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Winter 2004-05: a 4 with a bullet

By G.D. Maxwell Okay, strike the set, pack up the moguls, blow kisses at all the instant locals heading back home to Ontario, Oz and detox. That’s a wrap.

By G.D. Maxwell

Okay, strike the set, pack up the moguls, blow kisses at all the instant locals heading back home to Ontario, Oz and detox. That’s a wrap.

In a year when the start of the season and its finale seemed to all happen within the same five-week period, a year that separated the skiers and boarders from the whining dilettantes, a year when "waterproof" took clear precedence over "breathable", a year when we were so enraged by all things pineapple the local bars had to remove piña coladas from their repertoire… in a year such as the one just inflicted on us, let us lick our wounds, count our blessings and pray to whatever or whomever we pray to when we’re wallowing in the bottomless pit of fear that we never live long enough to see another ski season like the one we are gathered here today to boot the hell out of town. Can I get an Amen? How about an Eh Dude?

And it all started out so promising. There was a period during the second week of March – a week when heated policy debates raged over whether to open the bike park early since there was nary a flake of snow on the lower third of the mountain and everybody had already gotten their bikes out – when it looked as though the single best day of the season was going to be December 9 th . Trying to sustain an upbeat attitude well into March on a fleeting memory of a single powder day in early December is a bit like trying to stay excited about – or possibly even remember – a real sustainability plan a’comin’ one of these days.

I will, however, right now and publicly take my share of responsibility for the foul season visited upon us this year. On that ill-fated ninth of December, having romped through several untracked powder laps off Harmony chair, I called Peak to Creek as last run. In the endorphin euphoria of skiing freshies off McConkey’s, everybody agreed and it wasn’t until we got to the top of the Saddle they realized the plan required them to hike to the peak.

Twenty minutes later, in the middle of high winds and a whiteout severe enough I almost got lost finding Bagel Bowl – I know this mountain like a one-handed man knows the back of his missing hand – we were skiing into the void. To be fair, there were no piste markers up there, or if there were, they were buried under drifting snow. But oh, what a void. In the lee of ridges, every turn was a faceshot. Through Bagel Bowl, once we found it, the snow was knee deep. Into the trees above Peak to Creek, we were thigh deep and pullin’ snorkels out of our packs. And across a bit of flats, I fell into a hole up to my chest.

Struggling to swim myself out of a hole of fluff, I uttered – in my defense, it was a moment of extreme wallowing – these very words. "Too much snow." "TOO MUCH SNOW!"

Before the words were even out, I tried to bite them off. I looked furtively around to see if anyone had heard me. The Pirate Queen of the Mediterranean, who still doesn’t get the no-friends-on-a-powder-day ethos, was coming over to help. "Stop whining," she said, apparently having heard.

The next day, and the day after that, it rained… to the peak… hard… biblically. It was clearly my fault. I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. I’ll die in the next hole before I ever complain, even in frustration or jest, about too much snow again. Honest.

But I’m not takin’ all the blame. And let’s not forget, winter did arrive and it did start snowing the day I left to go visit our snow in Taos, where most of it seems to have fallen this year. I knew it was our snow; I recognized it. The patrollers in Taos, who are used to light, fluffy snow, were remarking on how well the snow down there this year stuck to the steep bits and how little avalanche control they had to do. I told them that was the hallmark of wet coast powder and not to get used to it, we want our snow back next season.

Clearly there were other causes of this most abominable winters. The FIS Snowboard World Championships come clearly to mind. Nothing like a clutch situation to bring on the rains.

And there was a group of seven or so unnamed Danes who wandered into Creekside on January 15 th to pick up their season passes and commenced to "live the life of carefree ski bums." The next day it started raining and didn’t stop until the April sun of February burned away the clouds and left us gasping at how much snow had washed away. I blame them. It seems safe. They’re from a tiny Scandinavian country. What can they do to us? Stop exporting bacon in a can?

Like so many horror stories, this one has a happy ending. Winter finally arrived. Enough snow dropped between the middle of March and now to ensure the few of us who relish spring skiing a second year in a row of bountiful corn. WSSF infused the village with a last gasp of life and maybe, just maybe most of our favourite businesses can hang on long enough for their rapacious landlords to jack their rent up to the point where they can blame that for their bankruptcy.

So, as unpalatable as it may seem, this year has to be rated. Among skiers, fisherfolk, farmers and lottery players, hope springs eternal. But a few weeks does not a season make. As seasons go, this one struggled to make it to a 4 with a bullet. If the spring snow hadn’t come, we’d be in negative numbers this year.

But on an upbeat note, time to add kudos to the growing list for the boys and girls at Whistler-Blackcomb. This year’s rallying cry was uttered sometime in February, right around the time the mountain was using a helicopter to move snow around in a desperate effort to save the ski-outs.

Sticking my head into the Patrol bump to ask if what I thought I was seeing was really what I was seeing, the answer was, "Forseth said, ‘If we’re going down, we’re going down with shovels in our hands.’" Not being a limelight seeker, Doug says it was actually Kirby Brown who said that. Maybe it was; maybe it wasn’t. But as far as epitaphs go, that ain’t a half bad one for this most forgettable of seasons.