He sat across from me in the gondola. He couldn’t have been more than 18. Pimply chin and a beardless phiz. Unkempt hair and a grin that spread from ear-to-ear. He was so excited he could barely contain himself. So energized he was like a puppy in front of a fire hydrant. And I knew exactly where he was coming from.
“Hive been dreamin’ about dees hall summare,” he said, catching my complicit grin. “Ahm so excited. Ahm so excited. ’Ow ’bout you?” There wasn’t a hint of self-consciousness in this kid. Just total, unabated bliss. And he wanted to share it with everyone in the gondola. No matter that we were squeezed together like sardines in a tin. No matter that the gondola’s slopeside-window had been bolted shut and we could barely breathe. He was living his dream — everything else was irrelevant.
“I steel can’t believe heets rilly ’appenin’ to me,” he enthused. “Hopenin’ Day. Finalement — my furs run on Wistlare!’” His eyes grew wide. His grin became almost clown like. And then a look of concern. “Do you tink it will be OK up dere?”
I love this time of the year. When most sane people are battening down the hatches or planning retreats to warmer climes, true-believers of the Snoweater tribe are frantically digging through their winter closets in search of gloves, hats, goggles, boots, boards, transceivers, socks, tights, coats, poles, pants, shovel, probes — and whatever else they might need for the first official play session of the season.
Opening Day. Is there another one-day event at any other time of the year that releases so much adrenaline into the bloodstream? So much pure happiness into the air? Yeah, I know. Golfers get animated when they are finally turned loose on the greens. And mountain bikers get dewy-eyed when the snow eventually melts from the trails. Sure, Apple aficionados go weak in the knees when new aps are unveiled in Cupertino. But they just don’t compare. You see, there is something about sliding downhill on snow — something about loosening the human chains off one of the most physically awkward members of the animal kingdom — that transforms even the grumpiest old cynic into the most accessible of romantics.
And Opening Day is all about celebrating that transformation…
Now if you don’t like winter weather, you’ll never understand what I’m talking about. If you can’t handle a wet butt or a wind-hammered face, don’t even try. If your idea of a good time doesn’t include cold toes and a dripping nose, and that slightly damp, clammy feel you get in your crotch at the end of a big Whistler powder day, chances are you’re better off playing golf after all.
I don’t mean to be discriminating. Or overly harsh. But it’s pretty simple. It’s gotta be in your soul. It’s gotta be part of you. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time.
My old friend Tamara McKinney has this theory about a “twisted gene” that all snoweaters share. “It’s the one thing that keeps us from becoming too normal,” I’ve heard the former world alpine ski champion explain more than once. “We’re just not wholly tamed. There’s a wild side to us that needs the release that only sliding over snow can deliver.” And then, invariably, she smiles that impish grin that is so much a part of her character. “And aren’t we lucky that it’s not illegal? Otherwise, we’d all be in prison…”
Indeed. And for the thousands of excited twisted-gene types that showed up Saturday for Whistler Mountain’s (unofficial) Opening Day, it was like getting that first big get-out-of-jail-free card of the season. “I haven’t seen it this crazy in a long time,” said VP of Operations Bob Dufour, a big smile splashed across his face. Posted at his favourite spot at the bottom of the Creekside gondola, Bob said even he was amazed at the mass of kids (both young and olddddder) lined-up at 7 that morning at the base and ready to go.
“They were all well-behaved,” he said. “But they were keen. And there seemed to be a big bunch of French Canadians at the front of the pack. It was like a big party out there.”
My new gondola friend fit right in then. A young Acadian from New Brunswick — an Arsenault, to be sure, who proudly wears le drapeau de l’Acadie on his sleeve (literally) — the kid graduated from high school just last spring, worked all summer to build up a bit of stake, and headed west when fall came. “I hused to organiz’ hall the ski treeps for my school,” he told me. “We went all hover, to hall the beeg place — Mont Ste Anne, Killington, Sunday River, Maine. But for me, I hallwees dream’d of Wistlare. Dis is whare I want to ride. Dere is no odair. Seulement Wistlare.”
And what did he think so far? “Are you keeddin’? I ’ave to peench mysalfe in de mornin’ just to mak sure it’s rilly happenin’. Dis plass is so cool, man, I can believe eet.”
Young Arsenault notwithstanding, there did seem to be a strong — and very youthful — French Canadian contingent on the mountain last Saturday. More than I’ve ever seen, in fact. And that only adds fuel to my argumentative fire. For if there is any collection of people who really know snow and cold on this continent — and who boast a culture that joyfully celebrates winter sports and outdoor activities on a regular basis — it is our French-speaking neighbours in Quebec and the Maritime provinces.
You want snoweaters? They are among the most committed of the global tribe…
And the franco influence at Whistler has always been strong. Whether Bob Dufour, Phil Lavoie, Peewee Jette or Hugo Harrison (to name only a few), French-speaking riders and skiers have traditionally defined the outer limits of performance around here. As for social colour, they’ve brought a joie-de-vivre to this valley that has added all sorts of texture to our local culture.
Which makes me wonder why both Tourism Whistler and Whistler-Blackcomb have been so hesitant to market the resort aggressively in Quebec…
I’ve asked that question more than once in the past. And mostly what I get in response are excuses. Unique market with unique needs, they tell me. Too interested in European destinations, they explain patiently. Too difficult a culture to break into, they sigh. Language barriers make communications complicated, they counter. Different tastes. Different priorities. Different styles.
Hello. Yes, they have a different culture. And yes, they do speak French. But most of them also speak snow — so it couldn’t be all that difficult to get our point across.
I mean, let’s face it. Whistler isn’t for weather wimps. Doesn’t matter how often you entice Angelinos north to face our unpredictable coastal climate — doesn’t matter how much money you spend or how many people you send down there — you’re never going to convince Southern Californians that this is the place for them. Sure, you might get a few die-hards, but the reason most people move to Los Angeles is to escape the cold, rain and snow in the rest of the country.
That’s why Quebec is such a perfect market for us. Tell a Montrealer that Whistler gets powder conditions without the temperature dropping to –40, and you have a very interested listener. Explain to someone who grew up skiing at Quebec City’s Mont Ste Anne that you don’t need to suffer 50 mph winds to enjoy fresh snow and you have a captive audience. Talk to anyone from La Belle Province and tell them that in springtime you can ski in the morning and windsurf in the afternoon (or mountain bike, or run or paddle or hike or golf) and you have a very intrigued consumer.
Thankfully for us, it seems that a new generation of hard-charging French Canadian kids have discovered the place for themselves. And how they fare here will have huge consequences for Whistler in the future. For it’s enthusiasts like my young Acadian friend — early-adopters who can influence scores of others — who will bring back Whistler stories to their home ski club, or to their buddies at the pub, or the friends they grew up with. And it is these stories that will determine who visits us in the years to come.
Let’s be clear here. Although I was struck by the high proportion of French Canadian rippers on the hill Saturday, what struck me most was how young the Opening Day crowd really was this year. And what a promising trend that is for our business! The energy, the power — the out and out sexiness — of all these young hounds and houndettes (and don’t kid yourself, the Whistler shred betties are definitely making their presence felt here) re-enforced for me just how special flying over the snow in wintertime really is. None of us should forget that…
N.B.: By the way, just wanted to send kudos to the Whistler Mountain Ops team for getting the place in such great shape in time for the opening. There wasn’t much time to make the transition from construction mode to operations mode this year. Bob Dufour, Doug MacFarlane and the whole crew up there should be acknowledged for performing a wee bit of mountain magic last week. Well done!
