"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.
No comments:
Post a Comment