By G.D. Maxwwell
There are parts of North America, notably the northeast coast of the U.S., where seasons change with the flip of a calendar. One day you’re driving along congested, narrow, coastal roads punctuated by tacky souvenir shops, hot dog vendors, lobster roll stands, panhandlers, rubberneckers, sightseers and hot frustrated families wringing the last possible experience out of their summer vacations. The next day, it’s as though a movie director has shouted, "That’s a wrap." People have disappeared, cars vanished, food stands are boarded up and hung with signs saying, "See you next summer." Vibrancy has been replaced with the sounds of silence and the few tourists not in on the joke are left to wonder what manner of Twilight Zone they’ve stumbled into, left to search frantically for one last lobster roll in a depopulated vacuum.
The transition in Whistler is more dependent on weather than date. The all-important segue between winter and summer calls the seasonal tune. Perhaps it’s Left Coast Chic or just the historical two-step Canadians have always danced with snow and sun but whatever the rationale, it’s going to take a monster powder dump in May to put a dent in the early arrival of summer.
Last Saturday, being hot, sunny and downright Junelike, the dance changed. The lineup of skiers and boarders heading up the gondola paled next to the lines of gravity bikers waiting impatiently to get their Bike Park passes and load the Fitz. Decked out in reptilian body armour, gladiator helmets, gauntlets and leggings, one might have been forgiven the illusion one had stumbled onto a sci-fi film set, a Mad Max Meets the Evil Empire melange.
The other signs are unmistakable too. Recently deserted cross-country trails are filling rapidly with walkers, bikers, joggers, dogs and tourists. Perplexed visitors peer intently at maps, still stymied by cryptic signage and Valley Trail transitions.
I found one couple straddling stopped bikes, newly uncovered white legs shining like sun-bleached driftwood, who appeared completely discombobulated. Stopped on the bridge over Fitzsimmons Creek at the east end of Nick North, just shy of the railroad track coming out of Mons, they couldn’t decide whether to go forward across the track into what looked like the backdoor to a gated community or turn their bikes around and retrace their steps.
Worried looks creased their faces as they wordlessly peered at the map for a clue. They fidgeted, whispered to each other, and appeared to be truly concerned for their safety. It was clear they were faced with an uncertain reality. They’d come to realize they were either on the wrong side of the tracks or about to cross over to the wrong side of the tracks. Oh, the humanity.
As they turned to head back up Hydro Hill, they saw me, Zippy the Dog and some friends approaching. We were scruffy enough to make them rethink their choice about which side of the tracks was the "right" side but they continued. As they approached, they literally pressed themselves against the opposite side of the bridge railing, seeking as much distance from us as they possibly could. They had that urban-scared look on their faces. Like maybe we were going to bump into them and pick their pockets. Hell, we could have been bikejackers, I guess.
I know tourists are our economic lifeblood but let’s be honest; it’s a whole lot nicer when they stay in the village, isn’t it?
So, all signs are pointing toward the annual caravan to Smilin’ Dog Manor. Bikes are out in force, tourists are wandering out of the village compound, skunk cabbage is in full bloom and somehow the threat of Segways has cropped up again like unwanted crabgrass. If council can decline permission to a fundraising snowmobile group, why can’t they just say "Thanks, but no thanks," to Segways? Why do we want to encourage people to swap walking or biking for gliding lazily on an energy-consuming, overpriced, urban toy?
But I digress. So, with all signs pointing to summer, what kind of ski season was it?
Depends on your perspective. For skiers and boarders, it was a bluecollar, workmanlike – workpersonlike? – season. The snow punched in exactly on time, plodded along like parts on an assembly line, took breaks at the designated times, paused for lunch, had a productive afternoon and punched out… well, punched out a few minutes early but still managed to make its quota. Spectacular powder days could be counted on one hand. Rain to the top, counted on the other.
Perhaps the most outstanding feature of this season was spring skiing. Early sunshine in March came with the promise of global warming. With no wind from the north or east, the sun, when it shone, was intense. By the end of March and early April, we skied corn, tested the limits of SPF 30, experimented with soups of different waxes and put away the expedition-weight underwear.
Fickle spring weather often cheats us out of good spring skiing. Not this year. If you haven’t been up lately, head up one last time; it’s still good up there.
However, if you were a seller of goods, provider of beds or fixer of meals, this season could have been a whole lot more workmanlike and a whole lot less roadcrew-standing-around-leaning-on-shovels-like. Signs screaming Sale and 25% Off popped up in windows early in February instead of mid-March. Reservations were easy to get even if prices failed to show a similar softening. Rooms could be snagged last minute for less than the preferred minimum stay and, later in the season, even at bargain rates.
There’s no denying there’s lots of hurtin’ out there and when next season starts, we might be missing a few of the usual suspects, commercewise. But there’s no denying the message inherent in the hurt either. Whistler might have hitched its wagon to the vagaries of World Classiness, but it’s the locals and near locals that’ll bail its sorry butt out given half a chance.
Half a chance means making the whole daytripper experience more affordable. The MotherCorp made an effort with a bewildering array of coupons and cut-rate deals. While still intransigent when it comes to any attempt to make season passes more affordable, at least for locals, WB lowered the price of a day’s skiing and recognized salvation lies closer to home for at least as long as it takes to realize a regime change south of the border.
It’ll be interesting to see if next season begins on a more sober, reasonably-priced note or if the lessons of ‘03/04 are sloughed off like so much sunburned scalp. But grade this season a solid 7.5 and like snow junkies everywhere, hope the next one will be historic.
