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Powder Heaven

I too was once caught up in the Whistler life, one part Hollywood, one part ski town. I lived in a house with 9 other people. I drank the 5-dollar beers in the local clubs. I too waited patiently in line for the peak chair to open. And I to charged it. Once the bombing is over, it’s an all out race to lay down tracks before they are all gone, the Cirque, Bagel Bowl, Air Jordan, all while leaving friends behind based on “no friends on a powder day” rule. Although Whistler boosts the highest vertical, most consistent snowfall and a local array of talent that is hard to match, it is losing its soul. It’s losing the very thing that pulled us away from college and a stable life. It’s losing that ski-town, laid-back attitude of a mountain village.
I’d almost forgotten why I had moved there, when my savior came in form of this e-mail:

“ Hey Jeff, Powder in July, you in?”

Less than two weeks later I was standing around in my carhartts and hoodie pounding beers to the beat of 80’s rock in the aptly named SnowPub. The snow was dumping so fast outside, and the visibility was non-existent. The mountain would not be opening until after the storm had passed. It was then I realized what whistler was missing: its soul. I was in Termas de Chillan, Chile, and the storm outside had brought an energy to this tiny village that you could never describe. The pub was packed wall to wall, but not with partying locals. It was full of powder junkies. Taking a look around, you could pick out groups of French, Swede’s, Aussi’s and of course Canadians. Missing however, were the parkrats, sponsor chasers and film crews. Everyone here was to here to ski powder.
By the time the storm passed, I felt like I knew everyone in town. I’d acquired the nickname “Canada”, due to the fact I wore mostly I AM Canadian T-shirts and had a helmet cleverly ducked taped to show the Canadian flag.
With bluebird skies and two days rest, I left the hostel with a British mate and headed to the mountain. Four feet had fallen and the day could only be described as epic. About 30 people made the trip up that day, and all of them powder hounds from around the globe. After a few quick warm-up laps, it became obvious that the “no friends on a powder day” rule was not effective here. Instead, you had pure camaraderie. Lift lines were for enthusiastic whoops and hollers, strangers would tell you about hidden lines and surprisingly there was no-one rushing to make it back to their line. If you didn’t ski it today, it would be there tomorrow. There were to many lines and not enough skiers. I skied fresh powder for six days, never having to hike more than fifteen minutes, and skied some of the sickest lines of my life with some of the best skiers I had ever met. At no point did anyone talk of sponsorship, filming or contests. We were there just to ski.
The trip brought my skiing and me back to life. I realized again why I had first moved to a ski town, and why I would never quit living the dream. Skiing was simply a lifestyle, and powder-days were rewards for your dedication.
PRAY FOR POW