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Finn (Paul) Saarinen – Fortune comes to those who smile

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." – Dr. Seuss First there was the Finn.
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"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." 

– Dr. Seuss

First there was the Finn." That was the first sentence in the first freelance story that I ever sold on the international market. Now nearly thirty years old (dang! How quickly time flies), my little tale recounting the adventures of Whistler's indomitable telemark tribe first introduced Powder Magazine readers to a character "who looked just like a hobbit, but without the furry feet."

You guessed it — Finn Saarinen. With his big, round head, powerful squat body and unquenchable smile, the Finn did have an uncanny resemblance to Tolkien's fantasy folk back then. But make no mistake: the guy could turn his boards. And in the early 1980's — at a time when ski culture was stagnating and snowboarding hadn't yet pulled the cork from big brother's ass — well, Finn was the King of Freeheeling. At least in this valley...

And it made sense. Inspired by his Scandinavian roots and Nordic skiing background, Saarinen was one of the first in Whistler to eschew heel-pieces in order to tackle the mountain's gnarly slopes on traditional cross-country gear. And like the rest of the skiers in the Powder story — Dave Patterson, Jean-Louis Arsenault, Wayne Binmore, André and Peewee Jetté (to name but a few) — he soon discovered that the mind was far stronger than the equipment. "Can you believe the crap we skied on back then," he says. And laughs. "I don't know how many pairs of skis I broke during those years. I mean, one solid landing off a cornice jump and they'd explode..."

The Finn turned 60 this year. It was a momentous occasion. You see, the ol' fox has been a Whistler institution for nearly four decades now. Instructor, ski tuner, shop manager, pro patroller, heli-ski guide, carpenter, action photographer — even liquor-store employee now — Saarinen has done it all. He's had his ups and down's for sure. Survived tough times and difficult years. Regardless, he continues to sport the same unquenchable smile he wore when he first arrived here in 1974.

And how do I know this? Simple — we were rookie instructors together in Jim McConkey's Ski School that year. Two young ski racers from the east who were convinced they'd just died and gone to powder heaven, the Finn and I made it our business to ski Whistler as many consecutive days as we could that winter. Our adventures together on the mountain were legion. Our mishaps hilarious. For whatever reason, Diamond Jim had taken a shine to his two rookies and included us on his frequent forays into the backcountry. And we followed happily — if not always successfully. Our learning curve was nearly vertical that winter. Our fun meter was maxed out on most days. And that big smile? Well, as I remember, it was pretty much pasted on Finn's face all season long.

"That first year is indelibly printed in my brain," he says. "Probably one of the funniest years of my life." He sighs. "What a time that was. Whistler was such an outlaw place back then. Wild. Imaginative. So out there..." He sighs. "And then everything changed. So sad to see how conventional it's become in recent years..."

Finn was born and raised in Northern Ontario. His dad, Pentti, had emigrated from the Ol' Country as a youth and had acquired land along Lake Superior in the 1950s. "That's where he built his fish camp and cross-country resort," recounts his son. "Whispering Pines..." And grins. "So in the end we grew up like real Finns — fishing on the lake in the summertime and cross-country skiing and jumping in winter."

There are many memorable places in Canada. But in my book, the north shore of the great inland sea they call Superior still ranks, well... supreme. It's harsh Canadian Shield country — granite and iron, stately pine and spindly birch. Still wild. Still isolated. And yet, so magical in its fierce, frightening beauty. You want to feel small? Stand on the lake's rocky coastline while the great Manitou stirs up a screaming gale for your entertainment. Everything's on such a massive scale ... the waves, the wind, the energy, the destruction — I mean there's nowhere else in the world like it.

Yeah baby. And it offers an interesting insight into Finn's, hmm... inimitable... personality.

Imagine growing up in that environment in the late 1950s and '60s. It would be like living on the edge of the world. Untamed, untrammeled, and deadly dangerous to the uninitiated. Imagine the self-reliance you would learn there. "Absolutely," says Finn. "It had a big part in making me who I am."

As did his dad's growing love affair with downhill skiing. "Yeah," laughs Saarinen. "He met (legendary ski pro) Real Charette while skiing at (Quebec's) Gray Rocks. And that totally got him going." Pentti , recalls his son, became a ski instructor around 1958. But that was only the beginning. "I guess you could call him a ski pioneer," he muses. "After all, it was my dad who put in the first chairlift at Searchmont Valley. He was the ski area manager there for years, you know..."

A quick aside: Lift-served skiing — virtually unknown before World War II — really came into its own during the post-war economic boom. The period between 1950 and 1970 saw ski areas popping up all over Canada. Searchmont Valley (just outside Sault Ste Marie) became one of Northern Ontario's more successful ones.

Who knows what would have happened to young Paul if dad Pentti had stuck to his cross-country skiing business and ignored the new downhill trends? But he didn't. And neither did his son. "It was a pretty natural transition," says Finn. "I really loved it. Particularly ski racing..."

But being from Northern Ontario, the young skier had little chance to show off his prowess. The races were mostly far away and too expensive to attend. Finally in the spring of 1968, the fourteen-year old got his chance. "I was invited to race at some big downhill at Osler Bluff," he says. And laughs. "It was all of 35 seconds long I think. But I finished in the top three — and I did it on a pair of downhill skis borrowed from (then-Canadian ski coach) Al Raine..."

His result was good enough to open a few more racing doors. And by the summer of 1969 the young Northerner found himself attending the legendary Griffin Camp —held in those days on Kokanee Glacier near Nelson. "Everybody was there," he enthuses. "Dave Murray, Dave Irwin, Ken Read..." He laughs. "Of course I wasn't near as good as those guys. But I was considered an up-and-comer that summer."

That was Finn's first taste of British Columbia skiing. But it wasn't going to be his last. There was something about the mountains here — the air, the spirit, the ambiance — that continued to work its insidious spell on the young skier. All the way through college — all the way through his geology studies and ski racing years at Laurentian University — Saarinen travelled west to ski Whistler in springtime. "My dad came here the first year it opened, in 1966," he says. "And I spent hours and hours at home watching these amazing Kodachrome slides of chairlifts disappearing into the clouds. How could I stay away?"

Had it not been for a helicopter accident though, the Finn might have become just another professional geologist. "I was up in the Yukon working on a project, you know, and the helicopter I was in flipped over and killed the pilot." He stops for a long beat. "I decided right then and there: forget geology, I'm going back to Whistler Mountain. I'm going to find Jim McConkey and ask him for a job!"

He laughs. "Everyone told me to wear a clean white turtleneck for my meeting with Jim. I was living in a dumpy Dodge van in those days and owned one pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts." A long pause. "But I finally found a white turtleneck."

And he found McConkey too. "Sure enough, I met him in the parking lot outside L'Après one day," he recalls. "And I told him I was the best ski instructor in the world. He laughed loudly and said: 'I like your attitude.' He took a picture of me with an old Pentax and said: 'Let's get you a ski pass. You start on the bunny hill tomorrow.'"

The bunny hill? Really? 'That was a serious comedown," admits Saarinen. And chuckles. "I mean, I had visions of leading the school's top class on a mogul session..." Still, he took the job. Finn returned to his humble Dodge abode — the notorious Silver Shadow — laughing at himself all the way. "My dad is going to be so proud of me,' I thought. 'Here I am starting my ski teaching career on the bunny hill at four bucks an hour...'" He shakes his head. More laughter. "But a free pass to Whistler Mountain? That was worth at least a million dollars to me. Bunny hill or not, I felt like I'd just won the lottery..."

Next Week: From disappearing horses to exploding toboggans to floating saunas — The Finn takes us on a forty-year ride through Whistler history