Skip to content
Join our Newsletter

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.

Now after Emanuel – Manny for short – was born in Whistler of Garibaldi, in the land of the British Columbians of Canada, in the days of Campbell the Insensate, behold, three wise guys from Toronto came to Whistler saying, "Where is He who has been born the King of the Mountains. We could not see his star to follow for the perpetual cloud cover but we all were paged and have come to worship Him."

When Houssian of Vancouver heard this, he was puzzled. He gathered together all his execs and counters of beans and inquired of them what they knew of Manny of Whistler. So they said to him, "In Whistler of Garibaldi, a Ruler is born who shall shepherd our Guests, both skiers and boarders, to Higher Ground." And Houssian sent them to Whistler and said, "Go and search carefully for the young Child, and when you have found Him, instant message me that I may come to worship Him also."

When they’d heard their CEO, they departed; and behold, while clouds still obscured the star the wise guys failed also to see, an earsplitting din of the party celebrating Manny’s birth hung over the Valley of Whistler and directed them to the Subdivision of Brio where the Child was. When they heard the noise they rejoiced with exceedingly great joy. And when they had come into the downstairs suite, they saw the young Child with Slash, His mother, and fell down and worshipped Him. And when they had opened their treasures, they presented gifts to Him: snowboards, fat skis, and much logowear. Then being divinely warned they should not return to Vancouver, they departed for other resorts in the far-flung chain to spread the joyful news.

The children, with nannies,

were snug in their beds.

Playing Nintendo,

their eyes turning red.

Now there were in the Village, bartenders working in the pubs, keeping watch over their clocks by night. And behold, the Spirit of Rhum stood before them, its glory shone around them and they were afraid. Then the Spirit said to them, "Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring great tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the Resort Municipality of Whistler a Saviour, who is Manny of the Mountains. And this will be a sign to you: You will find a Babe wrapped in Gap sweaters, lying on a sofabed somewhere in Brio." And suddenly, there was with the Spirit, a multitude of the host saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men… except on powder days when no friends shall be found."

So it was, when the Spirit had gone away from them, vanished into the haze of disco machine smoke, that the bartenders said to one another, "Let us all close early and go to Brio and see this thing that has come to pass." And they came with haste and found Slash and Joe, and the Babe lying on the sofabed. Now when they had seen Him, they made widely known the saying which was told to them concerning the Child. And all those who heard it marvelled at those things which were told them by the bartenders. But Slash kept these things and pondered them in her heart. Then the bartenders returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen as it was told them.

"For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given. And all the groups with axes to grind shall be upon his case forever. And His name will be called, Wonderful, Counsellor, Mighty Dude, Everlasting Rider, Prince of Powder. Of the increase of His wisdom and peace, there will be no end. Upon the throne of Mountain Culture and over His kingdom, peace between skiers and boarders shall be established with judgment and justice, from this time forward, even forever."

And I heard them exclaim,

as they turned out the light,

"Are you sure it’s our condo,

Something isn’t quite right."

Merry Christmas to you all.