Whistler Blackcomb

Located directly in the flight path of Pacific storms the twin peaks Whistler and Blackcomb receive over 33 metres of snow a year and boast some of the longest and most dramatic ski runs in the world.

When my friends suggested carpooling to the resort last week I jumped at the chance. All the long afternoons spent practicing ‘J’ turns on bunny hills and all the chilly evenings spent repeating ‘heel side, toe side’ until my legs ached from the effort have been leading up to this trip. I quite literally could not have been any more excited.

After a very early start, (6am!), and a tour around Vancouver collecting friends from various neighbourhoods, we were racing out of the city, Whistler-bound, leaving the ocean and skyscrapers behind as the highway led us into untamed, authentic mountainscapes.

We located a parking lot close to the chair lifts and there was a hurried scramble to gather and untangle the mass of snow boots, salopettes, and thermals thrown into the trunk in an untidy heap the evening before.

We made our way up the mountain, crossing from Whistler to Blackcomb on the Peak-to-Peak gondola and gazed in awe over the breathtaking scenery that stretched out for miles around us.

Toque, helmet and headphones in place, bindings firmly fastened, and gloves preventing my hands from turning blue, I positioned my board on the edge of a run and mentally prepared for the exhilarating ride ahead.

A shout of encouragement from a handsome ski instructor and I was shifting my weight and nudging my snowboard onto the run.

Two embarrassing falls later and I was firmly on my feet, remembering all that I had been taught and gathering speed as I whizzed past fir trees, avoided crashing into other riders and prayed that I wouldn’t fall when I crossed under the paths of chair lifts.

Flat fried doughnuts powdered with cinnamon sugar and toasted in apple chunks from the all-Canadian fast food vendor Beaver Tails made for a very tasty lunch and we recharged our ipods over marble hot chocolates in the Whistler village.

In the afternoon we found a hidden run, snow untouched, practically begging for the smooth underside of a freshly waxed snowboard to carve lonely tracks to the steady beat of Deadmau5’s latest release…

When my muscles began to ache I took a short mid-run break, falling into the ‘champagne power’ (as it is called by locals) and gazing skywards to admire the eagles circling slowly overhead.

When the ‘last lift of the day’ call came my heart sank a little but I was exhausted and ready to share a pitcher of Granville Island lager with my friends. We demolished giant platters of burgers and fries and made our way to the Olympic sign to take photos posing in its giant rings.

We had a long drive home ahead and our muscles were aching but we left Whistler that day knowing it would never be forgotten.

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