The cult of Whistler

Matt was inducted into the mysteriously obsessive world of snow some years ago when he went to Val d'Isere with friends. From that point forward, I became somewhat of a snow widow.

It would start around September when Matt would wake up with a glazed look in his eyes, telling me he'd spent the night dreaming of boarding, detailing every turn he made, stunt he landed, and powder he carved. The talk would intensify through the autumn months until, come December, he was checking the snow report on a daily basis and plotting his escape to the mountains.

Although my preference is for sandy beaches, sunshine and swimming in warm seas, I was under pressure. I went to Meribel with Matt and some friends and attempted snowboarding - it was disastrous. I hated it and my ass bore the imprints of the mountain's reciprocation of my feelings.

So each year, Matt has disappeared to the mountains, while I've either headed for tropical climes or stayed in London. When we were planning the slow route home, Matt discovered that Mum would be in Vancouver around the time of our departure and suggested that we add British Columbia to our circuit. I saw through his thin veil of altruism to the dark heart of his intentions - the glazed look had resurfaced and he was navigating us towards Whistler.

Matt spent a season at Whistler three years ago at the tail end of a trip through Mexico, LA, Sydney, NZ, Fiji and Vancouver, while I returned to London to find a job. I am well versed in the legend of Whistler Blackcomb, the largest snow resort in North America. In a moment of weakness, I relented and Whistler materialised on our itinerary.

So keen to ensure that I would catch the snow fever, Matt joined me in ski school (he had come to terms with the fact that I would never be a snowboarder some years ago) for the first afternoon.

I confess, I really enjoyed Whistler. Despite myself, I took to skiing surprisingly well - this didn't last, once I was up and running, the transition from snow-plough to parallel was a labourious process. The resort is undeniably beautiful. We woke on the first day to a heavy dump of snow and the second day was apparently the best they've had this season - bright blue skies, sunshine and plenty of snow.

We met a couple of Mexican skiers during apres and after a number of beers and Jaegers, I awoke the following morning unsure of whether I had returned my rentals. Matt was unable to fill in the gaps and I had to return to the rental shop shamefaced, not knowing whether they would have my skis. They did - a friend Matt had met earlier in the season at Lech later confirmed that she'd seen us walking home, Matt carrying my skis, and had thought, Awww, how sweet.

People on the mountain seem to want everyone to share their love of Whistler. At the end of the second day everyone was partying at the base, the numbers swelling as the snow-drunk masses glided down their last run of a perfect day on the mountain. At one point everyone stood up to see a commotion on the home stretch - it was a small bear crossing the slopes.

A big group of skiers beside us concocted a bizarre game that involved heating the inside of a brandy glass and attaching it to their gluteous maximus (maximi?). After several men had unveiled their hairy asses, two women decided to represent - Matt was particularly impressed that the older woman was sans knickers.

 

There were quite a few cameras recording the posteriors for posterity. With the advent of Facebook, Twitter and Flicker, I don't think these bold-assed ladies can depend on the adage What happens in Whistler...