Bring on the Snow

November in a ski town is an interesting time. Like hormonal teenagers at their first high school dance, a combination of frenzied excitement and palpable stress emanates from every pore of every resident. The weather, if things are going well, is crap - cold, wet, and snowy. If it is not those things, and is, say, pleasantly mild, or delightfully dry and sunny, people are miserable. Like an unfortunate virtual facial tic, obsessive refreshing of Environment Canada's weather website for signs of an incoming storm cycle becomes the telltale sign of unbridled anxiety. Weather is dinner conversation, coffee shop conversation, commuter conversation, date-night conversation.. hell, eight year olds on the school playground will tell you whether the freezing level is expected to drop to the valley or just hover at mid-station. The only other conversation even in the running for top spot is speculation on opening date for the mountains.

As I sit and write today, I am happy to report that the weather is crap and the freezing level is low. While there is no snow on the ground in the valley as yet, flurries pass through, and the mountains have been coated in white, at least the top halves, for a couple of weeks now. A collective sigh of relief is being cautiously, tentatively exhaled throughout the town.

Photo Credit: Geoff Playfair

It's about this time of year that Whistler takes on a decided demographic shift. The average age in the resort drops to something akin to that of a university campus, as scores of l9-25 year-olds pour into town for a season-long binge of skiing/snowboarding and 24/7 partying. Riding the bus becomes an exercise in 'name-that-language' as ultra-amped conversations in at least four different languages prevail, and any English spoken is accented by vowels liberally broadened by the Ozzies, clipped by the Kiwis, or 'BBCed' by the Brits. The general 'League of Nations' similarity makes me smile, as it is a big part of what makes my town what it is.

As the season commences, and the fresh hatch of eager winter fry arrive and settle in, I go about my business under the assumption that I am one of them. This is, after all, my home town of 30 years. Then it hits me like a brick: I must look like a middle-aged accountant, or worse, somebody's mother! Do these whipper-snappers even understand that I (and others of my generation) wrote the book on irresponsible over-consumption of alcohol, liberal use of the 20-centimetre rule on a work day and moving furniture to hide lumps of base-filling compound melted into the carpet after a ski repair session gone horribly wrong? Can they comprehend the number of knee surgeries, trips to physio and custom-fit orthotics it has taken for us, the original ski-bum spawn, to keep up in this town of youthful hardbodies?? My guess is, no.

But age has taught me something. It probably doesn't matter whether or not these youngsters realize we 'old folk' pioneered the art of ski-bumming in Whistler. While some will remain to age in-resort, most of these babes-in-bumming will return to their lives to become accountants and parents, their Whistler season a fond, but fading, memory. They will complete university, incur debt on mini-vans and houses with child-friendly yards, develop a taste for expensive red wine and, if they are very, very lucky, return to Whistler for vacations.

I, on the other hand, will have the last (evil) laugh, remaining in Whistler to hobble about on my failing knees and witness future Novembers and the accompanying annual rebirth of the ski season. Oh ya, and rejoice in crappy weather.... gotta love crappy weather....