Except this year. This year, we said, "HELL YEAH!" and to Whistler we went.
About a month before we left, I took a look at Whistler's trail map. Thus commenced my snow stress. Whistler has over EIGHT THOUSAND ACRES. Can you even comprehend how much that is? Yeah, neither can I and that's why I was stressed. How was I possibly going to ski over eight thousand acres in only 3 days of skiing?? It was enough to keep me up nights. The closest I have ever come to skiing an area that large was the Italian Dolomites and in that case, we just skied from hut to small village to hut to small village. It was a little different.
As we crossed the Canadian border, I tried not to bite my nails. Really, I was quite concerned. At $78 (regular price= $92. OUCH!) per lift ticket, I could not waste even a second of my time on the mountain.
Then I got there. And it was all okay. It was all okay because you can spend just days in the village without even going to the mountain and STILL NOT SEE IT ALL. I realized I had to let the anxiety go. I had to do what I love to do: ski ski ski ski COLLAPSE. I was perfectly capable of completing such an activity.
Hazel was pretty psyched to be out of the car. Five hours to the cabin + two hours to Seattle + five hours to Whistler = a lot of car seat time for a squirmy toddler. Fortunately, she can entertain herself for quite a while with just her shoes and socks (on, off, on, off, on...). She's pretty rad.
The first day I skied it looked like this:
Which is to say, it didn't look like much of anything. Ever skied by braille? I have done it quite a bit on Mt. Hood and I should be much better at it by now. But I am too big of a wuss who is too afraid to ski in to a tree or a creek or a hole or pretty much anything to actually look like I know what I am doing. I am embarrassed to admit that there were some definite alpine turns sprinkled in to my telemark repertoire due to my white-out fears. Don't tell anyone, especially any die-hard telemark skiers with tiny little beards and tinier little glasses and the odor of snobbery.I would have quit, but I have to live up to Nate and Marissa's badassedness. We skied almost until close. Well, at least, I think we did. It was kind of hard to tell if we were going up or down for much of the day.
Afterwards, we toasted our fortitude and bravery at the Irish pub. Hazel learned a key skill in life: toasting after a big event. Then and there, she decided that it is her life's purpose to raise aglass multiple times at each and every meal and loudly exclaim "CHAR!" (or something like that. That means "cheers!" for those of you who do not speak Toddler.).
The next two days, we all too easily handed Hazel over to a strange woman for the day. There was skiing to be had and damn it, we paid a pretty penny for it. We went straight for the Blackcomb glacier.For a telemark skier, the Blackcomb glacier quickly became equated with Heaven, and yes, it deserves a capital H. The pitch is perfect for smooth, linked turns and we found powder while down low, the mountain was covered in rain. The short hike thwarts the majority of tourists, leaving all of that beautiful powder for us to ski. The glacier sealed it for me: I LOVE WHISTLER.
Oh yeah, and remember the eight thousand acre stress? GONE. I could have just skied the glacier over and over and over again and been damn happy.
On our third day in Whistler, we took Hazel on the gondola. She is currently obsessed with all mechanized transport (buses being her favorite) and the gondola did not disappoint. Next year, she will board with her skis, ready to get down to business.
On our last day there, we met up with Ann and Marc, friends from our Colorado Springs days 10 years ago. Apparently, ten years have gone by and we're all still kind of cool. That's our take on the situation anyway.For me it was pretty funny to hear Ann, the mother of a 6-month-old, say things like, "I just don't really like other moms all that much." or "I just don't get all of these moms who give up their hobbies when they have kids." I could only stare incredulously and wonder: were we separated at birth??? This is a woman who competed at Ironman Zurich and placed in her age group. When she was 7 months pregnant, she kicked her husband's ass on a mountain bike. And she was not about to become boring, just because she had a kid. I LOVE HER. It's rare that I spend time with someone so like me that it's eerie. And did I mention that she's a telemark skier?
But of course she is. I think I will move to Vancouver and marry Ann right now.
Between Barkernews and I, Nate and Marissa (a 6-months-pregnant bad ass telemark skier in her own right), and Ann and Marc, we had a tele posse. It was total radness. While I love to ski with alpine skiers and snowboarders, there is a distinct lack of appreciation for the amount of finesse and work required to execute a smooth telemark turn. Also, and this is the real reason I appreciate skiing with other tele skiers, I need to ski with others who understand why I have to stop every 10-15 turns to A)catch my breath and B)pound the lactic acid out of my legs. You would think I would be in better shape by this point in the season, but I am not. Go figure.
We skied so much we made the pregnant girl collapse. We love you, Marissa!
To end our successful stay, we celebrated back at the Irish pub where we made sure to say "CHAR!" in honor of Hazel, who was still back at the condo with the babysitter and Lucio, Marc and Ann's baby. I was forced, FORCED I tell you!, to eat a pile of nachos and drink a martini.
And then we drove back to Seattle where I did what I do best: COLLAPSE.I love you, Whistler. See you in 2011. I will never let a little thing like money come between us again, I swear.
