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..."
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