It was the fall of 1981 and Gail Morrison was very keen to get back to Whistler.
Didn’t matter that the newly-minted resort municipality was stumbling through a crippling recession. Didn’t matter that her current travelling buddies, Vicki Vogler and Sharon Audley, wanted to stay in Europe for a while longer. Her dream had come true. Whistler Mountain had accepted her application to become a full-time pro-patroller.
“It was the job I wanted most in my life,” says the outgoing fiftysomething with her trademark laugh. “I knew all the guys on the team. And I knew that I could work just as hard as they could. I was confident we’d all be able to collaborate together successfully…”
People sometimes forget just how fast things were changing back then. Blackcomb Mountain was brand new. Whistler Mountain had just expanded its operations to include its north-side slopes. In the space of one season, the resort had nearly tripled its skiing base. The result? Way more terrain to patrol; way more potential crises to handle. Reluctantly, the old-boy club of professional pro patrollers had welcomed women into their midst. Fortunately, those who took up the challenge that year — gals like Morrison and Cathy Jewett and Leslie Bruce — were competent and strong and didn’t suffer fools.
“Jan Tindle was our mentor,” smiles Morrison. “She was the first to break into the club. And she was really good at what she did. So I just followed her lead.”
Gail laughs a lot. It’s hard to describe it if you’ve never heard it. Part nervous shyness, I figure, part raw energy. Whatever. Most of her comments are punctuated with it.
“You know, sometimes in life you get the kind of job that you’ve always fantasized about,” she continues. “It doesn’t happen a lot. But in this case, I was living my dream. The job lived up to my expectations on every level. It was a complete joy…”
Like so many other women living in this valley, Gail has worn many different hats in her life. Athlete, skier, patroller, caterer/cook, photo editor — and now proud mother of a promising young ski racer — she is a passionate mountain enthusiast who is never more comfortable than when she’s playing in the snow in wintertime.
Yet Morrison is one of those rare people living in snow country who wasn’t introduced to skiing by a family member. “I grew up in suburbia,” she explains. “In Coquitlam to be more precise. And neither of my parents skied.”
So haw did she get started? It was a learn-to-ski program in Grade 9, she says. “It cost $20. And for that you got transportation to Mt Seymour, four days of skiing, lessons and rental equipment,” she laughs, “with laced boots and wooden skis and everything…”
As rudimentary as they might have been, those lessons changed Gail’s life forever. She was hooked. “I remember getting my driver’s license just so I could go skiing,” she says. “I got a youth pass to Grouse when I was in Grade 11. During the winter months, we’d pack up the old Chrysler 66 with ski gear, head to school, and the moment the final bell rang we’d rush off to the North Shore.
Her high school graduation present in 1974 was a week-long stint at the legendary Toni Sailer summer ski camp. “That was the turning point for me,” she says. “It was the middle of summer, we were high up on the mountain and the ambiance was fantastic. I’d never experienced anything like it before...”
By the fall of 1976, Gail was living in Whistler.
“We found this perfect little basement suite in Alpine Meadows,” she recounts. “There were three of us girls sharing the place.” She pauses. Laughs again. “It was a great winter. Totally enchanting. Getting up and going skiing every morning: I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.”
It was also that winter that she met her future husband. “It was one of the first days of the season — probably early December — and I was downloading on the gondola because there wasn’t enough snow yet to ski down. Suddenly these two guys jump in with me.” She pauses. “One of them had a huge patch over his eye. He looked like a fighter…”
The two strangers were future star-photographers (and lifelong friends) Alec Pytlowany and Paul Morrison. Turns out Paul had suffered a bad crash on Chunky’s Choice a few days before and his ski tip had grazed his eye. “He was a really good skier,” remembers Gail. And smiles almost shyly. “And he was kind of cute too.”
They spent that winter skiing in the same gang. By that spring they were a couple. Still, it took another eight years for them to settle down in the valley for good.
“We built our house in Alpine Meadows in 1985,” explains Gail. “And that was big for us. At the time, I was working two jobs. I had my patrol job during the day and at night I waited tables at the Creekhouse.” She shrugs. “I guess I had a lot of energy in those days…”
But they were still barely making ends meet. “In 1987, my friend Shelley Adams called me up and convinced me to join her in the film catering business.” More laughter. “The money was phenomenal,” she says. “But we worked bloody hard. During the film season, it was pretty much just work and sleep. There was no time for a social life.”
Meanwhile, Paul was starting to get good traction as a pro photographer. It was never easy, but it was definitely beginning to pay for itself. By the winter of ’89-90, Gail was ready to get back into skiing in a big way. “I was so excited,” she says. “The local film business was winding down for the season and I was looking forward to skiing out my pass.”
Alas, the gods had other plans for her. “I had a little bit of work to finish in Vancouver,” she recalls. “And rather than drive down Sunday night with everyone else, I decided to get up early Monday morning and do the trip then.”
The next day dawned stormy. “It was snowing hard in Whistler,” she says. “But by the time I got to Lions Bay the snow had turned to rain.” And not just a tinkle, it was bouncing off the pavement…
Like so many other Highway 99 victims, Gail just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. And it would cost her dearly. Because flying north in the other direction, was a guy who’d just gotten out of jail for drunk driving. “I guess he must have lost control coming into Lions Bay,” she recounts. “All I saw was this car bouncing off the north retaining wall and coming at me straight on…”
The highway was closed for two hours. Gail’s rescuers had to use the Jaws Of Life to get her out. “I was not a happy camper,” she says. And who could blame her? She’d suffered a compound fracture to her femur, a totally locked-up knee, broken ribs and sundry bruises and contusions. “I was conscious through the whole thing,” she admits. “I still remember them pulling me out of the car. The pain was excruciating!”
Her rehab took most of the winter. “But I had the world’s best physios,” she says. “Thanks to Susie and Lorraine I was back working at the catering truck by May.”
She doesn’t dwell on her injuries. Doesn’t wax cynical about the accident. In fact she’s far keener to talk about the 1991 arrival of her son, Ian, and how much fun she’s had watching him grow up on the mountain. “It’s been great entertainment,” she says.
Which bring us to her latest gig. “Well,” she says, “I’m putting a lot of volunteer hours in at the ski club.” And then laughs. “Being a ski racer mom,” she says, “is nearly a full-time job…”
Her experience with the club has given her a new appreciation for the old ‘it takes a village to raise an athlete’ tenet. “The Whistler Mountain Ski Club is a pretty successful institution that way,” she says. “It’s been an amazing upbringing for Ian.”
Still, it’s more than just about Ian. “Ski racing,” she adds, “is a great way to get kids passionate about the mountains. It’s ideal for teenagers — especially teenagers growing up in Whistler. That’s why it bothers me that Ian is the only boy his age from the valley still racing. That’s not the way it should be.”
She’s not laughing now. Indeed, I can almost see the seeds of a new project bubbling up through her words. She sighs. “I just wish there was a way we could make the sport more accessible to local kids…”
