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WSSF... this is our culture

In case you didn't notice, it's started. Unfortunately, if you didn't notice it has started you're probably dead. Sorry to be the one to break the news to you.
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In case you didn't notice, it's started. Unfortunately, if you didn't notice it has started you're probably dead. Sorry to be the one to break the news to you.

The World Ski and Snowboard Festival — momentarily unhitched from any corporate prefix — is taking its 18th trip around the sun this year, proving that even a weirdly twisted idea can sometimes succeed beyond all reason. "Weirdly twisted," you ask? Well, yes. What else would you call it?

Historical digression: (Which means you can skip this if you think history is unimportant. Of course, if you think that you probably haven't read this far anyway.)

It all started long ago when Whistler's dream in life was to someday become world class. It was a time when ski bums and hippy-jocks ruled the town and duct tape was used more frequently on ski clothes than laundry detergent, unlike today when everybody looks as though they just stepped out of a mountain fashion shoot... the few, remaining, drop-ass snowboarders excluded.

A professional skier facing the end of a career longer on the agony of defeat than the thrill of victory — we'll call him Saint Perry — ascended a high mountain seeking wisdom from a wizened guru. "What is the meaning of life," he asked? He hoped the answer wasn't, "Go to work for da man."

Perhaps it was the altitude, perhaps the mushrooms but what Saint Perry thought he heard the old Yoda say was, "Get off my mountain. Go home and create the World Technical Skiing Championships on your own mountain... in April."

So he did.

And everybody was in awe of his foresight and wisdom. OK, that's not exactly the truth. Everybody thought he was crazy as a wombat and their reaction to that first iteration of what would become the WSSF was best described by the Zen koan, "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

Undeterred, Saint Perry soldiered on.

In true Horatio Alger fashion, things went downhill from there.

But the story has a happy ending, kind of. Sport met culture, culture begat music, photography and film, everybody danced and, if we just gloss over the part where the apostates rose up and banished Saint Perry we can conclude our historical journey by saying WSSF is quite simply the most successful, biggest, baddest celebration of Mountain Kulture to be found anywhere on planet Earth.

Don't believe me? You must not have been around Skier's Plaza Saturday evening. The place was packed for the Big Air competition and even more packed when Nas took the stage. Were there 10,000 people there? Probably. Was that unusual for a Saturday evening in an over-hyped ski town? Inquiring minds want to know.

So I surfed on over to the village cams at Vail. At first I thought maybe they were offline. The whole of Vail looked like one of those towns in a sci-fi movie where some outer space organism invades and kills everything that walks on two legs. There was no sign of life. Then I saw a group of four people. They looked like they were reenacting that cell phone commercial where people walk around aimlessly saying, "Can you hear me now?" Except they seemed to be saying, "Are you open?" There was no answer.

Thus it is in April in most ski towns.

But not here. With a festival almost old enough to drink legally — but what's the fun in that? — it's easy to take it for granted. Easy to dismiss its impact on the town. Easy to assume it's always been around and always will be. Easy to think it just runs itself.

Imagine for a moment if WSSF didn't exist. What would you be doing this week? If you live here, maybe riding your bike, doing a little spring skiing, cleaning up winter's detritus, wondering where you put your summer clothes and toys, getting ready to leave town? If you live in Vancouver? Never mind; who cares?

What you wouldn't be doing is spending every afternoon listening to live music at the mainstage. Don't know who the acts are? So what? I've never heard of most of them either. But every year I discover one, two, maybe three I'd never heard of who blow my mind and whose music enriches my life, gives me joy and keeps me from descending into that nostalgic pit of despair called Oldies. If you're not discovering new music you're not moving forward... and there ain't really no back to go to; you're just dead in the water.

If WSSF didn't exist you might never have had the chance to watch roller derby in Whistler. I mean, who else is going to have the clout to pull a flat track together in the Conference Centre. OK, so roller derby may not be front-of-mind when the culturistas gather to discuss ways to bolster arts and culture in Tiny Town. But the sold-out crowd had a hell of a good time watching Whistler's Black Diamond Betties finally giv'er to Squampton's Sea to Sky Sirens. And Sue promises a way better layout for next year's Vengeance in the Valley.

Without WSSF there would be no 72 Hour Filmmaker's Showdown. Literally. It wouldn't exist. It wouldn't sell out within days of tickets going on sale. Every year. It wouldn't pack over 1,200 people into the Conference Centre ballroom... two nights running this year. If you don't think that's an accomplishment you haven't been to a number of performances at My Place where there are a considerable number of empty seats sprinkled around a 200-seat theatre.

There wouldn't be another sold out evening where an enthralled audience sits through what used to be considered the butt of jokes — slide shows. Yes, I know, unfortunately there is another surf photographer this year. Yes, I know, they always win. But they, and every other photographer who has ever competed in the Pro Photographer Showdown leave us mesmerized, inspired and uncertain whether we should redouble our efforts to take better images ourselves or simply post our cameras on Craigslist and give up.

WSSF may be, as they say, your festival, but it doesn't materialize out of thin air. Whatever you see this year has been and will be nothing short of the miraculous result of hard work and good management. The festival dodged a bullet, almost being hijacked by the X Games Lite, a franchise quickly becoming its own parody. It lost a main sponsor and, after waiting for ESPN to stop dithering, didn't have time to find a new one. It had to do what it's never done before, get muni funding. And the future is as unknowable as the future always is.

But it's April in Whistler and it's time to party. So get your dancin' shoes on and get out there; there's still lots of life left in this beautiful 18-year-old and if you can't appreciate that, well, that's your loss because this is our culture.