Making tracks

Could it be, I wondered, that the mountains had saved the best for last?

I’d cracked the blinds on Friday morning to find every tree laden with yet more fresh snow, pushing the total for the week to over two metres. And today, the sky was Pacific blue, the mountains seemingly close enough to touch. The forecast predicted light winds and sunshine, which meant that the highest lifts in the most inaccessible areas of Whistler Blackcomb would open, after days of closures due to high winds and avalanche blasting.

That made Friday’s choice of location a no brainer: the intoxicating, intimidating Harmony Ridge. Or, even better, its beguiling little sister Symphony, on the other side of Whistler mountain.

We met Steve at the usual place – by the totem pole outside the Roundhouse Lodge, 1850 metres up on Whistler Mountain – and made a beeline for the Harmony chairlift. On the Friday before the President’s Day holiday – Whistler’s busiest weekend of the year bar Christmas – we feared huge queues. The Harmony and Symphony areas are always the last to open; after fresh snow, every powder hound in Whistler makes a beeline for Harmony. But today, we seemed to be ahead of the game, and the queue was small. For now.

Halfway up on the chair, Steve’s computer genius bore fruit. He’d set up a system linking his computer to his phone, sending him a text message when certain lifts opened; his pocket duly bleeped to inform him that the Symphony chairlift was up and running. At the top, the sign still read closed, but in the distance, we could see the empty chairlift moving. Armed with our inside knowledge, we dropped into the practically deserted amphitheatre.

I’m not a good enough skier to take full advantage of the conditions that presented themselves: a thousand acres of untracked powder over six hundred metres of vertical – starting on a high, exposed ridge and ending in a series of beautiful gladed trails below the treeline. But I will never forget the experience as long as I live. We carved our own lines in knee deep silk on Rhapsody Bowl, made spontaneous snow angels when the talent ran out, picked our own routes between the trees. Marianne and I found ourselves on a tricky single-track trail which wound back and forth across an open creek. We were forced to avoid branches, roots and ten-foot deep holes: a little too close to the wire, but I wouldn’t have missed it. We arrived at the bottom with hearts pounding and muscles aching.

Then we went up and did it again. Such is the beauty of this place. You could ski it a thousand times without ever following the same route twice.

And then, suddenly, twilight began to fall on the Odyssey. More than halfway through our last full day, and we were beginning to visit favourite haunts for the last time: Low Roll, the sweeping powder blast from the top of Harmony Ridge; our own route between the trees below the Roundhouse to Dave Murray, the Olympic downhill run, where your skis feel rocket propelled at every sniff of the fall-line. And many, many others.

For Friday’s last supper, the vote was unanimous: The Keg. I’m not generally bothered about steak, but it’s different in Canada, and The Keg is a bit special. Joined by the Judkins family, we demolished a lot of cow and two bottles of fine British Columbia red. And it was good.

Saturday was a bonus: the first time Marianne and I have skied on the day we left a resort. Time constraints meant it had to be Blackcomb, because our apartment was located at its base. Beside extrovert, flashy Whistler with its signature bowls, Blackcomb is a little more austere. A place of hidden delights, often quieter than its neighbour because it gets less sun. Because we started up on its Wizard chairlift virtually every day, I came to think of it as ‘our’ mountain.

We couldn’t leave without bidding farewell to Seventh Heaven, which hasn’t failed to delight over four weeks and a dozen skiing companions. One run through the bumps of Xhiggy’s Meadow and a lightning blast down the groomed lower sweep of Cloud Nine, and we were done: growing crowds forced us over the top and into the Glacier. Blackcomb’s jewel, it rivals Symphony for drama and Harmony for the demands it makes on skiers and boarders. With ever-improving technique, my final run down it was by far the best: I can, if I’m brave, almost keep up with Marianne.

After a brief lunch with the others, it was our turn for goodbyes: Nina and Martin and the girls are in Whistler for another week, and Steve has taken root: we’ll not see him until April. On both counts, it’s been an absolute pleasure. And perhaps now is the time to thank the others who have helped to make the Odyssey the huge success it was: Joe, Mike, Lucy, Cheryl, Simon and Kiki.

And that’s almost it, aside from a dog story, a pleasant surprise and a less pleasant surprise. On our way out on Thursday morning, we encountered a woman walking a very excitable ridgeback puppy who greeted both of us enthusiastically and took a shine to Marianne’s leather mittens. On Saturday, after an epic final run down, we saw her again, temporarily locked out of the parking garage by her owner. I wanted to take her home. Marianne said she wouldn’t fit in our hand luggage.

After a whirlwind hour of packing and tidying, we exited in two stages, making for our coach pickup point across the road; when I returned for the ski bag three minutes later, I found the apartment’s three owners – the incoming tenants – just arrived. After a lot of email contact with Bruce Ward, the primary contact, over the past six months, it was a pleasure to meet him: he put in a lot of effort to make our stay stress-free and comfortable, and his apartment is a fabulous home from home.

After a ridiculously easy inbound trip, I guess we were due a little bad luck: our transfer coach blew a tyre on the way to Vancouver, and a major route through the city was shut after some yoofs apparently made a pipe bomb and left it in a park. Yes, really. The upshot was a somewhat fraught journey and a rather late check-in.

But we made it. As I write, we’re 35,000 feet above an unidentified chunk of land south of Baffin Island. Five and a bit hours to Heathrow. I guess it’s time for the Fat Lady to sing. Back to real life, to normality, as people keep saying.

Except it won’t be, not quite. Experiences like this make you view life differently, take stock of your priorities. I don’t think either Marianne or I will be quite the same again. And it’s all good.

If you’ve got this far, thanks for putting in the effort. To borrow a wannabe author’s cliché, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

(Thousand acre playground: overlooking Symphony Amphitheatre, with The Tusk in the distance. Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(We were pretty quick off the mark, but someone else got there first... Symphony, Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(Top marks: Marianne finally digs herself out of a hole after performing an unplanned backflip in thigh-deep powder on Rhapsody Bowl. Symphony, Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(It's this deep: Marianne checks the depth of the fresh snow...)

(...while Steve does the same in his own special way. Symphony, Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(Here Be Bears: well-camouflaged sentries watch over the Symphony chairlift. Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(Pinch yourself: it's real. From the top of Symphony, with Flute Bowl peeking through the clouds. Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(The sun begins to set on the Odyssey: last run down Harmony. Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(One last look back through the trees towards some of our favourite terrain: the Kaleidoscope and Low Roll runs off Harmony Ridge. Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(It's a salmon, I think. Ice sculptors hard at work outside the Roundhouse on Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(Marianne limbers up for the last blast down Tokum to Whistler Village. Whistler Mountain, 18 February)

(Our last day. Wind-driven powder on Blackcomb Glacier. 19 February)

(Yours truly, dwarfed by the Glacier and its overhanging cliffs. Blackcomb, 19 February)

(Last hurrah: the final run of the Odyssey. Zig Zag, Blackcomb, 19 February)

(But the Fat Lady choked. Shredded tyre = immobile bus = not much to do for an hour, except...)

(...take pictures of one more incredible view. Sunset over Vancouver Island, 19 February)

The bigger picture

In the mountains, It's easy to be lulled into a sense of false security. Especially on a sunny day, and more especially when you've been here a while. The otherworldly yet familiar landscape, the routine of chairlifts, the altitude - all seem to cause a feeling of light euphoria.

Once in a while, it pays to be reminded of the harsh realities, of the need for constant vigilance. This morning, we made an unscheduled hot chocolate stop at Whistler's highest restaurant, Horstman Hut: skiing with an eleven-year old and a thirteen-year old dictates a slower pace that was, frankly, a relief after our recent exertions.

We trooped in through the door to find a man on his back on a bench, hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor, surrounded by mountain rescue personnel. It wasn't clear what had happened, but it didn't look good. Shortly afterwards, a clatter heralded the arrival of the medical helicopter. This landed on an eye-wideningly small area of nearly-flat snow behind the restaurant, hemmed in by buildings on two sides, a radio mast on the third and a cliff on the fourth.

The patient, wrapped in blankets, was loaded quickly, and within minutes the rotor blades were turning again. As the chopper lifted off, a whirlwind of snow blinded us - and the pilot. It looked to me like a skilful piece of flying, but was no doubt an easy day at the office - light winds and reasonable visibility. I've heard it up on days when the wind howled around my head and I could barely see ten metres in front of me, and cannot imagine what it must be like to fly in such conditions.

We've all seen the mountain rescue staff in their red jackets emblazoned with white crosses: at work on the mountain, on snowmobiles, slipping into spare spaces on the chairlifts; cheerful, courteous men and women, but always focused, always prepared. Next time I'm tempted to complain about the cost of lift passes, I'll remember the man wrapped in blankets, the medics and the helicopter.

The story of our last week has been snow. Snow is pretty much the theme of the whole Odyssey, of course, but a quite ridiculous amount of it has fallen in recent days - 186cm since last Friday, to be exact. That's impressive even for Whistler. As far as we could tell, nobody was at work in Vancouver on Wednesday - they were all up here playing in the powder. Even on runs that are normally groomed to billiard-table smoothness, it was knee deep.

It's very difficult to ski in, but you can't help but giggle like a loon as your skis float across it making fresh tracks, or chop through cloud-soft drifts at ever-increasing speed. Everyone falls over sooner or later, even the unassailable Marianne, who managed to wrap herself around the only tree on a thigh-deep trail in the 7th Heaven region of Blackcomb. The mountain was littered with people searching for lost skis; some won't be found until the spring...

Mike and Lucy, Marianne's parents, left early this morning having enjoyed their eleven days in Whistler immensely. They were both apprehensive about skiing, concerned about advancing years - but managed far more than they expected. It didn't hurt that they're postively youthful compared to some of the skiers (and boarders) we all encounter daily. Newly enthused, they're already planning their next expedition. Good on them.

For us, just a day and a half remain. But far from the catastrophic sense of anti-climax I expected, there's a sense of calm, of natural progression. We've done what we came to do; anything more now is a bonus. Also, fit as we are, our bodies are beginning to wilt after 25 bruising days on skis, with just a single day off. We're both carrying minor injuries: it's nearly time to wrap it up.

And all that remains, for today, is the bodies.

A few mornings ago, while drinking her tea in the living room, Marianne was startled when something huge fell past the window. Her first thought: a falling body. Perhaps a hapless holidaymaker unable to kick their skiing addiction? Anyway, from that point onwards, whenever a big clump of snow falls past the window, someone remarks,
"There goes another body..."

(All smiles: Nina, Martin and Alex during a rare break in the weather. Bear Paw, Whistler, 15 February)

(The most common view of Marianne these past few weeks. Ptarmigan, Whistler, 15 February)

(So you want to know why we really travelled 5,000 miles? This is why. Solar Coaster chairlift, Blackcomb, 16 February)

(Somewhere down there are my skis. Honest. Catskinner, Blackcomb, 16 February)

(Winter wonderland: the path back to our apartment at the end of another epic day. Blackcomb, 16 February)

(Just in case you were starved of bluebird mountain shots... the Judkins family on final approach. Excelerator chairlift, Blackcomb, 17 February)

(Sobering sight: the medical helicopter being loaded. 7th Heaven, Blackcomb, 17 February)

Fresh tracks and wider horizons

Saturday, 6.48am. Dawn has yet to break over Skier's Plaza in Whistler, but the place is buzzing. Over six hundred people wait expectantly in line for the gondola to hum into life.

My body is complaining at not only being upright at this time of day, but dressed and leaning drunkenly on my skis. Melting sleet is sliding off the lenses of my goggles onto my nose. Marianne and Joe occasionally talk to me. I try not to open my mouth.
"Rise and shine!" says a nearby snowboarder to his mate.

You rise, I think sourly. You shine.

This, then, is Fresh Tracks. A stroke of genius or the work of the devil, depending on whether or not you're a morning person: for $18 you can join 649 other committed skiers and boarders for an early morning ride up the mountain, as much bacon and waffles as you can eat, and first crack at empty trails before everyone else is out of bed.

It's popular this morning: some people are going to be disappointed. Fresh snow on a Saturday morning guarantees that half of Vancouver heads for the hills. Despite my grump at the crowds invading 'my' mountain, the early hour, the lack of caffeine, I can't help but feel a thrill. In the queue, there's talk of 20cm of fresh snow and 40mph winds at the top.

They were wrong. There's nearer 30cm of fresh snow, and the wind is gusting at 50mph plus - enough to blow you off your feet. After filling ourselves with tea, coffee, and a hot breakfast drenched in maple syrup, we head out with a touch of trepidation. It's Joe's last morning - his shuttle leaves for the airport at 3pm - so we're determined to make the most of it.

And so we did. I've learned that on days like this, half of everything I learned in ski school is null and void. You lean back instead of forward, to keep your ski tips above the silky snow, stay loose and relaxed to absorb the bumps, and keep a constant eye out for any opportunity to make your own tracks. All this with the wind howling around your head and driven snow rattling off your helmet.

After four hours of ripping it up, we waved Joe off at lunchtime before heading back up for yet more punishment. Big crowds and blizzard conditions made for a challenging day, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

On Sunday, we got down with the kids. Marianne's aunt Nina, uncle Martin and cousins Eleanor and Alex finally arrived, and we enjoyed a gentler day with them as they found their ski legs and got over their jetlag. Mike and Lucy joined us too; the weather had, temporarily, relented.

Which brings us to today, Monday. I opened the blinds at 7.30am to find every tree branch groaning under a huge clump of snow, with more still falling - in three weeks, we'd never seen so much at such low altitude. It boded well, and ill - as on Saturday, the high lifts and avalanche-prone areas were likely to stay shut, with winds at the peaks gusting to 60mph.

Nevertheless, 9am found Marianne and I on the chairlift with gloves strapped tight and face masks on in anticipation of another inclement day. And, as first Blackcomb and then Whistler hurled everything they had at us over the next six hours, we lapped it up. The crowds had thinned since Saturday, while the snow had deepened still further; the two of us were able to cover more mileage than the bigger groups of recent days. It was technically demanding, exhausting and intermittently scary; it was also one of the very best days of the Odyssey. I can barely stand.

Putting the skiing aside for a moment, let's go back to Friday, 11 February. An historic day: the first time I have ever taken a day off from skiing. Marianne and I decided to widen our horizons, get a better feel for the history of our temporary home, so paid a visit to Whistler's Aboriginal Museum. We learned a little about the native peoples of the area, the Squamish and Lilwat Nations, about their beautiful art and spectacular wood-carving and jewellery skills. We learned how their languages were passed by word of mouth only until as recently as the 1970s, when written versions were developed. And we learned how they're defined by their relationship with the land and its other inhabitants: bear, wolf, eagle, raven, salmon.

Our precious days are beginning to dwindle, but the apartment's owner has graciously granted us a stay of execution: on Saturday, the day we leave, he's agreed to let us have the place until 2pm, which means we can ski in the morning.

That will be Day 27. For now, Day 23 awaits. And before that, a little Valentines Day downtime...

(POWDER HOUND! Joe fills his boots - literally - on his final morning. Off piste below Pika's Traverse, Whistler Mountain. 12 February)

(Yes, there really is that much snow. Steve in the line for the Big Red chair, Whistler Mountain, 12 February)

(Andrew makes fresh tracks and falls back on forgotten waterskiing techniques. Upper Olympic, Whistler Mountain, 12 February)

(Meet the Judkins'. From left: Alex, Nina, Eleanor and Martin on their first day. Whistler Mountain, 13 February)

(Marianne shows off her ice perm. Whistler Mountain, 13 February)

(Winter wonderland outside our apartment building. Blackcomb, Valentines' Day)

(All you need to know about Valentines Day on Whistler Mountain)

The calm before the snowstorm

Day nineteen. A little over two thirds into the Odyssey, but as yet there's little sense of the clock ticking down. We still have eight full days ahead of us, and this weekend will bring yet more new skiing companions to Whistler, though they won't be staying with us: Marianne's aunt Nina, uncle Martin and their two daughters will arrive on Saturday. Alex and Eleanor are eleven and thirteen, respectively. I anticipate being outskied by both of them.

Whistler has been bathed in sunshine for the past three days, and we've made the most of it, revisiting our favourite haunts on both mountains. One highlight was the Blackcomb Glacier, where I had unfinished business: it was on the short hike to it that I finally succumbed to a stomach bug in the first week. We did subsequently ski it two days later, but the weather was poor and I was still not well; I hadn't fully appreciated it before.

The pictures below don't convey its scale but they do, I hope, hint at its beauty. I felt privileged to be there. On skis it's unforgettable: challenging, a little scary, life-affirming.

Marianne's parents Mike and Lucy have been gently rediscovering their ski legs after an eight year hiatus; after skiing the learner area on Whistler on Tuesday, they joined us today for a run through the wonderful Seventh Heaven area of Blackcomb. This is the highest lift-served terrain on either mountain (2,284 metres above sea level, for the geeks like me) and on a clear day you can spot the first-timers a mile away. They're the ones with wide eyes and dropped jaws, forgotten ski poles trailing on the ground.

If there's a downside to having a full house, it's having to share my lovely wife. I'd got to the point where I didn't recognise her any more without her ski jacket and goggles; we realised on Tuesday that we hadn't actually had a conversation in two weeks. So we ditched the others and went on a date. We ate pizza, got slightly drunk, debated the relative merits of huskies and golden retrievers, speculated about which part of eastern Europe our waitress was from. Brilliant. There's more to life than skiing.

Despite the sunny skies, the resort has been quiet these past few days, but today (Thursday) marks the end of the calm before the storm, on two fronts. Tomorrow will bring the first of the weekenders, and next week we'll see an influx of Americans in advance of the President's Day long weekend. Half term in the UK will also bring more Brits.

There's a change in the weather due, too. Heavy snow is forecast from midday tomorrow through much of the weekend; we could have as much as a metre by Monday night. Looks like our easy cruising days are a thing of the past.

But fresh powder is to be celebrated. This time, I'm ready for it...

(Lucy on her first real run of the holiday: Lower Whiskey Jack, Whistler, 8 February)

(It's REALLY, REALLY COLD! Whistler Mountain, 8 February)

(The eyes of a man with too many days of too much adrenalin behind him. MORE! Must have more! Oh and I love my skis - which are now thoroughly battle-scarred. In front of our fireplace, 8 February)

(Feel our pain. Joe - nearest - Steve and I hike up to the entrance to Blackcomb Glacier. 9 February)

(A view from the entrance to Blackcomb Glacier. 9 February)

(From the centre of the Glacier. 9 February)

(See that dot? That's me, that is. Blackcomb Glacier, 9 February)

(The Day 19 crowd ready for action. From left: Andrew, Joe, Steve, Marianne, Lucy and Mike. Blackcomb, 10 February)

(Mike at the top of the 7th Heaven chairlift. Blackcomb, 10 February)

(And now something completely different: Whistler by night. Virtually every tree is lit up like, er, a Christmas tree. Taken by Marianne when we took a night off from Da Family and went on a date. 9 February)

Harmonic Symphony

I think it was Marianne who first uttered the immortal words which have become the Odyssey mantra:
"Skiing is pain. Pain is good."

Saturday 5 February marked Marianne's and my fourteenth consecutive skiing day - the halfway point, and the longest either of us has ever spent in the mountains. We've got fitter since we've been here but have yet to take a full day off. The aches are getting achier.

Simon and Cheryl had elected to squeeze in a final couple of hours' skiing before leaving for the airport at midday; 8.30am saw us all slumped blearily on the Wizard Express chairlift, suffering the effects of our celebratory gin and tonics the night before. Blackcomb was playing hard to get - alternately windy, foggy, and icy - but as a bad day on Blackcomb is still better than most, nobody complained.

At mid-morning we waved Simon and Cheryl off into the fog. I watched them ski out of sight, hoping that they'll want to return to Whistler, and hoping we didn't terrify Cheryl too much. The goodbyes had their usual effect, and we were a slightly glum threesome as we boarded the Solar Coaster.

It was unusually quiet for a Saturday (because of the Superbowl, we later discovered) so we stayed on Blackcomb and put in some serious mileage until the lifts closed. A fine day was marred only by a particularly halfwitted skier who passed within six inches of Marianne (who was waiting for me) at 40mph, before sailing off the edge of the piste and somersaulting thirty metres down the mountain. As I arrived on the scene, I overheard the following:
Australian onlooker: "You all right, mate?"
Halfwit skier: "Yeah, I think so." (surveying the skis, goggles and piste marker poles scattered across the mountain)
Australian onlooker: "Serves you right skiing like a ******* idiot."

We finished the day off in style with a fabulous fish curry, courtesy of Joe. He can come again.

After Saturday's exertions, we emerged slowly on Sunday. Winter wonderland had returned - new snow on the ground, more falling heavily - but as usual, it came with a price. We braved the high winds and zero visibility on Harmony for three hours; the fabulous snow on the tricky faces below Harmony Ridge made it worthwhile. As I was picking my way down Kaleidoscope, a voice from the past shouted up from below:
"Don't think, Andrew. Just go!"
It was Tudor, my ski instructor from the week before last, on his day off. T'was good to see him - though he did tell me off, again, for moving my upper body too much.

On Sunday evening we welcomed Mike and Lucy, Marianne's parents. They'd arrived in Vancouver three days before and had spent a relaxing interlude in town before venturing up the mountain. There were raised eyebrows all round at the sight of Mike's 'new' skis: of 1980s vintage and scraping the ceiling of the apartment.

Which brings us to Monday, 10.15am. Time has stopped. Marianne is a distant speck, a long way below. She's calling, but my ears are deafened by the sound of my own rushing blood. I'm frozen, staring down the fall line, skis buried a foot deep in powder. There's only one way down, but I'm too terrified to move.

Shut eyes. Breathe deep. Switch brain off. Go.

Eventually, I made it down, with maximum effort and minimum style. And once I'd stopped shaking, I got back on the chairlift with the others, went up, and did it again. And again. By my third off-piste run through fresh powder, the rhythm was starting to come. I was still slow, but the terror was gone, the exhiliaration returning. We spent the rest of the day on Whistler Mountain's legendary Symphony amphitheatre - a spectacular landscape of open bowls and beautiful wooded glades.

More than once, I've heard Whistler named as the best ski resort in the world. On a day like today, you'd get no argument from me.

(Andrew, Joe and Steve strike a pose. Harmony Ridge, Whistler, 7 February)

(Clouds threaten our bluebird day. Overlooking Symphony Amphitheatre, 7 February)

(Now you see her...)

(...now you don't. Symphony Amphitheatre, 7 February)

Lucky thirteen

Yesterday, Thursday, was Day 12. It was also Kiki's last day in Whistler. And, sadly, it was a washout. We awoke to the sound of rain hammering off the roof of the apartment building; at the top of the Whistler gondola we were met by a maelstrom of wet snow and near gale force winds. Reluctantly (but wisely) Kiki elected not to ski and took the gondola back to the village. Steve, Marianne, Cheryl, Simon and I battled through sleet, ice and slush for three hours before calling it a day and heading home to wring out our underwear.

Rather more pleasant was an evening spent in the company of friends old and new. I've dishcovered a fantashtic new djrink. Ish called hot apple cider and comes spiked with rum and a cinnamon stick. After a couple of these at the Amsterdam pub in Whistler Village, we moved on to the Irish pub for dinner before adjourning home to polish off some of our considerable stash of wine. The good stuff doesn't give you a hangover. Honest.

And then, sadly, it was time to bid farewell to Kiki, who was moving on to new adventures in her year-long, round-the-world trip. Her odyssey makes ours look like a trip to the bustop. We parted with plans to stay in touch, and I have high hopes that we'll meet again someday.

As one departed, so another arrived: Marianne's older brother Joe arrived late on Thursday evening, for nine precious days in snowboarding Mecca. He's a Whistler veteran: five visits including one entire season. But as I drifted off to sleep with yet more rain pattering on the window, I couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding about Day Thirteen.

Which was largely unfounded. High winds meant that most of the top lifts stayed shut, but a welcome layer of fresh powder made the mid-altitude sector of Blackcomb a real treat. And a challenge: within minutes I found myself facedown in a pillow of snow as the others pointed and laughed. We made the Glacier Express runs our own: over and over we braved the tearing winds on the chairlift to carve a different route down the mountain each time. On piste, off piste, fresh tracks in virgin powder or chopping through two-foot tall bumps.

Later, we moved across to the wonderful Seventh Heaven area - where I saw the birds that land on your ski pole! I'm reliably informed that they're called Whiskeyjacks; I thought they frequented Harmony, on Whistler, but perhaps they're to be found anywhere below the treeline. Anyway, they will land on ski poles - but they'd rather land on hands bearing peanuts, as the group of snowboarders in front of us demonstrated.

After two glorious runs in deep powder - demanding of muscles and punishing of mistakes, but utterly thrilling - the lifts were beginning to close, and it was time to put the kettle on. Another day crossed off; tomorrow we'll bid farewell to Simon and Cheryl who have been great company this past week and have, I hope, enjoyed their first winter visit to Whistler.

That's all the blathering from me but hold on, as usual, for a few pictures:

(Marianne, Kiki and Andrew bid for Olympic glory. Dave Murray downhill, Whistler Mountain, 2 February)

(Those are smiles, not grimaces. From left: Cheryl, Simon and Andrew. Glacier Express chairlift in high wind, Blackcomb, 4 February)

(Steve practises his snowboarder pose. Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 4 February)

(Joe celebrates not being at work. Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 4 February)

(Simon and Cheryl on Seventh Heaven, 4 February. Looks like they're posing in front of a painted-on backdrop, doesn't it?)

(Marianne does ski chic as only Marianne can. Seventh Heaven, 4 February)

(The Day 13 group celebrate still being upright after six hours skiing in powder. Seventh Heaven, 4 February)