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Adapt or perish — dealing with the fast-changing face of snowsports

"It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you can't go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad." - C.S.
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"It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you can't go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad."

- C.S. Lewis

Can you believe it? Only two months till Opening Day and the start of snowsliding season. Where did the days go? I mean, can it really be that close?

Given Whistler's über-warm summer, it is hard to believe that snow could start falling in the high country within the next few weeks. But it will. Our clear sunny days will slowly give way to sombre half-lit ones. Rainfall will become ubiquitous once again. And we'll all suffer from S.A.D. to one degree or another.

But not for long. For high up in the alpine, a stain of white will soon appear on the rocks, grow, recede, and then start to spread again. Steadily, irrevocably, it will creep its way ever downward, softening everything in its path, gradually turning a nasty environment into a surprisingly friendly one. And then one morning we'll all wake up and voila — just like magic, our little mountain valley will once more be transformed into the snowsliding playground we've all come to know and love.

I know. I know. Given the 21st century's myriad sports choices, waxing nostalgic for a particular sport in a particular season seems, hmm... anachronistic? But I can't help it. It's just so hard-wired in me. From the moment I could ski, mid-September was always switchover time. You know, when talk of summer adventures shifted over to preparations for the coming winter.

That was before mountain biking of course. And windsurfing, and kite sailing, and parapenting and sports climbing and rafting and paddleboarding and... Ouf! When I was a kid, skiing was pretty much the only adrenaline game in town (unless of course you were into cars). Maybe that's why we all got so excited in early fall.

Dryland training really meant something back then. You got together with your ski club mates two, three days a week (and for most of Sunday) and worked hard to prepare your body for the rigours of the coming season. It wasn't all that scientific. In fact, most of what we did would be dismissed by modern sports trainers as woefully "unspecific." But it was demanding.

Skis, you see, didn't turn by themselves in those days. As for boot support, forget about it. It was all you — muscles, sinews, guts — and it took everything you had to force those old planks into the falline. But that was just the beginning. For once you steered them downhill, well, it took even more strength to get them to turn right or left. Skiing, in other words, was not for the wimp... or the weak. We did a lot of deep squats and stair climbs and piggy-back sprints because of that. Probably too much. As my coach loved to say: "If it doesn't hurt, you're not doing it right."

Now that I think about it, those dryland sessions weren't just about preparing physically for the coming ski season. No. They were a re-affirmation of your membership in the tribe. All that sweat and effort — all that pain and agony and screaming quads and endless sit-ups — it was like a rite of passage... yet another way to share your passion for sliding on snow with like-minded crazies. And it worked.

My home hill, as a kid, was Mont Sainte-Anne. A mere pimple by Whistler standards, the Quebec City dowager still boasts a robust 2,000 feet (610 metres) of vertical (roughly equivalent to skiing from mid-station at Creekside) and is considered one of the more demanding hills east of the Rockies. Once upon a time, Ste. Anne also boasted a really vigorous tribe of snowsliders.

I don't know if it still happens anymore (or if everybody there is too busy mountain biking now) but in the old days, autumn weekends would see hordes of ski enthusiasts climbing up to Ste Anne's summit — by the westside Crète run with its breathtaking views of the Gulf of St Lawrence, or by the easier Familiale on the mountain's east flank offering high-country vistas of Charlevoix County. For keeners it was a forty-minute sprint to the top; for some veterans, it was a three-hour slog. But it was always worth the effort.

For invariably — no matter how early you arrived — there would already be a party in full swing at the summit terrace, with wine and cheese and bread and sausage and laughter and song and dance. And everybody would be included — old-timer and neophyte alike. If you could reach the top, went the thinking, you deserved to be part of the party. And yes, there were incidences. Some people drank too much, joie-de-vivred too hard... and had to be helped down the hill at the end of the day. Still, back then outside assistance was rarely needed. The tribe, you see, took care of its own.

But that was before the industrialization of the sport. Sad how times have changed.

But have they really? Could it be that all this snowplay gemütlichkeit (the animating spirit that sustained ski culture in its early days) has simply migrated away from lift-served resorts and into the wilds of the backcountry? I mean, you'd probably get thrown in jail today if you tried to pull off an impromptu wine-and-cheese party on the Roundhouse deck. Especially if WB wasn't getting their pound of flesh out of it...

Freedom. Wildness. Fun. That's what skiing used to stand for.

Crowds. Corporate advertising. Speed police. That's what resort riding offers today. Which begs the question: Has the best of snowriding culture merely traded this urban-resort phenomenon for more "authentic" surroundings? Certainly seems that way.

I was reminded of that fact while speaking to a young acquaintance recently at a family gathering. It was clear from the start that she really wanted to talk with me. Her eyes gleamed, her smile danced from ear-to-ear. "You won't believe it," she blurted, "I've taken up ski touring. And I'm totally into it." Her smile grew even bigger at my look of surprise. "I went out every weekend last winter... and to a different destination each time. I just can't get enough." She stopped for a quick breath. "So what do you think of the Dynafit system," she then asked me. "I mean, I skied on Marker Barons last winter, but they were just too heavy for me..."

At first I couldn't speak. I was in shock. Happy shock, of course. But I was still having trouble processing what I'd just heard. Dynafit? Barons? Ski touring? I mean, two years ago this same woman wouldn't have known a ski binding from a snowboard boot. Sophisticated, smart, fashionable — the ultimate urban professional — the oh-so-chic thirtysomething's biggest sporting adventure back then was attending weekly spin classes. I still had trouble picturing her sudden switch from executive power suit to Gore-Tex and fleece. So I asked her to explain.

"Well," she began, "I moved to Calgary last year." She stopped. Smiled. "How can I put this? Urban Calgary is not Vancouver." She laughed. "And well, I didn't know anybody in town. And the Rockies are so close and so accessible and you can pretty much ski-tour right from your car..." That's why, she explained, she decided — "kind of out-of-the-blue" — to take an introductory course in ski touring. "Not that easy," she admitted, "when you're a beginner skier." But she stuck at it. Met some engaging people along the way. Experienced powerful moments.

"And now I'm totally hooked." More laughter. "I don't know why I waited so long to try it. I remember listening to your ski-touring stories and thinking you had to be exaggerating about the highs you got from your adventures. But now I totally get it." There was more. "The thing is," she continued, "I've fallen in with a group of people who are really great to hang with. They're smart and fun and fit... and a little bit wild." She giggled. "And even though I'm a rank beginner — and they're not! — they've totally welcomed me into their circle. Really — I feel like I've joined a tribe or something..." She sighed happily. "And I kinda like it."

The world is changing my friends. It may look the same today. And it may even be similar-looking tomorrow. But one morning you're going to wake up and nothing will be familiar anymore. Snowsport culture is changing too. What was cool and hip and not-to-miss in 1986 isn't all that relevant anymore. Get what I'm saying? Sadly, the mix of boomers and gen x'ers still running the ski-resort business seem somewhat out-of-touch with the current zeitgeist. Nature-based tourism? It's not just a summer thing, baby...

Fortunately Whistler may dodge the coming bullet. Blessed, as it is, with some of the wildest and exciting (and easily accessed) backcountry ski terrain in North America, the resort can still remain relevant for years to come. But the focus will have to shift away from the one-size-fits all corporate approach. There are countless guiding/lodging/managing opportunities waiting for bold, young mountain entrepreneurs throughout Sea to Sky. Still, we're going to have to learn how to do things differently here (particularly at Tourism Whistler and muni hall) if we're to have any hope of attracting them — and supporting their efforts. Are we ready for it?