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Valley People

Whistler lifers who do everything but ski and snowboard
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November 2009

Wave after wave of storm systems buffet Whistler Valley. 20 cm of snow falls one day then 30 the next and it just keeps coming for weeks. The mountains open early, snowfall records are broken. Facebook friends gush and rave endlessly about the conditions. And then unbelievably, like it can't get any better, 51 cm is recorded, followed by 60 the next day. "Wha- hooo!" screams my boyfriend (a 100 ski days a year, 30 years running hardcore veteran) as he dons his gear and rushes out the door at 8 a.m.

 

I, in stark contrast, could give a rat's ass. I sigh, look out at the parking lot, put on another pot of espresso and think, "Wha-frickin'-hoo, it's going to take forever to dig out my car. And where the hell are my Sorels? I'm not ready for this snow crap again."

I know I should be more excited. Oh sure, I'm excited for everybody. In fact, everyday I pore over satellite photos and weather reports so I can keep everyone informed about the conditions. This behaviour perplexes my boyfriend. He asked me once, "Why do you care so much about the weather when you never go outside?"

In my defense I care about the weather because our livelihood depends on it. But that's about it. And still, after 28 years of living in Whistler people just can't get over the fact that I didn't move here to ski.

"What is she doing here?" whisper the snow obsessed sporty types.

"Good gawd, why would she live in a ski resort if she doesn't ski?"

Good question.

 

Well, for one thing, I moved here to windsurf, not ski. Also, as a teenager, I had numerous bad experiences when we skied here for Christmas holidays in the '70s. The lift lines were huge and my hair would NOT curl properly around my toque.

And frankly, plunging down icy inclines, sitting on frigid, windy chairlifts and rising bleary eyed at the crack of dawn in the quest for fresh 'pow' is not my bag.

So, no matter the cruel barbs, the overt snickering I endure when I buckle into my 1987 Lange boots, I am here to stay. You fit, energetic mountain rats have no more right to be here than I do.

I'm a valley girl and proud to admit it.

I'm slow, I lay low, get used to it.

Besides, every village needs their idiot, and that sport I've mastered. As a comedic entertainer I filled a niche, and I'm happy to be here. Besides, someone has to work day shifts.

Ultimately, I live here because it's just a really, really nice place to live and Whistler people are the most down to earth, funny people I know.

But the assumptions that I must ski because I live here are still there.

"You've been here for so long!" someone will say. "You must be a great skier."

"I'm alright." I answer, all too truthfully.

"Just alright?" they repeat with a smirk. "She's probably a pro." (Clearly taking my offhand response as false modesty.)

This can be uncomfortable sometimes. My lack of real knowledge of the mountains can be embarrassing, but I've absorbed enough peripheral ski speak and know-how to fake it.

If a tourist who's been here for a day and a half starts raving to me about hiking Spanky's Ladder, they clearly assume that I've skied it for years. So I just nod.

"Sure, Spanky's," I say coolly, "shred it all the time." In reality, I know the general location of Spanky's but I've never climbed the ladder and I've never skied it. The same applies to Pakalolo, Chimney and Goat Path. All are about as foreign to me as downtown Toronto. Hell, I still call the Emerald Express the Green Chair.

Despite the fact that I rarely ski, oddly enough I have immersed my life in the ski culture in various and interesting ways.

I lived in Aspen (in a van, bum style) for a ski season, traveling to every ski resort in Colorado following a pro mogul tour with my mogul specialist boyfriend of the time. I really tried to like skiing more that year. And it's true, in Aspen it does snow at night and is sunny everyday - and the powder is champagne so the odds were good.

Every night, while listening to the toothpaste freeze in the van, I hoped I'd catch the ski bug. I didn't.

Then I followed the same boyfriend to Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey circus where he performed as a ski acrobat in The Royal Canadian Ski Squadron. This was more like it! He was still on skis everyday, but I got to hang out with tigers, elephants and random clowns and showbiz types.

In hindsight, all my love interests have been exceptionally good skiers or enthusiasts. I figured they enjoyed not having their girlfriend insist on skiing with them all the time and took the saying "Just because I sleep with you doesn't mean I have to ski with you" seriously.

When they have managed to drag me up, things have not always gone well. My favourite example:

My boyfriend at the time convinced me to join our friends for a nice sunny day on the slopes. I stressed to him repeatedly, "Okay, but it's my first day. DON'T take me down anything stupid." In some bizarre thought process he translated this as, "Take me down Cockalorum, you hot ski god."

As I stared down at Cockalorum's bowel-liquefying entrance, I could only reiterate in my head that (A) I'm a valley girl, and (B) my boyfriend is a prick. A few seconds later when I double released and cart-wheeled down the steep incline screaming like Shelley Duval in The Shining, I was sure of both points.

When I finally came to a stop my boyfriend stood motionless with real terror in his eyes. Not for fear of injuries I may have incurred, but the fact that I looked like I was about to plunge my pole, if I could find it, into his spleen. My other friend quickly came to my aid and told me I was okay while he tracked down my skis, poles and pride. He talked in soothing tones and helped me get my gear back on.

Guess who my boyfriend is now?

 

So, I do other things in the winter. I skate ski sometimes, walk my dogs and look at my snowshoes. Then I head up the coast for the summer.

But that's just my story. Over the years I have come to know many Valley People. This unusual species of Whistler resident seems to have the same common denominator. They simply choose to live here because, again, it's a great place to live.

Let's meet a few, but no sudden movements.

 

Marjie Cheales/Marjie Martini/Funky Diva Hair Design Valley Girl Chick

If I filled the "Village Idiot/funny lady" niche, then Marjie Martini has filled the "Fashionista" niche that was sorely lacking when she rolled into town in 1993.

Sick of commuting all over B.C. repping salon products, Marjie came up to Whistler to visit a friend. "In that job, I calculated that I spent three months of the year just being in my car." she says.

Whistler was also her sales territory so she was making the trip up every two weeks anyway and was always impressed with the beauty of the place. The natural beauty that is, not the people - we all looked like tragic "Fashion Don'ts" in her eyes.

One of her calls in Whistler was to Clayton John's, a salon operating here in the '90s. Clayton told Marjie that this was a town desperately screaming for some hairstylists and some style.

Upon returning to Vancouver the decision to move was made when she saw someone shooting up while she waited at a traffic light.

Upon hearing of Marjies' plans to move to Whistler, her chic and hip west end friends started taking bets on how long she would last here.

"Darling!" they cried as they sipped cocktails, checked on their hair and made bets on how long Marjie would last. "Whistler's just too...too... redneck for you!"

Marjie recalls, "The first time I felt out of my element here was when I walked into the grocery store in a dress, makeup, styled hair and high heels in the winter. The cashier assumed I didn't live here because, "No one dresses up in Whistler." the girl said. "It's like seeing a guy in a suit."

"Whistler hair was tragic as well." Marj says: "Nothing but buzz cuts and quarter-inch trims. No one washed their hair, much less styled it. That was the year the mountain said you had to cut your hair. Women were just as bad, they didn't make an effort either."

She soon left Clayton John's to open a salon, Revolution, with a partner. She calls these years the 'drunk and debauched' years. After hard, long days at the salon the girls would head out for martinis and pasta.

"You know the famous college five-pound weight gain?" she asks. "Well this was the 'famous fifty!"

She left Revolution in 1999 and embarked on her next career as martini pusher, with Martinis at Midnight, a specialized martini party business.

Marj did attempt to embrace snowboarding, but again, the bug didn't bite.

One day on a frigid chairlift, she decided to quit for good. "The snow was blowing sideways, but I went up anyway. It was minus 15 and I had the flu. I wiped out, hit my head and downloaded by 9:30 a.m. and started crying, because I f-ing hated it. I got home and ranted to my girlfriend, who said 'Thank god you said this! Swear to me that you will never do this again!'

"Last year, I decided to give it another chance. I figure I did three runs for $100 or $33 bucks a run. What a deal!"

Thankfully her snowboarding experience led her to her next passion - surfing. But, sensible woman that she is, she headed to Mexico where warm saltwater spray is blowing sideways, not snow. Every six weeks or so, starting in November, she heads down to Saluyita, Mexico where she keeps a small apartment over a bar (how handy), surfs for two to three weeks and racks up 80 surf days a year. She affords this Corona beer commercial lifestyle by doing hair, makeup and martini parties for the many weddings in the area.

"I stay in Whistler because the people here are like my family. And it's hands down the most entertaining place to live."

(If you ever get your hair done by Marjie, be warned. Wear your best footwear and dress stylishly. She's the true Fashion Police of Whistler, not me.)

 

Rick Peel

As an assistant program manager for the Village Host Program, Rick is doing exactly what he loved to do in Whistler for 10 years before he moved here - simply walking around the village, taking in the views and just being in the mountains. "I came up all the time but not at all as a skier, and loved it. I didn't even think about skiing."

A Seattle native, Rick says, "I snowmobiled in the mountains around Washington, but for some reason I have never done it here. Maybe that's what I get for marrying a tree hugger." The tree hugger he's referring to is Judy Stockton, long-time Whistlerite, Mountain Host/Village Host and recruiter of environmental engineers and scientists.

"We met in 2004. I was in Tapley's one night during the American Thanksgiving Long weekend and started talking to Judy, who was celebrating her birthday week. We kept running into each other at various bars that night. After the third time we saw each other we figured we should make a date, and the rest is history."

In the beginning of their relationship, Rick had no desire to ski, but Judy pushed him into it with a harsh ultimatum: "Ski, or no me."

"At the time my thoughts about skiing were, 'If we were meant to go skiing we wouldn't have invented motors,'" Rick laughs. "But I loved her so I decided to give it a try."

Things didn't go so well on the first day. When he put on his skis for the class he discovered the equipment was all wrong. "The boot didn't fit into the binding, but I figured I could make it work. I obviously had no clue of how important a ski boot fitting properly into a binding was, or what I was getting into. I started down the carpet on the bunny hill, lost control and wiped out 12 kids. As I lay there amongst the carnage, I asked myself, 'How much do I really love this woman?'"

After a couple more painful lessons, Judy figured he was ready for the big hill and took him up the Red Chair with plans to meander down the Pony Trail. The journey took two and a half hours. As they inched down the hill, with Rick threatening to slide down on his rear end, he asked himself yet again. "No, really, do I love the woman this much?"

Yes, as it turned out.

A few years later, Rick does love to ski as well as Judy. "But," he says and looks out at the frozen landscape, "if it was taken away, I'd be okay with it. In fact, Mexico is looking pretty good right now!"

 

Sabrina Perfitt

I first met Sabrina Perfitt when she, against her better judgement, hired me to work at Eddie Bauer.

(She actually thought I was serious when, during the interview, I asked her if it was OK to work drunk.)

After a few sober training shifts it was discovered that she too was a Valley Girl who came to Whistler to be a pastry chef at Val D'Isere restaurant in 2000.

"I knew nothing about Whistler winters when I moved here," she recalls. "It was summertime when I came and I just loved it."

And then came winter. And she hated it.

"I think I was in shock for a few years," Sabrina says. "I lived at the top of Emerald with no car and I just hated it. Oh, and did I mention I hated it?"

The thought to even try skiing didn't cross her mind, as she had taken lessons 20 years earlier and didn't like it. Oddly enough when she lived in Vancouver she went on lots of ski weekends to Silver Star with groups of friends, but didn't ski. "It was a social thing."

So why doesn't she just move to Vancouver, where she's from?

"I hated Vancouver too," she laughs. "I got robbed at gunpoint and hit by a car, so yes, I hated it. I moved there after eight years in New York studying Interior design. I left New York because I lost my apartment and couldn't find another one - kind of like Whistler, really."

When I remind her that New York winters are way more harsh than Whistler winters, she points out that New York is a lot easier to get around, being relatively flat and all.

"You have seen my driveway, haven't you?" she asks.

Oh yes, indeed I have. A long, steep, ice-covered death trap, guaranteed to snap your tailbone with one wrong move.

"Come to think of it, I DO ski everyday!" she says. "Down my driveway!"

While Sabrina waits patiently for winter to be over she quilts, plays tennis a few times a week and promotes her business, Sugar Momma Pastries, which specializes in wedding cakes and "pretty little yummy things."

"People really like it when I approach them bearing a plate of cupcakes."

So there's that. And she doesn't hate it!

 

Chris Reinhardt

One of the longest serving employees at Hy's Steakhouse, Chris undoubtedly moved to Whistler from Edmonton 11 years ago for some scenery and milder weather. "But of course, for only a year." he says, like so many of us.

In those 11 years he has skied a grand total of 10 times. "I'm a fair weather skier," he says, "I wait for the sunny power days and make my move."

But what's surprising is that Chris could ski before he moved here, and quite well. He describes himself as "technically pretty good, but for a short period at a time."

Like me, when he does make the once a year trek he shocks people when they see he can ski. So why doesn't he do it more?

His explanation is quite sensible really. As a waiter there are no safety nets, income-wise, to fall back on if you hurt yourself. And over the years at Hy's he's seen a few comrades go down in flames and slowly go broke.

I ask him that on his once-a-year ski forays, usually with coworkers, if he's worried that they're secretly hoping he'll crash so they can poach all his shifts.

"No, I think it's the morbid fascination on their part, but ultimately, I'm not just passionate about skiing. When I do get up I think I should go more, it's so nice. But I don't have my own equipment, so to go through that rigamarole of renting is a chore, so I just don't. But I do get to the gym a couple of times a week."

Also, it's probably a hoot to call his friends in Edmonton to find out what the temperature is. (At the time of our interview? Minus 42. Har!)

He's happy when the snow is good because it means people are cheerful and stoked to be here. It's especially important in the restaurant business - customers can get quite surly when the weather sucks.

In the summer, he more than makes up for his lack of outdoor activities by playing 100 rounds of golf.

So, as he says about Whistler, "What's not to like?"

 

So in the end, Valley people are an essential part of the makeup of this community. Without them, who would tell us that our accessories are wrong for our outfits while mixing a killer martini? Or marry our locals?

We, the valley people, serve a purpose!

That said, I think I'm going to get a pass this year. And if you see me on the slopes, don't ask me if I'm lost. If I had a dime...

 

 



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