"May The Forest Be With You"

The trees again have centred me. I return home relaxed, filled; Meg.

Why is it that people are moved to exhibit a silent reverence in a cathedral, but amongst trees they forget to listen?

Trees, in fact, are perfect mirrors; living reflective pools for the deepest places in your soul. A tree in it's silent being is able to draw voices forth from heart to teach and encourage you. To strengthen you. To remind you of who you were always meant to be.

If only you listen. If only, as one famous teacher once said, “You have ears to hear...”

They speak of majesty. Of being vulnerable enough to admit that you are small, mortal, finite. They teach that to know this weakness is to know true power. That in understanding your true state, you may be wholly fulfilled in it.

Strength.

Immortality.

Reverence.

Trees will draw forth what is most beautiful from your being, if only you pause and let them.

I do not walk often enough through the forest. When I do, I'm usually in a hurry to exercise my dog before I have to make it to the next appointment; the next job. The list for the day piles up. I bring my mobile phone with me in case anyone needs me while I'm walking. In case I am unable to face solitude that day.

When I come seeking, willing to find and be found, I am never disappointed. I always return home, my thirst quenched, my spirit overflowing.

So why do I forget?

Because the world around us in no way resembles a forest any longer. There is an absence of awe. A lack of reverence. Nothing is sacred. Humanity has become the highest rung of divinity. With science and religions formed by man we have lost our childlike wonder.

We no longer have “ears to hear”, and so the world becomes at once very loud and yet with nothing of value to say.

And we forget. We forget the murmurings of our ancestral places We forget our roots and the strength that comes from the deepest pools of our souls. We forget that silence is healing, and that only in knowing our own selves may we ever be able to help others.

Even now the trees wait. Quiet sentinels of our past, guarding truths that were once commonly accepted; eager to share. Eager to draw truth from you. They will wait until all of humanity is of an age again to listen. They will wait until again we search for awe.

Dear Winter

Dear Winter,

Today I tried, I really truly made an honest attempt to embrace your return to my life. The softly falling flakes are beautiful, thank you. My friends and family are all so pleased with the delightful gift of fresh tracks that you have presented this March. It was...unexpected, what with the Spring birds and the crocuses and all.

I had every intention of traveling up the gondola to play in your gift, I swear. I woke up early. I caffeinated. I even lovingly stroked my snowboard last night before bed and whispered all sorts of promises about the Sunday we would share together.

The truth is- I'm living a lie. I just don't love you like I did in December.

Remember December? When our season was young and all of the grand dreams and possibilities wrapped us in a euphoric state? December, when my first turns of the year were exciting and fresh, and I couldn't wait for all of the powder days ahead.

I'm sorry, Winter, I'm over you. I've moved on.

You see, while you were away for the last couple of weeks, Spring and I fell in love. I know it's hard to hear, but please, let me explain.

It started as a casual observation that I didn't need to shovel snow, or scrape ice from my car anymore. Then I realized that I didn't need to put on so many layers in the morning. Some days I didn't even need a coat!

Maybe Spring wouldn't have been so enticing if I didn't work outside, but I won't change for you, Winter.

I think what finally drove me from your mountain play lands was the first time I laid eyes on grass. So green and alive and glistening in the sunlight. I was instantly seduced, swept away by distant memories of long lazy days spent lounging on the dock at Alpha Lake; camping, hiking, riding my bicycle...

And it was hard when you left me, Winter. All of that confusion- would you return to me? Were you gone for the year? Would it be days before I saw you again? Weeks? Months? And then there was the terrible mess that you left. The slush. The half-frozen snot falling from the sky. I don't want to go through that again.

So it's over, Winter, at least for me, anyway. Maybe we can give it another try next November, when we've both had time to find ourselves; to analyze our shortcomings and really think about what we could bring to the table in a new season.

It's been real. It's been fun. It just ain't real fun anymore, darlin'.

I'll think of you when I put a thick coat of storage wax on the Arbor. A tear will come to my eye when I get frostbite reaching for a popcicle in the back of the freezer this Summer. I will look back at all of our pictures together with only fondness.

And hey- we'll always have December.

The Peak to Peak

The first time I rode on the Peak to Peak, I felt like I had never been in a gondola before. Considering I've been snow sliding for twenty-six years, this is saying something. From the moment I stepped booted foot on board, I was hooked.

Not only does the gondola shorten the commute from Whistler Mountain to Blackcomb from nearly an hour to a mere fourteen minutes, but it opens up a whole new experience for our sightseeing and summer visitors.

In the summer months I was privy to seeing first hand what the good folks behind the Peak to Peak had in mind when installing this signature piece. Employed with the passenger train that travels into Whistler from the Rockies and Vancouver, I found that more than half of my guests had come just to see our new lift. Many of these visitors were only in town for three hours and they chose the ride on the Peak to Peak over any other activity.

The scenery is beyond breath taking. On a clear day the entire valley opens up to you, revealing her lakes, forests and other gems often hidden when you're exploring far below. At a vantage point of over 1400ft above the Fitzsimmons Creek you get an all access pass to a view that previously required wings.


There are many local stories that go along with the Peak to Peak, and most people I know can easily recount their first ride on the gondola. My favourite local story is of opening day, when three generations of one family rode together on the first car.

Access to the first car was a coveted position. People wrote in to Whistler Blackcomb and nominated individuals who they thought should be on that car, then from the names provided a lucky 28 were chosen. Of those, three were from the Huxtable family. In his nineties, Grandpa George, a well known local fixture, was accompanied by his son, Gord and his grandson, Ryder. Between the three of them their family have had roots in Whistler since the sixties. With the arrival of Ryder and his two sisters to the family clan, it looks as though those roots will only deepen and grow.

It makes me wonder about the conversation that Ryder might have with his own children on the Peak to Peak gondola some day. I wonder what he'll remember then about all of the fuss of the ribbon cutting and the photographs. I wonder if he will remember that his community was watching, hearts on their sleeves as he and twenty seven others rode the fourteen minutes into engineering history.

I am proud that people from all over the world have heard the rumors of our fabled gondola and come to experience it first hand. It is without a doubt a welcome wagon worthy of their journey.

First Snowfall

I was lucky enough this year to be home from my seasonal wanderings in time to catch the first flakes of snow drift into Whistler Village. In the month that lead up to this auspicious day, there had been a number of teasing snowfalls in the upper reaches of the mountains, but it wasn't until that beautiful October afternoon that we felt the white stuff on our faces outside our front doors.

After the first snowfall every year, the emotional climate of Whistler changes. The air becomes electrically charged with the collective current of excitement for the coming season. From that day on, whether it rains to the top or delivers a record breaking amount of powder, the mood of the Village has turned from mourning summer to waiting for Opening Day.

Opening Day, those magical words, is usually forecast far in advance leaving us salivating in anticipation. The most devoted of snow sport fans will already have their sliders of choice waxed and tuned to perfection, their boots waiting by the front door long before Day One.

Always beneath all of the planning is the hope for that “Early Season Start”- that precious gem that comes along once every few years, where Mother Nature delivers and the good folks at Intrawest decide to start up those chairlifts a week or two in advance of Opening Day.

There is a great deal of speculation every November- will it be Remembrance Day long weekend? Will we be making turns before our neighbours to the south are feasting on turkey? I do recall one blessed year where I was busily waxing and sharpening my gear late into the wee hours on November first because of a rumor that Whistler might open the next day. Standing in the lift line at seven-thirty the next morning, my devotion was rewarded with one of the first rides up the Gondola.

All of the new arrivals in our town are bursting with the energy of their First Whistler Season. Many of them have never seen snow before. You can tell them apart because they are the joyful people rolling around in the first three inches of the stuff while the rest of us more seasoned veterans look on. For the record, I don't believe it's a look of disapproval- it's just that we're deep in the memory of our own first Whistler snowfall.

And so, new comer and long time local alike, we join our hopes and hold our breaths, waiting for the grand start of the 2009/2010 winter season. Will this be the year that all of our previous snowfall records are blown out of the sky? Will this be the year that the park is, decidedly, in the best shape it's ever been? Will this be the year I finally get airborne and land a 360 switch?

The best part of the waiting is that everything is possible. This season has yet to be written. The collective hopes and dreams of the masses will carry it forward into life. All too soon we'll be sitting on a patio on the other side of April reveling in the memories.

I'll see you in the lift line on Opening Day.

My Best Day

I have been blessed with a lifetime's worth of perfect memories riding these mountains, but there is only one that stands out clear and deep like a track you've had to hike to earn. My memory is of the day Debbie Clifton “Danced”.

I once side lined as a Snowboard Instructor on Whistler Mountain. I had many students through the seasons, but Debs is unforgettable. It's not that her feet were born knowing how to turn, this young lady's secret was 100% great attitude. She wanted to snowboard.

What followed were days of riding side by side and on-mountain bonding. As we grew closer, we started to share more personal conversations and I discovered something about my new friend that shattered me. Debbie was living with Cystic Fibrosis.

“C.F.” is a genetic disease that is most famous for attacking the lungs. Eventually the disease wins and the lungs stop working. Debs explained that to gain the lung capacity to ride each day she had an exhausting two hour routine of physio therapy and treatments to preform.

All so that she could do something I often take for granted.

Inspired, I decided to teach Debs something I had never had the courage to share with another student: The Philosophy of “The Dance”.

“The Dance” is what results when the rhythm of your turns and the energy of the mountain merge into one fluid motion. You find that you are no longer conscious of your body. From your toes to your fingertips your fear melts away.

It's awesome.

I took a few chairlift sessions and attempted to explain The Dance to my young grasshopper. Debs grew quiet as I spoke. I was certain that I had scared her with my new age mumblings and quickly changed the subject.

The next afternoon as we made our way down a run, I darted ahead to watch Debs so that I could give her a few pointers on technique. And then, around the corner above me she appeared, turns linked, in total control of her board, her movements fluid, her face relaxed into a huge grin.

My Debs was Dancing.

Pride oozed from me. I was witnessing a new sureness, a Debs-only style of The Dance. We laughed. I cried. I bragged about her all week to anyone that would listen. I brag about her still.

Debs and I kept in touch for a time, but I'm sorry to say that eventually we lost contact. That's a risk you take living in a resort town. The people you love often slip away. I was left with a few photos, a handful of brilliant memories and a renewed appreciation for both the paradise I live in and the sport I love. Her gift to me was My Best Day.

Wherever Debs is now, I hope she is winning her fight. I think of her every time the cold air fills my lungs and my feet strike up The Dance.