The King of the Mountains is born 

‘Twas the night before Christmas

By G.D. Maxwell

and all through the town,

only tourists were stirring,

and a few local clowns.

So on the Eve of Christmas, the question strikes me once again: If there is to be a second coming, how shall we know? And would we believe? In a world of instant communication but elusive consensus, a world where credible expert is becoming oxymoronic, where wise men will heatedly argue black is white and equally wise men will rebut that white is black, how will we ever know the second coming of the Son of God is the real thing as opposed to just another talking head, a closet terrorist preaching world peace, a treehugger admonishing us to love all things, a radical socialist urging us to give up our worldly possessions, or the head of a space worshipping pod of intergalactic travellers waiting for a near passing comet to swoop us all up to cosmic rapture?

We won’t.

Perhaps the world has become so fractured and complex a place it is beyond even the power of God – whatever that power is – to send a messenger who can bridge all rifts, heal all wounds, settle all differences, calm all tempers. There are simply too many clamouring voices, too many warring factions, too much intolerance for just one son. Better to send the whole extended family the second time around. Cousins included. Second cousins too. Work on mending manageable tears in the social fabric one at a time. Win the war by winning small battles.

The skis were all racked

by the Longhorn with care,

the low-lifes were shopping,

"They won’t miss this pair."

And it came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Salomon Burton that all the resorts shall be registered and all their inhabitants made to declare: Skier or Boarder. This census took place while Hugh the Sustainable was governing Whistler in the land of Garibaldi. So all went to be registered, everyone to his own preference. Joe also went up out of Pemberton, into Whistler, because he was of the house and lineage of Shredders, to be registered with Mary, his live-in, also known as Slash, who was with child.

So it was that while they were there, the days were completed for Slash to be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn Son and wrapped Him in Gap sweaters, and laid Him on a friend’s sofabed in a suite in Brio because there was no room in the resort, it being Christmas and every room being booked at twice the normal price.

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