Powdery bluebirds!

Skiing lingo 101:

Powder day: a day on which fresh snow has fallen

Bluebird day: a cloudless, sunny day

After making us work hard for our kicks, on several levels, for the first five days, the mountains have relented. We awoke on Saturday morning to find the trees outside the apartment's balcony freshly whitened, with snow still falling; higher up, every surface was covered in six inches of the softest, fluffiest snow.

(Marianne pauses for breath after leading me down Little Whistler Bowl)


Which was all well and good, except I hadn't ever really skied in powder before. And I was trying to keep up with an expert skier and two good snowboarders - Marianne, Stephen and a genial Swiss called Greg; the latter easily identifiable by his helmet cam.

"Turn slowly and crouch low," said Marianne, with infinite wisdom. So I did my best, tried to stay on my feet, kept the arm flailing to a minimum. And, as the hours passed and the snow continued to fall, it all began to make sense. There's nothing quite like the sensation of floating through snow like this. Like skiing in silk. Steve led us off-piste through some truly stunning terrain; out of my comfort zone, but life-affirming stuff.

(Rare action shot of Yours Truly)

The flipside of a powder day - especially if it falls at a weekend - is crowds. And with crowds come queues and accidents. For some reason, I was invisible on Saturday. Three different snowboarders collided with me, with varying fallout: the most serious took my feet out from under me and gashed my new ski. Ah, well. Happens.

On Saturday evening, we were joined by our first visitors from the UK - Cheryl and Simon; Cheryl and Marianne are friends through work. This morning they were, not surprisingly, raring to go, and 8.15am found us on our way up the mountain. It was bright and sunny, a morning of impossible views and bitter cold: the board at the top of the main lift read -15C.

Today was a day of smooth, hard pistes with occasional forays into the trees either side, of allowing our new companions to find their feet. We were joined by Kirsten, whom I met in ski school last week. Jetlag notwithstanding, Cheryl and Simon coped admirably with mile after mile of lightning-fast cruising. The lifts were already closing by the time we pointed our skis downhill for the last time, tired legs braced for one final effort. A day to savour.

Steaks all round tonight. We've earned them.

Light and shade

No words to speak of today, just a few choice pictures. Enjoy.

A meeting of minds... on the Peak2Peak gondola, Wednesday 26 January

A view up valley from the Peak2Peak... over 1400 feet above the valley floor

Touchdown! Marianne lands a 7 foot drop-off from an icy cornice.

Top of the world: The Pacific Range from Blackcomb Peak, Thursday 27 January

Ski school. Tudor, Rafael and Kirsten. Or: a Romanian, a Brazilian and a German...

The quickest way down to Blackcomb Glacier

Still smiling... before we took on the Glacier

Local hero: Bruce the moose, who stands guard over our living room

And it was all going so well…

After a dream start, it's been a tough couple of days in the mountains.

On Monday, Marianne and I signed up for three days of ski school. We’re at different levels, so I joined the vaguely sensible level 4 (out of 6) group, while she joined the lunatics in the top class. It was the sort of day which can test your love of skiing – pouring rain at low altitude, visibility varying between minimal and zero – but our ski instructor sought out the best snow and a fine, if soaking, day was had by all. Mine is the most cosmopolitan group imaginable: a Brit, an American, a German, a Canadian, two Australians, a Brazilian and a Romanian. I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere.

Tuesday dawned drier and colder, but I had woken with a slight stomach upset which steadily worsened throughout the day. I kept at it as waves of nausea came and went, but finally had to call it a day after nearly passing out while carrying my skis halfway up an incline. Unfortunately, that happened to be at the glacier – one of the highest points on Blackcomb mountain. There was no option but to ski down, so I reluctantly left my group and made my way home. By the time I reached the apartment I was bone-frozen and near collapse; I slept, on and off, for 15 hours.

I woke up on Wednesday morning much improved: Marianne had taken good care of me. Having managed to eat breakfast – my first proper food for 24 hours – I decided to rejoin my ski school class. And I’m glad I did. It wasn’t easy – we did some tricky off-piste skiing and I was far short of my best – but I really enjoyed it. Today is Australia Day (G’Day!) , which meant that every other person was skiing or boarding in shorts and wrapped in an Australian flag.

Marianne regales me daily with stories of near-vertical mogul fields and jumping off seven-foot cliffs: she’s loving ski school so much that she’s signed up for another day; I didn’t need much persuading to follow suit. Several of my classmates finished today, so tomorrow will feature a reduced group: a Brit, a German, a Brazilian and a Romanian went up a mountain…

We're not in Southampton any more, honey...

WHOO-HOO! We skied. It was awesome.

Sorry… won’t happen again. I promise. So. We made it. As intercontinental trips go, it was a breeze. My wonderful parents delivered us to Heathrow, BA delivered us with minimal fuss (and middling discomfort) to Vancouver. And the Whistler Shuttle service made my day: just as we were starting to run out of steam, buckling under 70kg of luggage with our body clocks set to 3am, I spotted a man in the arrivals hall with my name on a placard. In minutes we were loaded onto a minibus with just three other people and on our way. Bliss.

Even in the dark, there’s nothing like arriving in a ski resort. The road winds skyward, patches of snow beside the road begin to expand and join together. And finally (with Nirvana ‘Smells like teen spirit’ blaring on the radio) the ‘Welcome to Whistler’ sign blazed through the darkness.

Our shuttle driver made our day again by going slightly out of his way to deliver us to the front door of our building, even though we hadn’t paid the supplement. Top man.

The apartment is utterly brilliant. Spacious, attractively decorated with wood, stone and leather, equipped up to the nines. It’s even got a decent-sized balcony.

Having been up for 22 hours, we fell into bed, slept until 7.30am despite our jetlag, and woke raring to go. And just a little apprehensive. It’s always the way on the first day – especially when it’s your first time on your first ever pair of shiny new skis. For the first two hundred metres down to the bottom of the chairlift, I felt like my legs had turned to blancmange.

But then the lift whisked up through the clouds into winter wonderland, and it all came flooding back. We’d managed to arrive for a perfect morning – sunny, cold, perfect visibility - and by halfway down our first run I knew that all those ski shop salesmen had been right. They’re fantastic. More on them in the coming days when I’ve spent a little more time on them.

Today was about finding our feet, meeting up with Steve (who has been here since mid-December) and taking our first steps towards rediscovering the mountains we fell in love with on our first visit four years ago. Mission accomplished. For the next three days we will be in ski school. They push you hard here, and I’m a little scared. ..

You're what?!

“So let me get this straight,” said the woman from work. “You’re leaving behind a British winter for a whole month – and going somewhere even colder?”

And just for a moment, I saw all that could have been. Sun on my face, azure skies, rolling surf. An African safari. A world cruise. Then I thought of what lies in wait – soaring peaks, magical wooded glades, pinch-yourself views looking down on the world. The fear-spiked adrenalin rush of a steep fall line. And I grinned in delight. For Marianne and I, there was never any question. The mountains win, hands down.

It’s been over a year in the making, this trip. It was Christmas 2009 when Stephen - brother-in-law and long time ski companion – confirmed his intention to decamp to Whistler from December 2010 to April 2011. And around that time, a lightbulb went off. Marianne and I had always planned to visit him, but what if we could cut ourselves a slice of the seasonnaire life by going for a whole month? Could it be done?

It could. A year of saving, sacrifices from both of us, countless extra hours at work for Marianne… it hasn’t always been easy. People tell us how lucky we are, and they’re right, of course. We don’t forget that for a moment. But we’ve also worked hard to make this happen. Come what may, we’re going to embrace it.

As I type, with seventeen hours to go until our flight leaves, the house is strewn with the detritus of departure. Cast-off clothes, lists, stray teabags. Somehow, we’ve fitted a lorryload of gear into three bags and two small rucksacks. Both of us are buzzing and jumpy, thoroughly overexcited. Can’t believe it’s nearly time.

I’ll aim to post to the blog most days. For your sakes I’ll try to avoid posts of the ‘Whoo-hoo! We skied. It was awesome’ variety. I’ll do my best to tell our story of a month in the mountains: ups, downs and everything in between.

Now, I guess, it’s time to attempt sleep. See you on the other side!