torch, jump onto my skis and make it back down to the bottom with no problem. Okay — so I don’t really remember much of the descent. And I’m told a friend had to take me home immediately on arrival and warm me up again. No matter, it still remains one of my fondest memories of early Whistler.

Interestingly enough, little has changed in the intervening years. Take Bob Dufour. He’s been leading the parade for decades. Rumour had it this winter that he wasn’t going to show up for the annual run. “But if I didn’t come up this year,” W/B’s near-legendary ops boss was overheard saying, “I don’t think I’d ever be back.” So there he was, in all splendour, leading the charge once again down the north side of the mountain to the GLC for cocoa and… well, just say some traditions die harder than others.

The man in charge of the descent, of course, was W/B risk manager Brian Leighton. His right-hand man, er woman, this year was Cathy Jewett. “I was just supposed to be one of the helpers,” she told me, “but Brian’s usual go-to guy, Brian Finestone, was injured in the Excalibur incident (which is a whole other story in itself!).” And then in true Jewett fashion, she quickly made sure to fill me in on who else needed mention. “Gord Annand and the mountain safety team wrapped 102 torches,” she told me. “And Albert Van Citters and his daughter, Christina — they were really helpful too.”

Why did I know there was a story attached to this last comment? “You know,” she said almost laconically, “Albert’s wife, Penny and I were the first women to go in the torchlight when it went down the west side and we were led by Bushrat and Chris Stethem. Actually, Albert met Penny while he was on the patrol and both his daughters have patrolled. Funny eh…”

Like Jewett and Leighton and Dufour, most of the hundred or so torchbearers had intricate Whistler roots. But everyone shared the same goal. Whether it was Binty Massey and his family, or Rod Nadeau and his sons, or Neil Brown and his posse or the Pattersons or the Wharins or the Whitneys… everybody was there simply for the pure joy of sliding on snow on the last day of the year surrounded by life-long friends and family members. It was tribal all the way.

That said, I was curious to hear from some of the younger skiers in the group — kids like 10-year old Emily Wharin who already had two torchlight runs to her credit. In a postmodern Whistler, I wondered, how did a descent like this one rate? What was the attraction? When I asked her, Emmy looked at me with that condescending gaze that only a 10 year old can bestow upon an adult. “Well,” she said, subtly rolling her eyes at the obtuseness of my question, “it’s the last day of the year, you get the whole mountain to yourself, you get to ski in the dark on perfectly groomed snow — and you get to do it with your mom and dad and all their friends.” Then she smiled. “It’s just fun,” she concluded. And pushed off into the dark.

I had to scramble to keep up with her...