It's not as bad as it could be.
Nobody is injured. Ligaments and bones are intact. But following murmurings mid-week of a couple of unwell guests in our chalet, Cheryl succumbed last night and had to leave the table in the middle of dinner. And by lunchtime today, I was forced to admit defeat and slink home to bed. As I type, I'm missing our final supper. With empty slopes on changeover day (for most people) and bluebird conditions, day six should have capped a fine first half of Odyssey 2013. I'm bitterly disappointed to have missed out, but very lucky: all being well, we'll be back in these mountains before the month is out.
Days four and five almost make up for the loss. The sun made a watery appearance on Thursday and bathed the slopes on Friday, reminding us just how spectacular the Espace Killy can be. With good visibility and light winds, Marianne and I pushed harder: faster on piste, braver off piste, seeking out new routes and fresh powder wherever we went. Run of the week is uncontested: Silenes, a breathtakingly steep, ungroomed black above Tignes Les Brevieres. Blessed with wonderful soft snow and acres of challenging, sinuous off piste on either side, it rivals the toughest terrain we've skied in Whistler.
I started the week determined to unlock the magic in these mountains. And I've partially succeeded. The snow record is among the best in the world, and we've seen nothing to dispute that. With better skills I've been able to appreciate slopes I found terrifying in 2009.
Doubtless a bout of nausea has clouded my appreciation, but overall I still find the Espace Killy frustrating. The Solaise, Laisinant and Le Fornet sections of Val d'Isere have some great terrain, but they're marred by a disjointed lift system and far too many flat or uphill linking pistes. The mountain restaurants are better than I remember, but even on a quiet week they're often overcrowded. And the on-mountain toilet facilities are completely inadequate and unremittingly disgusting.
Our tour operator YSE have continued as they started: friendly, hardworking staff, comfortable chalet, good food and free-flowing wine. It's made for a convivial atmosphere at mealtimes, and dinner in particular has been a real event.
Would I return? Jury's out. Perhaps I'll feel more positive about it when I'm back in my own bed with guts unchurned.
Onwards and upwards...
Saturday, 9 February 2013
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Day three. Use the force...
And still it snows.
.
Snow is the name of the game, of course, and we love it. But skiers (and snowboarders) are an ungrateful lot. Too cold, too warm, too wet, too windy, too snowy... we always find something to complain about.
It has snowed solidly since mid-morning on Tuesday, with around 25cm falling in that time. Conditions at the moment are some of the best we've ever experienced in Europe. The problem is that with snow comes cloud and often wind; up high, the weather over the last couple of days has varied from inclement to ferocious. Great snow is all well and good, but the fun is limited when you can't see it. Or each other. Or which way is up. There are a couple of names for this sort of skiing. "Using the force". Or "survival skiing". Or "I'm going home..."
Still, Marianne and I are used to this - our beloved Whistler often serves up a cocktail of fresh powder and blizzard. The others are finding it hard going though, and after a couple of warm-up runs we've gone our separate ways for the last two days.
With the weather like this, trees are your friends. They provide shelter from the worst and help with visibility. Val has more trees than I remember, and we've had a whale of a time off piste above La Daille, dodging low branches and trying not to hit anything solid. This area is crisscrossed with lovely sweeping red and blue runs; when we've scared ourselves in the forest, we pop back into the piste and rack up some mileage.
Today saw our first forays onto black runs this year. First up was the glorious Rhone Alpes on Solaise, then the short, steep Combe Vallon - which, incongruously, leads onto the nursery slope at village level. And finally, we conquered - well, survived - a Val d'Isere landmark: the Olympic downhill run, Face de Bellevarde. It's our biggest challenge yet: steep and bumpy, demanding of muscles and technique. But the sense of achievement makes it all worthwhile.
After three entertaining evenings in the chalet, our hardworking staff have a deserved night off, so we're out on the town tonight. God help our wallets...
.
Snow is the name of the game, of course, and we love it. But skiers (and snowboarders) are an ungrateful lot. Too cold, too warm, too wet, too windy, too snowy... we always find something to complain about.
It has snowed solidly since mid-morning on Tuesday, with around 25cm falling in that time. Conditions at the moment are some of the best we've ever experienced in Europe. The problem is that with snow comes cloud and often wind; up high, the weather over the last couple of days has varied from inclement to ferocious. Great snow is all well and good, but the fun is limited when you can't see it. Or each other. Or which way is up. There are a couple of names for this sort of skiing. "Using the force". Or "survival skiing". Or "I'm going home..."
Still, Marianne and I are used to this - our beloved Whistler often serves up a cocktail of fresh powder and blizzard. The others are finding it hard going though, and after a couple of warm-up runs we've gone our separate ways for the last two days.
With the weather like this, trees are your friends. They provide shelter from the worst and help with visibility. Val has more trees than I remember, and we've had a whale of a time off piste above La Daille, dodging low branches and trying not to hit anything solid. This area is crisscrossed with lovely sweeping red and blue runs; when we've scared ourselves in the forest, we pop back into the piste and rack up some mileage.
Today saw our first forays onto black runs this year. First up was the glorious Rhone Alpes on Solaise, then the short, steep Combe Vallon - which, incongruously, leads onto the nursery slope at village level. And finally, we conquered - well, survived - a Val d'Isere landmark: the Olympic downhill run, Face de Bellevarde. It's our biggest challenge yet: steep and bumpy, demanding of muscles and technique. But the sense of achievement makes it all worthwhile.
After three entertaining evenings in the chalet, our hardworking staff have a deserved night off, so we're out on the town tonight. God help our wallets...
Monday, 4 February 2013
Day one. In search of the sun
"No, I'm not all right! What the hell is he doing up there, practising for the Marathon?"
It's 6.45am in a Gatwick Airport Premier Inn, and Marianne is Not Amused. Bigfoot in the room above has been stomping back and forth for half an hour; hell hath no fury like my wife roused prematurely from an already fitful sleep. It's not the most auspicious of starts.
Five hours later, life is considerably more rosy. Thomson Airways has delivered us to a blissfully empty Grenoble Airport. Our package operator YSE has, as promised, loaded us swiftly onto a convoy of coaches. Next stop Val d'Isere.
As we climb the precipitous mountain road, the trees turn powder white, the peaks reaching impossibly high above; late afternoon sunshine completes the picture postcard. We've seen winter wonderland before, but this view quickens the pulse like few I can remember.
By late afternoon, we're trundling up the familiar High Street with its wood-clad buildings, glitzy boutiques and hotels jostling for attention. Our chalet is a former hotel right in the centre, set back from the main drag. It's simple and comfortable and the young staff greet us like old friends. There's tea and cake waiting. Chalets aren't usually our thing - we've self-catered for the last five seasons after a bad experience - but by the end of an excellent (and boozy) dinner I'm won over.
Monday morning, 9am. Time at last to set skis to snow, and the mountains are toying with us. There's fresh snow on the ground and more falling, but as we gain altitude on Odyssey 2013's first chairlift, the visibility fades to white. We've chosen the Solaise area to start: an open playground of sweeping, undulating runs, it's perfect for finding your ski legs. The snow is glorious - as light and fluffy as Whistler's finest - and after the first tentative turns it all begins to flood back despite the visibility.
Cheryl, Simon, Marianne and I are joined by Cheryl's brother Carwyn, who hasn't skied in seven years. The rust takes its time to flake away, but he's hanging on gamely and copes well when we venture onto steeper, bumpier terrain by mid morning. It's still fairly tame compared with some of our antics in Whistler last year, but the week is young.
The sun intermittently makes an appearance, but the cloud is fickle; we quickly stop trying to second-guess it. But a late afternoon decision to head for the Glacier de Pissaillas lands us the jackpot: it's bathed in sunshine. The wind is howling, blowing snow in sugar-fine waves across the ground; with wind chill the temperature is twenty below freezing. The last drag lift tops out at over 3,400 metres above sea level, and the semicircle of jagged peaks encircling us defies description.
We sweep down the fast blue runs, occasionally foraying off into the powder fields on either side, revelling in the snow and being able to see it. Wonderful stuff, and a great way to sign off a fine opening day. On our previous visit we didn't often venture up into this part of the Espace Killy, and now I remember why: geography makes it disjointed and difficult to get around. It's far too easy to end up a bus ride from home, too.
But there's some fun terrain up there, and when the sun shines, the setting is magical. Day two beckons...
It's 6.45am in a Gatwick Airport Premier Inn, and Marianne is Not Amused. Bigfoot in the room above has been stomping back and forth for half an hour; hell hath no fury like my wife roused prematurely from an already fitful sleep. It's not the most auspicious of starts.
Five hours later, life is considerably more rosy. Thomson Airways has delivered us to a blissfully empty Grenoble Airport. Our package operator YSE has, as promised, loaded us swiftly onto a convoy of coaches. Next stop Val d'Isere.
As we climb the precipitous mountain road, the trees turn powder white, the peaks reaching impossibly high above; late afternoon sunshine completes the picture postcard. We've seen winter wonderland before, but this view quickens the pulse like few I can remember.
By late afternoon, we're trundling up the familiar High Street with its wood-clad buildings, glitzy boutiques and hotels jostling for attention. Our chalet is a former hotel right in the centre, set back from the main drag. It's simple and comfortable and the young staff greet us like old friends. There's tea and cake waiting. Chalets aren't usually our thing - we've self-catered for the last five seasons after a bad experience - but by the end of an excellent (and boozy) dinner I'm won over.
Monday morning, 9am. Time at last to set skis to snow, and the mountains are toying with us. There's fresh snow on the ground and more falling, but as we gain altitude on Odyssey 2013's first chairlift, the visibility fades to white. We've chosen the Solaise area to start: an open playground of sweeping, undulating runs, it's perfect for finding your ski legs. The snow is glorious - as light and fluffy as Whistler's finest - and after the first tentative turns it all begins to flood back despite the visibility.
Cheryl, Simon, Marianne and I are joined by Cheryl's brother Carwyn, who hasn't skied in seven years. The rust takes its time to flake away, but he's hanging on gamely and copes well when we venture onto steeper, bumpier terrain by mid morning. It's still fairly tame compared with some of our antics in Whistler last year, but the week is young.
The sun intermittently makes an appearance, but the cloud is fickle; we quickly stop trying to second-guess it. But a late afternoon decision to head for the Glacier de Pissaillas lands us the jackpot: it's bathed in sunshine. The wind is howling, blowing snow in sugar-fine waves across the ground; with wind chill the temperature is twenty below freezing. The last drag lift tops out at over 3,400 metres above sea level, and the semicircle of jagged peaks encircling us defies description.
We sweep down the fast blue runs, occasionally foraying off into the powder fields on either side, revelling in the snow and being able to see it. Wonderful stuff, and a great way to sign off a fine opening day. On our previous visit we didn't often venture up into this part of the Espace Killy, and now I remember why: geography makes it disjointed and difficult to get around. It's far too easy to end up a bus ride from home, too.
But there's some fun terrain up there, and when the sun shines, the setting is magical. Day two beckons...
Friday, 1 February 2013
Odyssey 2013. Storm before the calm
It's been quite a week for family Duff. At the Hampshire end, challenging times at work exacerbated by car trouble, utility trouble and the runup to a holiday. At the Buckinghamshire end, a brave new world: my brother Jonathan and sister-in-law Beth welcomed their firstborn. We travel up on Saturday to meet baby Gabriel, and - I don't say this lightly - I'm just as excited about that as I am about skiing.
And all being well, after the whirlwind that was January, Sunday 3 February will bring the calm. Us and the mountains and the tingle of adrenalin.
Val d'Isére.
Say the name in company, and reactions vary. Overpriced playground for Russian billionaires and the Made in Chelsea set? Chocolate-box village in winter wonderland setting? Or world-class snowsport Mecca?
The reality is a bit of all three. But my reaction is always the same. I go a little cold, unable to repel a shiver of apprehension.
I have unfinished business in this part of the French Alps. Having arrived full of anticipation at the start of our two week visit in 2009, I left battered and exhausted. The resort is pretty and surprisingly friendly, but in my head the mountains are forbidding and unforgiving - quick to punish, slow to reward.
But I'm certain that thousands of enthusiasts can't all be wrong. Val d'Isére is renowned as one of the great ski resorts - blessed with high altitude, breathtaking scenery and some of the finest lift-served off piste skiing in the world. Four years ago I didn't get the best out of myself or the resort; in 2013, I'm far better equipped to unlock the magic in these mountains.
We're very lucky to be getting two bites of the skiing apple in 2013. Bite one in Val sees us reunited with Simon and Cheryl, who joined us for a week in Whistler in 2011; bite two, in the last week of February, takes us to Sainte Foy with long-time ski buddies Ben and Andy.
As I type, I can hear the click-snap of Marianne's ski boot buckles as she readies them for travel. We're at that jumpy stage - the pressures of work falling away, excitement building - but as ever with a ski trip, praying that nothing goes wrong.
But before that, there's the matter of making first acquaintance with my nephew. I've already pencilled him in for ski school circa 2017...
And all being well, after the whirlwind that was January, Sunday 3 February will bring the calm. Us and the mountains and the tingle of adrenalin.
Val d'Isére.
Say the name in company, and reactions vary. Overpriced playground for Russian billionaires and the Made in Chelsea set? Chocolate-box village in winter wonderland setting? Or world-class snowsport Mecca?
The reality is a bit of all three. But my reaction is always the same. I go a little cold, unable to repel a shiver of apprehension.
I have unfinished business in this part of the French Alps. Having arrived full of anticipation at the start of our two week visit in 2009, I left battered and exhausted. The resort is pretty and surprisingly friendly, but in my head the mountains are forbidding and unforgiving - quick to punish, slow to reward.
But I'm certain that thousands of enthusiasts can't all be wrong. Val d'Isére is renowned as one of the great ski resorts - blessed with high altitude, breathtaking scenery and some of the finest lift-served off piste skiing in the world. Four years ago I didn't get the best out of myself or the resort; in 2013, I'm far better equipped to unlock the magic in these mountains.
We're very lucky to be getting two bites of the skiing apple in 2013. Bite one in Val sees us reunited with Simon and Cheryl, who joined us for a week in Whistler in 2011; bite two, in the last week of February, takes us to Sainte Foy with long-time ski buddies Ben and Andy.
As I type, I can hear the click-snap of Marianne's ski boot buckles as she readies them for travel. We're at that jumpy stage - the pressures of work falling away, excitement building - but as ever with a ski trip, praying that nothing goes wrong.
But before that, there's the matter of making first acquaintance with my nephew. I've already pencilled him in for ski school circa 2017...
Tuesday, 24 July 2012
The sheep are always watching
Bogeys at six o'clock... outgoing...
My brain feels as if it's being sucked out through my nose. I'm reeling back against the mountainside, the wind like a huge hand trying to pluck me from my perch and smash me into the rocks below. Through teared-up eyes, I can just about see a six-inch tendril of snot growing longer and longer... until it slaps back across my cheek and the hood of my raincoat. I giggle a little hysterically and check that Marianne, a few yards below me on the path, is still on her feet.
We're not in Whistler any more.
There are no skis on our feet, no snow beneath us; we're hundreds, rather than thousands, of miles from home. It's midsummer in the Lake District. Despite the rose-tinted name, this is some of Britain's harshest terrain. The altitudes are a little lower than we're used to, but the mountains and weather are the real deal. Lose respect at your peril.
In London, one is allegedly never more than six feet from a rat. After four days in the Lake District, it's clear to me that the same is true of sheep up here. In every shade of grey, in every location from verdant lakeside field to rock-strewn scree slope; spot one ten yards away and you can guarantee that there'll be three others within five. These are the 'stealth sheep' that are only visible when they care to be.
Yes, I know. Too much mountain air, perhaps. Or it could be the copious daily intake of red wine.
But today, at the northern end of Kentmere Valley, I'm beginning to think we've found a place where even sheep fear to tread. As we eat our lunch on a rough bench at Nan Bield Pass, low stone walls protecting us from the worst of the wind, we feel like the only people on Earth.
The view over Small Water to the southern end of Haweswater, seven hundred metres below, defies description; we're humbled, inspired, a little scared. As we tighten our straps and prepare for the tricky descent to Kentmere Reservoir, I spot a flicker of white among the rocks above us.
Of course they're up here. This is their patch. We're the trespassers. I only spot one, and only for a moment. But as we start downhill into the tearing wind, I know the others are watching.
My brain feels as if it's being sucked out through my nose. I'm reeling back against the mountainside, the wind like a huge hand trying to pluck me from my perch and smash me into the rocks below. Through teared-up eyes, I can just about see a six-inch tendril of snot growing longer and longer... until it slaps back across my cheek and the hood of my raincoat. I giggle a little hysterically and check that Marianne, a few yards below me on the path, is still on her feet.
We're not in Whistler any more.
There are no skis on our feet, no snow beneath us; we're hundreds, rather than thousands, of miles from home. It's midsummer in the Lake District. Despite the rose-tinted name, this is some of Britain's harshest terrain. The altitudes are a little lower than we're used to, but the mountains and weather are the real deal. Lose respect at your peril.
In London, one is allegedly never more than six feet from a rat. After four days in the Lake District, it's clear to me that the same is true of sheep up here. In every shade of grey, in every location from verdant lakeside field to rock-strewn scree slope; spot one ten yards away and you can guarantee that there'll be three others within five. These are the 'stealth sheep' that are only visible when they care to be.
Yes, I know. Too much mountain air, perhaps. Or it could be the copious daily intake of red wine.
But today, at the northern end of Kentmere Valley, I'm beginning to think we've found a place where even sheep fear to tread. As we eat our lunch on a rough bench at Nan Bield Pass, low stone walls protecting us from the worst of the wind, we feel like the only people on Earth.
The view over Small Water to the southern end of Haweswater, seven hundred metres below, defies description; we're humbled, inspired, a little scared. As we tighten our straps and prepare for the tricky descent to Kentmere Reservoir, I spot a flicker of white among the rocks above us.
Of course they're up here. This is their patch. We're the trespassers. I only spot one, and only for a moment. But as we start downhill into the tearing wind, I know the others are watching.
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
We’re not worthy
Last time I checked, my skis were still attached to my feet. But I can’t see them. They’re six inches beneath the surface of the snow, a smooth unbroken blanket which I’m floating through at the thick end of thirty miles an hour. It’s an unnerving experience to begin with, but once you’ve cut fresh tracks in fresh powder, there is no going back. Skiers and boarders go to the most amazing lengths for their powder fix – we’ve seen them hiking up rocky slopes or along precarious ridges, a mile or more from any lift.
Marianne, Steve and I aren’t that committed. We’ve settled for a chairlift, a draglift and a short – but draining – hike. We’re not true powder hounds. But today, the luck is with us.
It’s 10.30 in the morning on Sunday, day ten of the Odyssey and this, for me, could well be its crowning moment. Blackcomb Glacier has been shut for virtually our entire visit but the weather has finally relented; we were in the right place at the right time when the chairlift opened and are amongst the first to the top. Below us lies a vast, open bowl, cradled between the mountains; pictures and words do it no justice but suffice it to say we feel privileged to be here.
It’s not a place for the fainthearted or inexperienced; my limited skills are only just up to the task. There are almost no tracks but it won’t be long before others cotton on; it’s time to swallow the fear, point our skis downhill and go.
So we did.
Having skied through some truly atrocious weather – imagine the wind chill when it’s minus eight, snowing and gusting to 60mph – we were delighted when the mountain gods finally gave in and graced us two relatively clear days to finish off. I mentioned Harmony Ridge in an earlier post, but for days 10 and 11, it was all about the Glacier and Seventh Heaven – the latter a glorious mix of wide-open alpine playground and gladed trails below the treeline.
We know it well from many previous visits but as with everywhere in Whistler, you could spend a lifetime skiing it and still be surprised. Although we did revisit the tree that Marianne collided with last year. I even took a picture.
Along with my newfound abilities in powder, I’ve made great progress with my tree skiing this year. I’m still slow, but I can pick my way through some pretty steep terrain with a minimum of tree-hugging. More importantly, I’m growing to love it. Having conquered In the Spirit on Saturday, I wrapped up some unfinished business over the final two days – Arthur’s Choice, which defeated me last year, and the Catskinner lift line, which I chickened out of on day four this year.
And that, sadly, is all she wrote. The timing and duration of Odyssey 2012 were dictated by other commitments – usually we ski earlier in the season – but March is usually Whistler’s snowiest month and on the basis of this trip I’d certainly choose it again.
As I write, Whistler is over a thousand miles behind us and receding fast. We’re skirting the northern end of Hudson Bay, blown along by a hurricane-force tailwind. These words are travelling at over seven hundred miles an hour.
As ever, we’re sad to be leaving – but it’s been a bruising week and a half. The fabulous snow has led to minor injuries for all of us; I’m nursing a sprained ankle which I picked up on day two, and we’re all groaning like octagenarians every time we struggle out of chairs. It’s probably the right time to be leaving the mountains behind.
We take with us hundreds of pictures, hours of video, and priceless memories to last a lifetime.
Is this really a good idea? Steve surveys the entrance to Blackcomb Glacier. 18 March 2012.
Just when we thought the weather gods were smiling... Catskinner Chair, Blackcomb, 18 March 2012.
It's called Seventh Heaven for a reason. Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.
Look, no skis... I try to stay on my feet in knee-deep powder. Xhiggy's Meadow, Seventh Heaven. Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.
They're not painted on, honest. Marianne and Steve pause for breath on Sluiceway. Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.
We're supposed to be on a plane in eight hours, but what the hell. One more run... Seventh Heaven, Blackcomb, 19 March 2012.
Marianne, Steve and I aren’t that committed. We’ve settled for a chairlift, a draglift and a short – but draining – hike. We’re not true powder hounds. But today, the luck is with us.
It’s 10.30 in the morning on Sunday, day ten of the Odyssey and this, for me, could well be its crowning moment. Blackcomb Glacier has been shut for virtually our entire visit but the weather has finally relented; we were in the right place at the right time when the chairlift opened and are amongst the first to the top. Below us lies a vast, open bowl, cradled between the mountains; pictures and words do it no justice but suffice it to say we feel privileged to be here.
It’s not a place for the fainthearted or inexperienced; my limited skills are only just up to the task. There are almost no tracks but it won’t be long before others cotton on; it’s time to swallow the fear, point our skis downhill and go.
So we did.
Having skied through some truly atrocious weather – imagine the wind chill when it’s minus eight, snowing and gusting to 60mph – we were delighted when the mountain gods finally gave in and graced us two relatively clear days to finish off. I mentioned Harmony Ridge in an earlier post, but for days 10 and 11, it was all about the Glacier and Seventh Heaven – the latter a glorious mix of wide-open alpine playground and gladed trails below the treeline.
We know it well from many previous visits but as with everywhere in Whistler, you could spend a lifetime skiing it and still be surprised. Although we did revisit the tree that Marianne collided with last year. I even took a picture.
Along with my newfound abilities in powder, I’ve made great progress with my tree skiing this year. I’m still slow, but I can pick my way through some pretty steep terrain with a minimum of tree-hugging. More importantly, I’m growing to love it. Having conquered In the Spirit on Saturday, I wrapped up some unfinished business over the final two days – Arthur’s Choice, which defeated me last year, and the Catskinner lift line, which I chickened out of on day four this year.
And that, sadly, is all she wrote. The timing and duration of Odyssey 2012 were dictated by other commitments – usually we ski earlier in the season – but March is usually Whistler’s snowiest month and on the basis of this trip I’d certainly choose it again.
As I write, Whistler is over a thousand miles behind us and receding fast. We’re skirting the northern end of Hudson Bay, blown along by a hurricane-force tailwind. These words are travelling at over seven hundred miles an hour.
As ever, we’re sad to be leaving – but it’s been a bruising week and a half. The fabulous snow has led to minor injuries for all of us; I’m nursing a sprained ankle which I picked up on day two, and we’re all groaning like octagenarians every time we struggle out of chairs. It’s probably the right time to be leaving the mountains behind.
We take with us hundreds of pictures, hours of video, and priceless memories to last a lifetime.
Saturday, 17 March 2012
Getting in the spirit
'Be bear aware!' says the sign on the garage door. You'll find similar notices all over Whistler, all with the same message. Bears live in these mountains. They're clever, resourceful and hungry. If you give them access to food of any kind, they'll have it and then some. 'Access' could be a locked freezer inside a locked garage. Like I said, clever, resourceful and hungry.
The garage which houses our apartment complex rubbish bins is bear-proof. And, after around a minute of pushing, pulling, twisting and the odd kick, I'm making no headway. I'm coming to the conclusion that the bears are brighter than I am. There's probably one watching me right now. When I do finally figure out how to open the door, he'll be making notes.
I love the fact that the bears are here. If I encountered one I'd run a mile screaming, of course - but they're beautiful animals and great efforts are made to preserve their habitat, to enable humans and bears to co-exist as happily as possible. While not tame by any means, they're quite used to people and are regularly seen in the summer months. Some of the gladed ski trails (the trails which run through woods) have 'bear habitat' warning signs. As if knee-deep powder, trees, and steep fall-lines weren't enough to be going on with...
So we've been skiing a lot. You know this. The last couple of days has seen the high terrain finally open after nearly a week of harsh weather, and we've made the most of it. Harmony Ridge is still wonderful. And I still get a twinge of fear every time I get on the chairlift.
Talking of which... it occurred to me today that in order to get to these amazing places, we use a transport network which to the uninitiated would seem... precarious, shall we say. Any skier or boarder will think nothing of sitting four (or six, or eight) abreast on a metal bench suspended from a moving cable up to a hundred or more feet in the air, with only a single metal bar for protection. Boarding and disembarking can be a dicey business, too. You never forget your first chairlift ride, but it becomes routine amazingly quickly.
And then there are gondolas - cable cars. Whistler has four: three lines which lead up from the valley, and the new Peak2Peak gondola which links the two mountains. Even for the most jaded seasonnaire, this is a spectacular ride. Nearly three miles of cable supported by just two towers on each mountain, it's the highest cable car of its kind in the world. At the centre point, you're over 1400 feet above the valley floor.
With two days remaining, Odyssey 2012 is drawing to a close. It's been memorable mostly for the right reasons; here's hoping for a fitting last hurrah.
All smiles, but look at the whites of our eyes... Odyssey 2012 finds Harmony. Whistler Mountain, 16 March 2012
The Album Cover shot, on the appropriately named 'Freefall'. Blackcomb, 16 March 2012
Going down... Peak2Peak, Blackcomb to Whistler, 17 March 2012
Man meets bird... Whistler's famous - and well fed - Whiskeyjacks. Symphony, Whistler Mountain, 17 March 2012.
It was THIS narrow... and THAT steep. Marianne, Steve and I celebrate conquering 'In the Spirit', a tricky gladed trail. And I know the bears were watching. Blackcomb, 17 March 2012.
The garage which houses our apartment complex rubbish bins is bear-proof. And, after around a minute of pushing, pulling, twisting and the odd kick, I'm making no headway. I'm coming to the conclusion that the bears are brighter than I am. There's probably one watching me right now. When I do finally figure out how to open the door, he'll be making notes.
I love the fact that the bears are here. If I encountered one I'd run a mile screaming, of course - but they're beautiful animals and great efforts are made to preserve their habitat, to enable humans and bears to co-exist as happily as possible. While not tame by any means, they're quite used to people and are regularly seen in the summer months. Some of the gladed ski trails (the trails which run through woods) have 'bear habitat' warning signs. As if knee-deep powder, trees, and steep fall-lines weren't enough to be going on with...
So we've been skiing a lot. You know this. The last couple of days has seen the high terrain finally open after nearly a week of harsh weather, and we've made the most of it. Harmony Ridge is still wonderful. And I still get a twinge of fear every time I get on the chairlift.
Talking of which... it occurred to me today that in order to get to these amazing places, we use a transport network which to the uninitiated would seem... precarious, shall we say. Any skier or boarder will think nothing of sitting four (or six, or eight) abreast on a metal bench suspended from a moving cable up to a hundred or more feet in the air, with only a single metal bar for protection. Boarding and disembarking can be a dicey business, too. You never forget your first chairlift ride, but it becomes routine amazingly quickly.
And then there are gondolas - cable cars. Whistler has four: three lines which lead up from the valley, and the new Peak2Peak gondola which links the two mountains. Even for the most jaded seasonnaire, this is a spectacular ride. Nearly three miles of cable supported by just two towers on each mountain, it's the highest cable car of its kind in the world. At the centre point, you're over 1400 feet above the valley floor.
With two days remaining, Odyssey 2012 is drawing to a close. It's been memorable mostly for the right reasons; here's hoping for a fitting last hurrah.
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