By G.D. Maxwell
In the Village of Whistler, in the Land of Garibaldi, in the Kingdom of British Columbia, the tribes of Skiers and Shredders have come together to settle, once and for, the question burning deeply within the soul of both cults: Who is Better? Who is Right? Who has chosen the One True Path.
In social microcosms so secular they’re damn near atheistic, the tribes have migrated to this tiny, bucolic – but increasingly urban Ville de Plaisir – to duke it out with each other on the Sacred Slopes of Whistler and Blackcomb. At stake, at least in the minds of the combatants, is none other than the burning cross question of who sits at the right hand of God. Who can lay claim to embodying the Way, the Light, the Truth? If Vikings sail into Valhalla on a burning ship, will the disparate tribes of Mountain Kulture slide into Heaven on skis or boards?
Last year’s conclave of the tribes failed to answer the question. The Shredders thought their Big Air was bigger and airier than the Skiers’. "We smoked their sorry asses," said Shredder Headman Huck Meister whose innovative, hinged, 300cm board folded so cleanly at the apex of his jump he verily disappeared into it like a slice of mortadella in a skimpy hero sandwich.
"Bulls..t!" answered little Tye Jibberssonn, butting a roach into the blackened snow at the top of the Superpipe and jumping in on twin-tips turned up so high at each end it looked like he was riding a bentwood rocker.
The truth, like it so often is in Holy Wars, is lost in the noise of battle. The snow events of the World Ski and Snowboard Festival are, in fact, segregated in the extreme and fail to give voice to or answer the fundamental question. Grrls compete against grrls and boys compete against boys. Shredder vs. Shredder and Skier vs. Skier.
The Oooohs and Aaaahs of Big Air, Big Pipe and Big DudeCross events keep the tribes separate but equal. It is only on the ice they come together to settle things in the One True Spirit of Canada – Hockey.
In a bookended week of parties, events, sports, music, kulture and enough corporate logos to turn even the most mindless, jaded consumer into a rabid anti-globalization advocate, the Skiers vs. Shredders hockey game is an almost overlooked blip on WSSF’s radar screen. It shouldn’t be.
Last year’s game was ribald enough to draw the ire of our local Chief Wiggins and garner a new, definitional entry in the dictionary for the word idioblast. Finally, a forum to settle the burning question left hanging by the other athletic events. There were flashing skates, deft stickwork, enough beer to float a cruise ship, a lingering cloud of acrid smoke from those herbal jazz cigarettes the arena’s filters are still choking on… and hockey. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
The Shredders won, sad to say. The score was something like 327 to 1 and proved, once and for all, that snowboarders – once they’ve freed their feet from boardage – can actually control their direction of travel. Or it proved beyond doubt that skiers who’ve drunk and smoked enough to render themselves totally insensate can’t play hockey well enough to beat the Junior Varsity team from CNIB.
Be that as it may, WSSF is, as its creator and consummate Party Dude Doug Perry likes to say, about more than sport. Still, I believe we’re missing a real opportunity to hold more Head-to-Head events, blend the tribes, answer the unanswerable. A SkierBoarderCrossJam would be a sight to see. Especially if you tossed in a few snowbikes to run roughshod over the pack.
And to throw yet another tribe of misanthropes into the mix this year, urban jibbers are being courted for an Urban Rail Jam. Not satisfied with poaching every handrail and low-sloping roof in town, Railriders – having been officially shunned by the Muni for years – are now being invited to slide their stuff down a rail to be built from the patio of the GLC to the cold, hard designer bricks on the square below. Despite pleas from fans of bloodsports everywhere, Doug promises there will be scaffolding built to catch the jibbers should they misjudge their trajectory. Rats!
Sharing square space with the rail will be a mainstage showcasing music acts so big, so well-known, so now, if I told you who they were you’d think I was making things up. The hills will be alive with the sound of music, the salvation of soul, the happiness of hip-hop. All that’ll be missing is a Battle of the Bands which, come to mention it, wouldn’t be a half bad idea; sorta in keeping with the spirit of the whole athleticism of WSSF.
And in a town where culture pretty much consists of drinking beer out of a glass instead of straight from the tap, you won’t be able to swing a dead cat without smackin’ the furball into one cultural event or another. Some of the best outdoor photographers on the planet will parade their work before appreciative audiences that grow bigger each year.
If last year’s Filmmaker Showdown was any indication, this town’s either going to need a bigger venue to fit all the people who want to come or hire a stationary blimp to hover over the town and act as a floating movie screen.
WSSF is an unlikely success story in an unlikely successful ski town. It embodies the spirit of what’s made Whistler one of the top ski towns in the world. Start small, build on your strengths, follow the guiding vision laid down by people blessed with vision and have faith in yourself.
As Zippy the Dog – who’s about as excited over this year’s DogFest as any dog can be – says, "Bow Wow, Dude!" Truer words were never barked.
So, to those of you arriving from elsewhere and looking up at Whistler’s new earthtones colour scheme and wondering to yourself, "How in the heck are they going to hold a Big Air Extravaganza without snow?" have faith. Sue’s been whipping the groomers who’ve risen to the challenge and farmed snow from higher elevations to build a ramp. Intrawest has stepped up to the plate and convinced Paul Martin to commit Canada’s entire fleet of Sea King helicopters – both of them – to blow in cooler air from the north Pacific to stem the tide of melting snow. Household corporate names pushing everything from hair goo to snack food containing absolutely no natural ingredients are ready to ensure you don’t leave town without at least one recognizable logo tattooed on yer butt.
And the good lord willin’, I’ll have a story to read Sunday night.
On with the show.
