Whomever you give thanks to, give thanks for the start of the 2024-25 ski season. Not sure about you but I am in dire need of something like skiing to divert what little attention I have left from dwelling on the devolution going on in the world.
Some decades ago, whatever body shills for skiing in Colorado ran a print ad campaign that summed up the magic of skiing as well as anything I’ve ever seen. Naturally it had a wonderful photo of people skiing through small trees and untracked powder, the sun shining above, rooster tails of light, glistening snow billowing out behind them. Perfection.
The print, undoubtedly paraphrased since I don’t have a good enough memory to be certain, was simple: “You can’t do this and think about work at the same time.”
Hallelujah.
Be thankful there is the best opening day snow we’ve had in a long time. Real snow, not the artisanal stuff we’re usually on. Be thankful there are more than six runs open. Be thankful there is some snow and lots of below-0 C temps in the forecast. Be thankful, assuming the Colorado ski ad was right, you can’t ski/board and entertain a single thought about the horrible reality voters in the U.S. have unleashed on the rest of the world. Be thankful we have another two months before the transfer of power peacefully happens.
Speaking of which, welcome to American Thanksgiving in Whistler, our American visitors. Nothing personal in the above comment. We understand more than half of your population has lost their minds. But that means almost half haven’t. We’ll try to pretend it wasn’t any of you. And we don’t hold it against you personally. Well, maybe. But let’s not let that spoil your enjoyment.
Now that we’re part of the Vail Resorts family of Epic™ mountain resorts, opening day in Whistler, the official start of the ski season, falls like clockwork on American Thanksgiving... at least until global warming forces it to fall on Christmas, a holiday in need of no national modifier.
In the Before Time, when Whistler competed with places like Vail—the resort, not the company—for bragging rights, we sometimes opened as early as, well, as early as there was enough snow on the slopes to open. Late October, early November, whenever. Then we’d collectively chant, “Na-na, na, na-na. We’re open and you’re not.” Or words to that effect.
To be clear, Whistler’s opening day is only called American Thanksgiving in Canada. As a former American myself, I can testify to the fact no one in the U.S. calls it American Thanksgiving. It’s called Thanksgiving.
Canadians call it American Thanksgiving for much the same reason some Canadians call Thanksgiving in Canada Canadian Thanksgiving. Canadians call Canadian Thanksgiving Canadian Thanksgiving because if they just called it Thanksgiving—like the Americans do—it would be confusing to other Canadians. If a Canadian were, for example, talking to another Canadian and said something like, “Hey, watcha doin’ for Thanksgiving, eh?” the other Canadian might well answer, “Canadian Thanksgiving or American Thanksgiving, eh?”
This makes no sense, of course. Canadian Thanksgiving comes early in October; American Thanksgiving comes late in November. Canadians know the difference between early October and late November. It’s the difference between a baseball cap and a toque, a sweater and a coat.
I don’t personally call it American Thanksgiving anymore. Now I just call it opening day. And who in their right mind wants to cook a turkey on opening day? No one; that’s who.
And there has been progress on this side of the border. More Canadians than ever simply call Thanksgiving celebrated here Thanksgiving. No modifier. Take that. It still goes against the grain of living in the shadow of the giant and being perhaps overly polite. But progress is progress.
One of the reasons it’s taken Canadians so long to stop calling our Thanksgiving Canadian Thanksgiving is because the Canadian version lacks, how shall I say this, the rich mythology of American Thanksgiving.
Take timing for example. In what would someday become the U.S., the First Thanksgiving was celebrated in 1621. Early Americans didn’t call it the First Thanksgiving. They didn’t even call it Thanksgiving. They called it dinner. Actually, they called it a feast. They were starving.
By contrast, Canadians didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving until 1872. Even at that late date, Canadians weren’t actually celebrating Thanksgiving; they were celebrating the recovery of the Prince of Wales from a serious illness he’d been suffering. Even weirder, they celebrated it on April 15, a day Americans celebrate filing their income taxes.
It doesn’t take a geographical genius to understand there isn’t much to harvest in Canada on April 15 unless you can make a feast of river ice and fiddleheads. Obviously, in that context, it’s easier to understand why Canadians—who ultimately saw the irony of celebrating Thanksgiving in April and changed the date to more accurately coincide with the harvest of real food—were sheepish about horning in on what was clearly an American holiday and calling their version the exact same thing.
Now, compare that incomprehensible history with the cultural mythology of American Thanksgiving. You’ve got your starving Pilgrims, free at last to worship as they please. You’ve got your generous Indigenous landowners, sharing their bounty and completely unaware of what a raw deal they were about to get. You’ve got turkey, mashed potatoes, punkin pie and maize. You’ve got the birth of a nation.
And that’s why, despite the cultural madness that swept your nation on Nov. 5, we welcome our American friends with open arms. Okay, with shrugged shoulders. Even though many of us have vowed to never again set foot in what are now called Red States until there is renewed evidence of intelligent life there, we’re going to do our best to make your holiday, however you call it, warm, welcoming and whatever your hearts desire. It’s how we roll.
We know many of you are just as horrified as we are over the election results. If you are, perhaps to make you feel better, you should pay close attention to all the real estate ads in Pique. Owning a place in Whistler is not only a longstanding American tradition, it could well be your refuge if things get really ugly down there. A foot in the door, so to speak. Not enough to give you automatic immigration status but a place to hide out until you’re discovered, at which point immigration officials are more likely to look the other way than deport you.
Think about it. But not while you’re skiing. Can’t be done.
