My father died this past weekend. Ravaged by Parkinson's Disease - beaten-up by a tsunami of heart attacks and strokes - my 83-year-old dad looked nothing like the fine young warrior who represented Canada at the 1948 Olympic Games. Looked nothing, even, like the fit sixtysomething skier who came to Whistler in 1990 to teach with Ski Esprit and "practice" retirement. In fact, there wasn't much left of the man when he finally left us on Saturday. Still, his legacy will be felt for a long time to come...
Lifelong athlete, passionate outdoorsmen and ski resort visionary, Gabriel Beaudry was on the forefront of the post-war lifestyle revolution that completely changed the way North Americans would spend their leisure time. It was his generation, to be precise, that transformed skiing from a fringe sport to a thriving business. It was his cohorts, essentially, who invented the modern "ski resort" concept.
Isn't death awful? It diminishes you. Robs you of your dignity. Makes you so small, nothing more than a wasted container of bones and sinews and serum and blood. But to me, Gabriel remains the bigger-than-life hero that I followed, learned from, argued with, rebelled against, laughed with - and finally mourned. He was the man who introduced me to the joys of outdoor pursuits. Taught me all about "healthy mind in healthy body." Who stood by my brothers and me - no matter how much trouble we got into - but never excused our bad behaviour or irresponsible acts.
It wasn't always easy being the eldest of four boys. Particularly with a dad like mine. I still remember as a child leafing through the scrapbook my grandmother had patiently put together and being blown away by his exploits. North American and European rowing champion, college football star, nationally-ranked three-way skier (jumping, cross-country, alpine), the guy could do it all. Gaby, as his friends called him, was the leader of his gang. He was the bright-eyed boy with the limitless future. There was no way, I thought, that I could ever live up to his expectations.
Sadly, it took me a long time to realize those were my expectations, not his. All he wanted, I eventually understood, was for me to be happy. Gaby had a very straightforward approach to life. Work hard, he believed, stay honest - particularly with yourself - and good things will happen.
He remained true to that ethic until the moment he died. And though some of the good things he hoped for failed to materialize, he never became sour or negative. He was always a glass half-full kind of a guy... his last ski run was always "the best run ever."
So many images flood my mind when I think of him. My first snowsliding moments: decked out in flimsy red rubber ski boots, a bulky one-piece snowsuit and rummage-sale wooden skis, there I am desperately herring-boning up the hill behind my dad on some snow-filled golf course in suburban Montreal in teeth-clenching cold. I must be three or four. And I'm not having a lot of fun.
You see, my dad was old school. He believed that you had to learn how to go up the hill before you got to experience the emotional release of going down the hill. And though I cried and raged and pouted that afternoon, I eventually figured out how to get my skis in that damn inverted 'V' and fight my way painfully up the 40 or 50 vertical feet of slope my dad had picked out for that day's session. Then WHOOSH. I was suddenly sliding down the hill, free as a bird. It's a lesson that I still carry with me to this day.
Summer memories are strong too. I remember epic canoe trips in the Quebec and Ontario backcountry; high-mountain hikes in New Hampshire's White Mountains. Cooking food over a wood fire, learning how to portage gear or handling rapids or scrambling successfully over granite scree with a heavy pack and skis on your back. Check out Gaby in those days: posing on the side of a fast-flowing river, family canoe on his shoulders, broad chest and taut muscles and total confidence, an ear-to-ear grin painted across his face. Follow me, his eyes say. I know what I'm doing. And I believed that for years...
He was an amazing dad, that Gaby. Long before the term "physical literacy" was coined, he understood instinctively how important it was for his sons to learn how to run, jump, swim and ski at a young age. Like reading or music - or even learning languages - he believed that these basic physical skills had to be introduced at the toddler stage if they were to be incorporated successfully into daily life. For him, it wasn't about natural talent or good genes or being well connected. It was all about hard work. If you were disciplined and focused on your goals, he'd lecture me, then that was good enough. The rest would take care of itself. Talent for Gaby was simply the icing on the cake.
And his own story reflects that philosophy well.
My dad was a fighter. Raised during the depression and born on the wrong side of the tracks in Ottawa - a young francophone growing up in a social environment where you'd still hear "Speak white!" on a regular basis - Gaby used sports to hoist himself up in the world. Didn't matter the activity, didn't matter the season, my dad excelled at everything to which he applied himself. His football skills paid for university, his rowing prowess introduced him to people like Princess Grace of Monaco (then the little sister of his American rival and friend, Jack Kelly), and skiing, well skiing became his life. From competitor to ski teacher, from Canadian Ski Association (now Alpine Canada) director to ski area management expert, my dad wore so many hats and knew so many people in the business that he was a never-ending fount of ski information for me.
In fact, Gaby holds the distinction of being one of the first guys I ever knew who could manage to get in a few runs of skiing before heading off to his office job in the morning. He was inspiring that way...
As his friends and family gather together this week to say a final goodbye, it strikes me once again just how young the sport of skiing really is. I mean, imagine being part of a group of teenagers involved in building the first ever rope tow at Ottawa's Camp Fortune - and then ski touring halfway back to town before boarding the city trolley bus that will get you the rest of the way home. "It was a full day's journey, that's for sure," my father would recount with a smile. "But it was pretty much a party from the time we left town to the moment we got home."
To hear these old stories is to enter a world where skiing was more than just a sport. It was an adventure - a full-on celebration of winter fun. "It was never about how many runs you could get in your day," he'd say. "It was about how much pleasure you got from being outdoors while everybody else was inside moaning about the weather."
Not a bad concept to revisit in this day of overbuilt resorts and unsustainable costs...
But where was I? My father fell in love with Whistler on a trip to the West Coast in 1967. It was late spring and Sea to Sky country was at its seasonal best. From flowering cherry trees in Vancouver, to working tugboats in Howe Sound, to the towering white-clad slopes of Diamondhead, Gaby was already smitten with the Coast Mountains even before he'd arrived at the fledgling resort. And a week of high-mountain powder skiing easily confirmed what he'd already sensed. This was the real thing. Whistler represented a future for Canadian skiing that nobody, until then, had really envisioned.
Gaby returned home to Quebec infused with that vision. He had seen the future and he wanted a part of it. My mother alas, was unmoved by his arguments. She, a much more practical sort, had been less than impressed by the Wet Coast. And so we remained in Quebec. But my father's words continued to tickle my imagination. Less than five years later, I became Whistler's newest resident - and like Gaby, I immediately fell in love with what this striking sea-and-mountain corridor had to offer me.
And now he's gone. But his passing begs a crucial question: who will replace him and his generation? At a time when the ski industry is facing some of the biggest challenges of its short history - at a time when attracting new practitioners to the sport has never been so difficult - the people who seem to care the most about its future are getting beyond the age to help.
So many have already left us. And so many more are on the verge of leaving. What will happen to the sport when the great keepers of the early ski stories are gone? Will the Echo Boomers (the Gen XYZ kids) pick up the gauntlet and take the sport to the next level? Hard to tell at this point. All I know is that Gaby and his generation loved skiing enough to devote their lives to its growth and development. It really wasn't about money with them. It was about culture. About passion and enthusiasm and vision and fun.
So let's raise a toast to all those great men and women who made it possible for the lifestyles we lead today. Let's acknowledge them for the pioneers and visionaries that they were. Sadly, I don't think we're going to see their kind back here again anytime soon. Here's to you, Gaby. Thanks for everything.
