Whistler poisoned me with its charm, its beauty and potential for fun - and I’ve been contemplating what life is all about ever since I left.
I moved to Whistler to learn how to snowboard and before long - thanks to heaps of enthusiasm and confidence - spent the best part of two winters attacking rainbow rails and battleship rails and nailing switch 180s over blue table tops in the park.
But balls to being a jib-monkey. That was only when there was no visibility. Plus I say the ‘best part of two winters’ because in the beginning when my confidence superseded lack of experience, I displaced two ribs and twisted my spine as a result of buckling it over a rail, and I’ve lived with a painful stiffness ever since.
For me it fast became all about the powder. The first time I floated weightlessly down an endless run of fresh pow and became competent at riding trees I felt I’d discovered what life was all about. This was what being alive felt like.
Season life, consisting of going to work in a beautiful sunken valley in the mountains and being able to stomp to a conveniently located ski lift in the centre of town and heading up the mountain to shred on my days off, was unreal.
Then I whiled away the summer sandwiched between the snowy months as a canoe guide hanging out at two of the valley’s glassy clear lakes and leading people down a 13km river in a hot hot sun.
And there were always friends living nearby to hang out with. Whistler is small enough to herald a cosy community atmosphere but big enough, vibrant enough and crammed full of enough bars, never to tire of it.
I had my fair share of problems, what with my injury and lack of cash, but life was nice. In the end though, when it was time for me to leave, I realised that there were a few things I had tired of - but which don’t stop me day-dreaming about returning and living there forever one day.
For ski resorts aren’t ‘real’. They in no way represent a cross section of society, everyone is having a great time - on the surface anyway, and life is centred around having fun. The hedonists fly there in abundance, and why not?
To me, Whistler is an example of what is arguably a perfect bubble of non-reality. And of course this visage of perfection and the magic and fun of this Christmas Disneyland is what makes these bubbles so special.
But after a while, despite its apparent perfection, I found myself wondering what life was like on the outside of this bubble. And once I’d left, ever since, for some reason I’ve been contemplating what I’m doing outside of this bubble while at the same time wondering what life’s really all about.
Tags: ski season, Skiing, Snowboarding, Whistler
