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Point of no return - the Bosco years

" I was too whacked to ever become a permanent Whistler resident. If I'd stayed, I would have probably turned into the official town drunk... " Bosco aka Bob Colebrook It's not like he never moved away.
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" I was too whacked to ever become a permanent Whistler resident. If I'd stayed, I would have probably turned into the official town drunk... "

Bosco aka Bob Colebrook

 

It's not like he never moved away. In fact, his 25-year affair with Whistler had more moves than a Latin Conga dancer. He'd stay put for a while - piss off the authorities in the valley with his shenanigans - then disappear for a few months. Or a year. Whatever.

Suddenly things would get quiet at Whistler. Really quiet.

But like the proverbial cat, he always came back. He couldn't help himself - there was something about the Whistler community that drew him like alpine catnip. It was during one of these unscheduled returns that Bob Colebrook first heard about the new magazine.

The Answer , as the buzz went, was everything Whistler's more conventional weekly wasn't. No subject was taboo. No one was safe. Irreverent, outspoken, unorganized -even anarchistic - it strove to reflect the unique gestalt of Whistler's youthful denizens.

"I don't exactly know how our association began," says Bosco. "I was a late arrival, but I do remember Charlie Doyle telling me, 'You always have opinions. Why don't you write for us?'" He stops. Smiles. "You see, I'd written a bit for the local paper back home in New Westminster," he says. And snorts out a laugh. "But it was a real free-flow process. It was all a big joke, you know. We were doing it for the pure rush of doing it."

Doyle, for his part, remembers the moment with a slightly different twist. "The first time I heard from Bosco," he says, "was in a message he sent to me shortly after the first issue came out in 1977. In it, he wrote: 'Your chances of a Pulitzer prize are indeed at risk without my participation.' Crazy, eh? Such a talented writer - one of the best I know."

And Bosco did eventually become The Answer's editor. No? "I could have called myself anything," says Bosco. "It really didn't matter to the process. I could have been head astrologer, for all anybody cared. It was mostly about having fun and tweaking people's noses a bit."

He grunts. Shuffles his feet. "You know, that was the thing about Whistler back then. There was a culture there right from the beginning. It wasn't what you might call 'High Culture' but it was definitely a shared way of approaching life and the world. It was unique."

He watches to see my response. When I don't blink, he goes on. "In the old days, there were so many crazy, creative people living in the Whistler valley. Sure, life could be primitive. But that was exactly the point - people were willing to trade the normal affectations of life in exchange for a new adventure. It was like the Wild West, you know - but instead of guns and pistols it was weed and skis."

Back then, he says, names had real meaning. "Aspen, Squaw, Vail - these were near-mythical places. People lived large there, you know, they had style." He pauses. "But now it's all about 'tourist experience.' And making everything taste the same..."

But back to The Answer . "It was never about making money," insists Bosco. "I mean, I don't think the paper ever made a profit. But who cares? We were having a gas. As long as we could pay the bills and afford a restaurant dinner or two - that was the only reward we were looking for."

He stops talking. Takes a breath. Chuckles deeply. "Every now and then Jim Monahan and I would collar Charlie." Another rusty burst of laughter. "We'd tell him: 'We need $50 for typewriter ribbons.' Charlie knew that meant beer. But he'd hand over the dough anyway." He pauses. Laughs some more. "Oh - and for those readers who don't know: a typewriter is a primitive device once used to print words on paper."

Ski bums and squatters, iconoclasts and rebels, the "working stiffs" at The Answer never, ever looked a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly when it came to media favours.

"It might sound foolish and everything," responds Bosco, "But the idea of a free press pass - say, when the World Cup races came to town - was a real highlight for us. Free food, free booze, total VIP treatment - that was the life we wanted."

He still laughs at the memory of Whistler's first mayor, Pat Carleton, introducing Bosco, Doyle and legendary wildman Fast Eddie to former PM Pierre Elliot Trudeau during some long-forgotten reception. "We were absolutely shit-faced," he confides. "And we just hammed it up, saying all these crazy and outrageous things." Another cackle of happiness. "His bodyguards were like seven feet tall - and they weren't really amused with us and wanted to whisk him away as soon as possible. But Trudeau seemed to enjoy our little show and encouraged us to continue."

He sighs. Shrugs. "You know - I stopped booze and drugs a few years back. Now it's strictly prescription. Lost a ton o' weight too - over 65 pounds. But it was all too late..." We're suddenly back in the present. Bosco's gone and Bob's taken his place. We're now in Colebrook's apartment in Victoria, his current refuge, and he's talking about the diabetes ravaging his body. Not in a "woe is me" way. The guy is way too tough for that. Still, the regret in the air is palpable.

"That's why it's hard to talk about that period of my life," he admits. And then he reveals something very profound. "For me," he says, "Whistler is a time as much as it is a place. In fact, the time is much more important than the place..."

A long silence fills the room. Bob sighs deeply. Then he goes on. "I came back to Whistler for Ralph Jensen's memorial last fall. Hadn't been back for 18 years! But the shock of seeing all the changes - I had no idea that the town had become such a shopping mall. Whistler's all about conspicuous consumption now. Very little of the old spirit remains."

He says he barely recognized in his former stomping grounds. "The only time I felt I was in Whistler was when I looked up. Only the mountains remained the same."

And Bosco never really saw it coming. "You know, I lived in Rossland for a while, and I really thought that's the kind of community Whistler would grow into. But it's such a different animal - and one I really don't know how to comprehend, let alone handle."

Still, he concedes it was fun to see the old gang again. "When I went to Ralph's thing, all the old timers were there. It was great to see that a few of them still showed the old spirit. A lot of them didn't of course. But there were still those who had a sparkle in their eye..." He laughs. And the old Bosco suddenly pops up again. "And cataracts too!"

But then he quickly gets serious again. "So many of the old characters are gone," he notes. "For me, when Elwyn and Kim died, Whistler's magnetism died too. And to see Al Davis wither away in extended care - that was devastating."

Bosco's on-again, off-again affair with Whistler finally ended in 1992. "Ultimately, I had to leave the place behind," he tells me. And grins sadly. "You see, the town was growing up, but I wasn't."

And yes, he understands how easy it is to view the past through rose-coloured glasses. "Of course, I could easily be accused of romanticizing my Whistler years," he admits. "But I remember it as the time of my life. And I've seen photos too. So I know it wasn't a total hallucination." He stops talking. Catches his breath. "Those were special times..."

Special or not, Bosco was riding a fast train to nowhere when it pulled up short. "I still remember the breaking point," he recounts. "It was just after they'd built the Whistler jail. For some reason, the RCMP invited me and Fast Eddie to spend the night there. And I just couldn't believe it. 'What? We're partying. Having a good time. This is Whistler - you don't get thrown in jail for partying too hard at Whistler. Do you?'" He laughs. "And they wouldn't even let us smoke in the cop car...

"That's when I realized the place had been transformed. It was becoming like everywhere else. It was time to leave."

But wait a minute. The affair is far from over. And Bob knows it too. Scrape the crusty surface a little and his abiding passion for the place is quickly revealed. "I smoked my first marijuana cigarette at Whistler," he says. "I lost my virginity at Whistler..." He pauses and lets out one last sigh, "Sometimes I think I might want to have my ashes spread on the mountain after I die..." He laughs, but the sound scratches quickly to a halt. "It's crazy, I know," he says, "but the Whistler that I remember still means that much to me."