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Changing times – Whistler at the crossroads

"You can't step into the same river twice." - Heraclitus It feels a bit surreal to be packing up my things. Skis, boots, poles, touring gear, parkas, pants, gloves, hats, rainwear, rucksacks.
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"You can't step into the same river twice."

- Heraclitus

 

It feels a bit surreal to be packing up my things. Skis, boots, poles, touring gear, parkas, pants, gloves, hats, rainwear, rucksacks. I can't believe how much stuff I've accumulated over the winter. Can't believe I've got to cram all this gear into my car for my reluctant return to the city. Coffee pot and bean grinder and channel changer and computer and iPod speakers and magazines and books. Lots of books. And memories too. So many memories - both positive and negative. But mostly positive...

Yes, it's true. The experiment is over. My full-time Whistler residency status is done (at least until next winter). And my heart mourns.

No surprise there. For the first time in 30 years, I was able to call this magical mountain valley my home again. For six wonderful months I was allowed to call myself a Whistler local. Didn't matter that I was living through one of the worst nightmares imaginable. Didn't matter that I was alone and facing an uphill climb almost too steep to imagine. At least I was in Whistler.

It was my version of total escape. All I wanted to do was ski and forget. I wanted to come home so tired at the end of the day that I would fall immediately into the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted. I wanted to push my aching body to its limits. Wanted to feel the physicality of snowplay at its most fundamental level. I wanted to not remember.

And the mountains delivered. From the moment I set my bags down in my Creekside apartment back in November, the skies parted and the snow began to fall. Opening Day on Whistler Mountain was one of the best in memory. Out of shape and out of sorts, I nonetheless jumped into the action like it was the middle of the season. And like so many other locals, I paid the price dearly.

Sore thighs and aching back; pulled muscles and blacked-out toes - being a full-time Whistler local was just like I remembered it. My days became a blur of powder turns. Four, five, six days in a row. Screaming body parts and broken gear. I was in Snoweater heaven. And the white stuff kept falling. Twenty-five centimetres overnight. Then another 30 the next day. And another 20 the night after that. It was epic. By the beginning of December, my buddies and I were skiing forest lines that didn't usually open up until mid-winter. And it looked like there was no end in sight.

By the time New Years' Eve came around and I was cajoled into joining the annual torchlight parade, I'd skied more powder days at Whistler than I had in years. They weren't always full days. That was the great thing about living here. I could write in the morning, walk down to the lifts at noon and get as many turns as I wanted by closing time. It was an ideal situation for someone like me.

Alas, my soul still ached. I was still all alone. Still without my darling spouse to share in my good fortune. Yes, I'd escaped the terror of my Vancouver situation. Dropped everything to retreat to the mountains. But at what cost? Yes, I came home too exhausted to think of what I came to call "my horror" at the end of most days, but so what? As one friend put it: "You aren't going to meet a lot of new people up here if you ski yourself into the ground every day and you're too tired to go out at night."

He had a point. And I soon realized that my apartment was increasingly becoming a cave. Or even a cage...

I guess I must have hit the wall soon after the start of the Olympics. It was watching my daughter carry the torch that got things started. As I stood on the sidewalk in front of Jenna's school marvelling at the hundreds of people cheering on her progress, the tragic nature of her being picked for this singular honour suddenly struck me like a bag of wet cement across the head. Wendy wasn't coming back. She was gone for good. We were on our own. It felt almost like my feelings had been all frozen up until that moment. And now the dam had burst.

You know when you freeze your fingers so badly that they go numb? You know the pain you feel when you first get the blood flowing again? Well, multiply that by about a billion and you start to get an idea of the pain I went through in early February.

The tears were incessant. A dark cloud hovered constantly over my head. I tried everything. Took off for long walks into the mountain alone. Skied as hard as I possibly could. Did my best to ignore all the happy faces around me. But nothing helped. While Whistlerites celebrated one of the community's most significant watershed moments - and visitors basked in the glow of our Olympic flame - I hid in my cave and refused invitations out.

"Where's Michel?" became a popular refrain during the Olympics. Unfortunately, I was too screwed up to be able to explain my disappearances. Besides, I felt way too self-conscious to show my sad face in public. I just wanted to be alone with my pain.

And alone I was. While Whistler-raised kids like Ashleigh McIvor and Maëlle Ricker and Davey Barr and Julia Murray and the Janyks and Osborne-Paradis and Dixon were making us proud on the field of battle, I was hiding out on Whistler Peak waiting for my daily sunset fix.

Alone on the summit - sometimes with a friend or two - I basked in those final quiet moments while the sun slowly dipped below the horizon suffusing the surrounding peaks with a last brush of golden ochre. I knew things were getting out of control. Understood that I was not living a sustainable situation. But I couldn't come up with an alternative.

So I skied even harder. I was living in Whistler, wasn't I? Might as well get in as many turns as I could, too. And in as many different locations as I could too. From Tremor to Joffre, from Fissile to Prospector, I got to set ski tracks on a bewilderingly rich melange of Coast Mountain slopes. And I began to feel human again.

The fact that the ski season seemed to be ending in the same way it had begun - with a powder BANG instead of a whimper - added just the right spices to my emotional comeback. I mean, how can you hate life when there's 30 cm of fresh, cold snow from peak to valley? How can you contemplate suicide when there are faceshots to be had all over the mountain? And this in April!

Indeed, there was a four-day stretch there last week when I made some of my best turns of the season. And why not? Deep snow, winter-fit muscles and total familiarity with the terrain make for some seriously fun spring outings. Don't you think?

But now it's over. At least for me it is. It's back to real life for this ski bum. I'm scheduled for an extensive hospital stay next week, with my snoweating future very much in question. You see, it's not enough that I lost my spouse and the life that I thought we would lead together. My body has also betrayed me. No cartilage left in my knees, they tell me. Nothing to do, they say, but replace the joint.

Will the new plastic knee they're planning to insert into my body do better than the old broken one? Will I one day be able to walk without pain again? And what about skiing? Will I be able to embark on the downhill adventures I've enjoyed in the past? My surgeon assures me it will be no problem. But I'm not sure he and I understand each other when we use the word "skiing." We'll see...

So that's why I'm headed back to Vancouver this week. It will be a short-term stay, however. Of that there is no question. If I learned anything this winter, it's that I belong here at Whistler. For better or worse, this is my community. This is the place I care most about in the world. Admittedly, I don't know exactly how I'm going to make that happen. All I know is that my rental experiment this past winter was but a first step in becoming a full-time resident here again.

Interesting, too. Because I can't help but feel that Whistler is at a crossroads as well. With the Games behind us - and a troubling economic forecast for the tourism sector (and none more at risk than the snowsport resorts) ahead - we Whistlerites will have to quickly re-invent ourselves if we expect to maintain the rich outdoor lifestyle that has become a staple in this region.

Diversity is the key. As is a thorough understanding of the competition. And by this, I don't mean knowing all there is to know about the Colorado ski hills. As I mentioned last week, so-called "sun destinations" are quickly moving beyond us in response to new, 21 st century priorities. Whether it's producing alternative energy or creating local universities with tourism-relevant courses or cutting back development and funding protected wilderness areas - while still featuring very competitive prices - those resorts that respond best to the changing demands of consumers will continue to attract customers. Those who don't won't.

It really is that simple. But it's going to take a heck of a lot of hard work if Whistler is to make that transition. Kind of like me with my new knee. There is nothing written in a big book in the sky that says I will always be able to ski. But I believe if I work hard, stay focused and behave reasonably, I should be back on my boards next winter.

Can Whistler step it up and make the new grade too? Only time will tell. But it's going to necessitate building more than "gondolas to nowhere" for us to succeed in this challenging new business climate. In fact, I believe it's going to take some radical, outside-the-box thinking for us to negotiate the reef-filled waters ahead. Are you up for it? I hope so...