By G.D. Maxwell
Dreary : gloomy, dismal, sombre, bleak, miserable, cheerless, joyless, uninteresting.
In the midst of Thesaurus-abuse, we stop to ponder the soul-sapping power of ceaseless, endless, perpetual, neverending, B.C. coastal I-hate-the-Pacific-Ocean…weather.
Not so many years ago that I’ve forgotten, I had to go to a job interview. I’d been in Whistler for a couple of years and made the boneheaded mistake of deciding to work during the summer instead of more or less pissing it away as had become my habit. I wasn’t at all certain I wanted the job but it seemed like a novel thing to do. So I did it. Went to the job interview, that is.
Someone nearly half my age, with a keenness for advancement with the MotherCorp that shone like a bare bulb on a country porch on a moonless night, rifled through a stack of applications until he came to mine. At least as prepared for this interview as I was, he scanned my resume – a collection of omissions, half-truths, conceits and enough shading to support a sizable sidewalk café – settled a professional gaze on me and said, "So, (glancing quickly at his papers) Max, what’s your five-year plan?"
Stunned, I thought about this question for a long time. Long enough to wonder whether there was, in fact, an answer to it. Long enough to make Mr. Keen wonder whether I’d fallen asleep with my eyes open. Long enough for him to finally ask me the question again. "Your five-year plan?"
"I didn’t know I was supposed to bring one," I finally said, still trying to figure out where I might have put it, if in fact I had one at all.
"You don’t have a five-year plan?" I was touched by his genuine distress at the news.
"No. I thought this was only a summer job," I offered.
"But I used to have a five-year plan," I added, feeling that somehow I’d ruined his day by not having one now.
"What was that?" He said, visibly perking up.
"My five-year plan was to move to Whistler," I explained. "I figured I either had to save money like crazy, make a big score or figure out a foolproof way to embezzle money from my employer. And here I am," I said triumphantly.
He looked at me expectantly. "And….?"
"The details aren’t really important," I said dismissively.
Sensing this was an unsatisfactory answer, I added, "Now I have a five-day plan."
"What’s that," he asked with genuine curiosity.
"If I wake up five days in a row and say ‘This place sucks!’ I’m gone."
I don’t know why he hired me. I know he had second thoughts. I think buying him a beer helped. I’m sure he later regretted it.
Over the years I’d kinda forgotten about my five-day plan. Thought I’d almost made peace with the weather in this part of the world.
I was wrong.
And I’m getting’ pretty damn close to FIVE DAYS HERE!
Gloomy
: morose, dismal, desolate, forlorn, murky, obscure, shadowy, sullen, dingy, glum, grim.Heading into the season’s homestretch, I’m still waiting for the epic spring skiing promised, teased, by a mid-April snowpack exceeding three metres. There is something special, something privileged about spring skiing. It’s a much more exclusive club. It’s jumping the queue because the doorman’s a friend. It’s a special dish the chef makes only for you. It’s a secret not shared by those who’ve abandoned the downhill slide for tennis, golf and other pursuits of the season.
Spring skiing’s about crisp mornings filled with hair-raising screamers on groomed, frozen slush, a full-body vibrating massage from the feet up on rock hard corduroy with a treacherous lapstroke where the groomers tried to hem consecutive passes. Spring skiing’s about uncovering the season’s last off-piste powder caches, north aspects of alpine bowls dishing up soft, chalky snow and sun-dappled aspects offering softening, slushy moguls warming to the sun’s caress as the day grows long. Spring skiing’s about hero snow verging on corn, snow that lets us all be better skiers than we are. It’s about picnics on glaciers, crisp white wine, racoon tans, shorts under ski pants, impossible waxing conditions, toe soup and maximum ventilation.
So where is it? I’m losing patience.
And I’m still waiting.
Dull
: monotonous, prosaic, tedious, unexciting, leaden, dowdy, lacklustre, subdued, sunless.The ski season’s dead. Long live the ski season.
In two days Blackcomb will close. Creekside will close. For six weeks, Whistler mountain will time travel to a sepia-toned, simpler past. Slopes will be uncrowded. Alternating days will be flashbacks to what the mountain was like before Harmony and Peak chairs were built, as only one, not both, will turn, saving W-B a few bucks on operating expenses and spreading the season’s dwindling supply of lifties across fewer acres of lift-serviced terrain.
By all accounts, it’s a good time to ask the seasonal question: Just what kind of season was it?
It was a dream season.
It was one of those dreams that never seem to quite get going, never seem to quite get to any point, never seem to go anywhere and never seem to end, just loop through a series of familiar, unsettling fits and starts. A dream that has all the outward appearances of normality but leaves us exhausted and unsatisfied with our night’s rest when we finally have to drag our sorry butts out of bed the next morning.
More’s the shame. We had such a good time when last our southern buddy, El Niño, visited. We partied, we played, we genuinely enjoyed his company. But his return was like a bad second date. His jokes were stale, his manners atrocious and he entirely forgot Rule Number One for houseguests: Bringing a present is good but you’d better chip in occasionally for food and drink while you’re here.
Still, what a present. Just when the year looked like a total writeoff and Christmas was going to be coal and switches for everybody, we woke up to find better than 100 centimetres under – over – the tree on Christmas day. For several glorious hours Christmas morning, presents went unopened and I skied the deepest powder I’ve ever skied in a town that’s enjoyed more than a few epic powder days.
Having glimpsed April in February during a stretch of sun more reminiscent of Colorado Rockies than B.C. Coastal, I guess I can’t really complain about being beaten out of spring skiing.
What am I saying? Of course I can. We are, after all, going into the eighth week of dismal – I’ll spare you the synonyms – weather that’s taken an outsize bite from a season that could have been. Rain too high, wind too strong, snow too wet, sun too weak, a virtual chorus of colourful Native American names to lay on this unsettled season.
Conclusion: Give 02/03 a failing grade but graduate it anyway. We don’t want to see its mournful face ’round these parts again.
