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Alta states: Growing up Whistler

Another leave-taking for a small community
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"(We've) created an artificial world ruled by speed and efficiency, optimized production and consumption... We are becoming ever more adept at scanning and skimming, but what we are losing is our capacity for concentration, contemplation and reflection."

- Nicholas Barr, What the Internet is doing To Our Brains

Another memorial to a fallen friend. Another afternoon of tears and laughter, nostalgia and pain. Haven't we had enough of these yet?

By the time you read these words, the party will be long over. Another Whistler Pique family wake. Can you believe it? Marlene is no more. That great font of happy wisdom; that enthusiastic lover of all things great and small. Max's Perfect Partner. The woman we learned to admire and trust through the word-prism of his weekly missives. GD's muse. His friend. His best and greatest critic. So sad. So hard to say goodbye.

Why? Why now?

I knew she'd been fighting a fierce battle with cancer. I knew her chances of success were less than promising. But I had so much faith in Marlene's zest for life that I refused to see the truth. I even ignored it back in March when we got together for dinner. She looked great, I thought. She wasn't going to die. She was going to beat the odds and live.

I was wrong.

And now she's gone. But as moving as it is, the story of Marlene's final journey can only hold our attention for so long. Most of us will have gone back to our daily grind by now. Time marches on and all that. I mean, it's not like we can all put our lives on hold and mourn her passing for weeks. Right?

But for those touched personally by this tragic turn of events, the journey has only just begun.

Believe me, I know.

So weird to see old Max join our little bereaved men's club too. Three for three. It's like some bizarre novel written by a cruel god. Who will be next? Who will next feel the pain of this crazy story maker?

And I can't help but reflect back on a much happier get-together. Can't help but think that time has been a harsh mistress for those who dined with me that night...

The year is 2007. The event is the annual Pique Christmas dinner at La RĂșa and there are six of us at the head table: Bob and Kathy, Max and Marlene, Wendy and me. We're playing the magazine "elders" this evening. But none of us feel particularly old. We feel invincible.

As one might expect, the conversation around our table is lively. My table-mates give as good as they get. And no subject is taboo. From politics to art, from sports to education, opinions and facts and near-facts fly around us at near-sonic velocities. We even get ol' Bob talking that night. Which is no mean feat...

But what I remember most, what strikes me with so much force today, is just how animated our partners were that evening. How much fun they were to be around. I recall thinking during a short break in the conversation (very short) how lucky Bob, Max and I were to have gals who could keep us on our toes like these three could.

Even now I can't help but smile. These ladies were dragons! If you couldn't back up your claim with facts - no matter how much you prevaricated or how hard you argued or blustered - you had no chance of winning your point. Did I mention there was a lot of laughter that night? Who could have guessed?

It was probably the last time we were all together as a group...

Kathy Barnett died a month later. Hit by a speeding car while on a dream cycling vacation to New Zealand. Like a sudden bolt out of the sky, death came upon her without a word. Bang. Dead. Totally random. Totally senseless. What the hell was going on with the world, I wondered. Why her?

It's not like Kathy's work was done here. Whistler still badly needed her positive energy. I mean, who was going to fill the enormous shoes she left behind?

Entrepreneur and mentor, publisher and opinion-shaper, Kathy Barnett was a force of nature. She wasn't flamboyant. And she wasn't particularly loud. But she was fearless. When it came to Pique and what it stood for, she was as fiercely protective of her team as a grizzly mom with her cubs.

I still remember one of the first "serious" conversations we ever had. It was shortly after I'd started writing this column and I'd already managed to insult a number of powerful people in the valley. "We lost three advertisers this week," she told me over the phone that day (I thought I could just detect a hint of disapproval in her voice). "They all complained about your column, you know."

And then silence. I girded my loins. When the publisher calls you about dropped ads, it usually means one thing: a dropped freelancer. Sigh, and I was beginning to enjoy my new role at Pique ...

I was just about to mount a defence for myself when she surprised me by bursting into laughter (and Kathy's laughter was something special). "Well Michel, I didn't agree," she finally said. "I thought that was one of the best stories we've ever published. I really liked it. So keep it up. We'll get 'em yet."

Another long stint of silence. I was in shock. I really didn't know what to say. So I kept my mouth shut. "By the way," she concluded, "don't worry about the advertisers. They'll come back. They always do." And that was that. We never talked about that column again.

And you know what? The advertisers DID come back. That was Kathy's great strength: she made it her business to really know the people she was doing business with.

I was on assignment in Alaska when I heard the sad news from New Zealand. And it pierced me like a poisoned thorn. Kathy Barnett dead? It couldn't be. What would happen to Bob? What would happen to Pique? How would we ever move on?

But we survived. And we did move on. Until the next shock hit us, that is.

It was barely 14 months later when my wife, Wendy, met her untimely end while on an innocent jog in a Vancouver park. Talk about a shocking turn of events. I'm still picking up my humpty-dumpty'ed pieces after that great fall. Still trying to figure out how to put the shards of my shattered life back together again.

But it's more than just me. Like Kathy and Marlene, Wendy had much to offer Whistler. Indeed, her roots are entwined in the history of this place. From a Pippi-Longstocking-on-skis upbringing to a hippie stint at Parkhurst, from telemarking mom to sports-for-all advocate, Wendy was the kind of person who brought a ray of sunshine to the darkest situations.

And now she too is gone. Such a great loss. Wendy, Kathy and Marlene. All three taken at a time when they had so much to offer the world. How does such a small community as Whistler replace such quality folk? How do we make do without them anymore? I really don't know...

At the same time, I realize too that this is yet another manifestation of Whistler's maturing process. Life and death happen in real towns. Accidents, murders, sickness - they are all part of the modern world. Get over it, I want to tell myself. This is natural. It's all part of the story.

Know what I mean? Whistler's identity, as I've often argued, comes from the stories of the people who've chosen to make this special mountain place their home. Whistler's "brand," if you will, is the half-century long accumulation of these stories.

Which makes me shake my head in wonder to hear that the municipality has hired an Ontario-based "consultant" to come and teach them about something called "place-based" tourism.

Hell man, we invented place-based tourism at Whistler! Long before Joe Houssian and his developers had transformed the skyline, long before high heels and suits had made any inroads here, Whistler was already famous around the world for the quirky folk who populated this place. Whistler stories ruled. Why do you think the kids came? Why do you think we're still considered a dream destination by most big-mountain enthusiasts?

Ah, but don't get me started. That's a whole other story.

Here's to Marlene and Kathy and Wendy. Here's to Max and Bob and me. We sure made a great sixsome...