"Do you have any food in the car?"
"Yes sir, I uhhhh have some bananas, apples, a bag of oranges, trail mix, a few cans of soup, pretzels, jerky... y'know just some food for the road"
"Ok I'm going to need you to pull up into that stall to the left and step inside the facility."
Goddammit.
And that's how I ended up sitting in the atrium of the Peace Arch Canadian Border Patrol office for over an hour watching the China-Canada curling match.
This is a most unfortunate development, seeing as I departed Kirkland much later than I had hoped. Plus my Super Bowl Monday headache is roaming the amorphous region between splitting and throbbing. I got a little too into the wine and the beer yesterday and I really just want to get to Whistler, BC.
Gordo* finally calls me back up to his official looking desk to inform me that their search for contraband has been completed. I'm free to go. He almost seemed disappointed that he couldn't put a Yank behind bars. Whatever Gord, I gotta hit the road.
*I don't remember his actual name but it was probably Gordo
Before me lies two and a half hours of Northbound travel, through Vancouver, through Squamish, between the volcanic arc of the Garibaldi Range and the Squamish River. Down two lane roads where you can drive 100. (Unfortunately that's kilometers per hour - almost exactly 60 miles per hour - which is a disappointingly meager rate in a land self-described as the Great White North.)
Nightfall is already upon us, which is disappointing because I can tell from the moonlight that I'm missing some dazzling views. I pull into Whistler at a quarter to ten, headed for the Pangea Pod hotel. Described as a "chic shared pod hotel," it's the most modestly priced lodging in town.
Whistler
As I turn down the road in front of the hotel I am confronted by a collection of signs emphatically outlawing the parking of vehicles precisely where I would like to park my vehicle. If we're speaking in generalities I would sheepishly call myself a rule follower. Sounds strange coming from someone fucking off from his job to embark on a 3 month ski vacation doesn't it? Because of this particular character trait of mine I take a lap around the block to find a spot where I can licitly park my rig for check-in.
The cursory search proves unfruitful so I tie up the ol gal to some bollards in front of the hotel & anxiously hope I don't get a ticket. A flustered young woman behind the front desk welcomes me and delivers a faltering spiel about the hotel. The majority of the check-in process is done via an iPad that I tap-tap-tap away at until the payment section, at which point the tablet freezes. I see a wave of anxiety wash over the desk agent, who then informs me it's only her second day on the job.
I attempt to assuage her anxiety with nonsensical and presumably nonhumerous banter as I patiently wait for her to reset the iPad & the process begins anew. Second time is a charm and she affixes a bracelet to my wrist that will function as my room key. I grab my gear & head up to the "D" wing, where I find my pod, D71.
The sleeping arrangements consist of 6 "pods" per room, which are fully enclosed bunks with some shelves, outlets, and a light. The size of the pods are surprisingly large, with room enough for my backpack & suitcase. We also have designated locker/cubby areas for overflow storage. I drop off my gear & head back downstairs to find some sanctioned parking. I ask Ms. Flustered if there is a garage for vehicles over 7' tall, given that their garage only fits cars up to 6'8". This line of questioning, as you can imagine, does nothing to alleviate her angst & she asks a co-worker for assistance. The co-worker points me in the direction of the conference center garage, which she assures me will suffice.
I head back out to the car & after a short drive find that it will not, in fact, suffice. I continue driving around the winding streets of Whistler, looking for a garage, a lot, anywhere I can stable my weary steed for the night. None of the lots seem to allow overnight parking and all the garages seem to top out at 6'8". Does nobody come here with a roof rack?? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.
Eventually I find a garage under the library that will accommodate my somewhat but not unreasonably tall vehicle.
The main reason I added Whistler to my itinerary was Casey's vehement insistence I come here while we were gallivanting through California. He said the skiing is great & the town is a riot. I have a couple hours before bed, so let's give that latter postulation a test. From the garage I spill out onto a wide pedestrian thoroughfare amongst shops, restaurants, & bars. I wander around town for a while to get the lay of the land before dipping into the Amsterdam Cafe. I belly up to the bar and order a rye Old Fashioned that I sip while people watching and occasionally glancing at the Olympics coverage. The concoction was so nice I order it twice, a delicious nightcap before turning in for the night.
I settle up with the barmaid & head back out into the crisp Canadian night for the easy stroll back to the hotel. About a hundred yards from the entrance to the Pangea I hear a "oi! where are you from!" I spin around to see a couple rambling up the path behind me.
"From the States, Oklahoma"
"Oooooohk-luh-hoema? I've never even heard of that.... Ohhhh wait, isn't there an Ohkluhoemuh song?"
"Yeah, it's called... 'Oklahoma', Rodgers and Hammerstein."
"I knew it!!! Ohkluhoemuh"
"Where are you from?"
"I'm from New Zealand & my friend Charlie here is from France. My name's Courtney"
"Andrew, it's a pleasure"
"Where are you going?"
"To bed"
"Noooooooo, we're going to the Irish Pub, come have a drink with us!"
"No thank you, I appreciate the offer, however I am tired and have a big day of skiing planned tomorrow. Y'all have a lovely evening," is what I should have said.
"Well..... alright," is what I actually said.
I haven't the slightest shred of a backbone when it comes to peer pressure.
I follow my new friends to the public house, picking up Phoebe from Australia along the way. Courtney tells me I'll love their English friend Claire - she has a boyfriend but "he's the wooorst. You & Claire will hit it off."
Whatever you say Courtney.
We find their friends at a high top, Courtney summarily introducing me to Claire, whose boyfriend Tristan is sitting right next to her. Not really sure what Courtney is expecting me to do with this 3rd & 25 behind a 3rd string offensive line. We order a round of Guinnesses & I inquire as to how the international consortium with which I find myself came to be. Turns out they all work at a hotel in town together.
Pretty straightforward.
I ask them if I'm crazy or have I heard an absurdly high number of accents in the short time I've been in Whistler. They assure me I'm not losing my marbles, this town is a ski bum UN. The largest percentage come from Australia I'm told, a diasporic population resulting from their favourable immigration status with Canada. In the middle of the conversation Courtney jumps up, "oh that guy looks rich, I'm going to see if he'll be my sugar daddy!"
There wasn't a hint of facetiousness in her voice.
While we're all sitting there chatting, a ceaseless rotation of my young hosts leave the table for a few minutes at a time. I notice each time one returns he or she looks uncommonly alert. Young kids from all over the globe working hotel jobs on weird schedules. I get it.
I duck out when the bartender comes around for last call, I really need to get some sleep. My quick walk back to the hotel is uninterrupted by carousing expats & I crash hard in my pod, ready for another day on the slopes.
Let's Go Skiing, Eh?
I wake up surprisingly refreshed, all things considered, and walk across the square for a cup o' joe. I down the delicious brew as I gear up & hoof it towards the hill. The location of the pod hotel is outstanding, only a couple hundred yards from the bottom of the gondola. Actually, gondolas.
The ski resort is a conglomeration of two formerly independent ski areas, Blackcomb and Whistler. Whistler came first, conceived as part of a bid to host the 1968 Winter Olympics, which ended up going to Grenoble, France. Blackcomb opened for business in 1980, which set off a fierce rivalry of technology upgrades and improvements until the late 90s, when the real estate firm that developed Blackcomb purchased Whistler. They were fully merged in 2003, creating the largest ski area in North America (either mountain alone would rank in the top 5. This place is big). And after 42 years, Whistler was finally awarded its Olympics in 2010.
If you're standing in the mountain village and look up and to the left, you'll see Blackcomb Mountain. Up & to the right, Whistler. The mountains are separated by Fitzsimmons Creek cutting a deep valley between the two. All the ski runs & lifts for both mountains funnel down to the mountain village, allowing skiers to ride up either side depending on their inclination at that particular moment. And if you find yourself at the summit of Blackcomb & get a hankerin' for Whistler, that ain't no problem, just ride the Peak2Peak gondola right over the gorge to the other side! More on that later.
As I waddle up to the base area I look up at the mountains, and to my chagrin, I can't see past the second lift tower. The hill is enveloped in a thick layer of fog. Oh this again. I sigh and I decide to head to the Blackcomb side first, for no other reason than its gondola is closer than Whistler's.
I hop onto the Excalibur Gondola, unaware that this particular conveyance only goes up about a third of the way up the mountain. It's really a nonsensical lift & appears to owe its entire existence to serving both mountains from the same base area. In hindsight, I should have taken the Whistler Gondola, which sits a mere sand wedge away from the one I hopped on. In my defense the trail map is slightly deceiving, placing the unloading station for the gondola precariously close to the loading station for the Excelerator Express quad, which I assumed to be a continuation of the gondola on my perfunctory glance at the map.
Whatever the case, the Excalibur Gondola has, at the very least, brought me great satisfaction. Near the top of the lift, our cabin breaks through the fog into a breathtaking panorama of blue sky and stunning mountain vistas. As we continue skyward, I turn back to see the fog sitting on the mountain village like a down comforter between the crossed legs of Blackcomb & Whistler Mountains.
I hop off the gondola right onto the Excelerator quad. A quick warm-up run takes me to the midpoint of the Blackcomb Gondola (a different gondola). On the way up I make conversation with a very nice couple, who inform me that they are the aunt & uncle of Cassie and Darcy Sharpe, Canadian Olympians in freestyle skiing & snowboard, respectively. Cassie is the reigning Olympic champion in skiing halfpipe, taking gold at the 2018 games in Pyeongchang. No big deal.
They had planned to make the trip to Beijing to watch the games in person but Covid had other ideas. The family decided to get together anyways in Whistler where the Sharpes grew up & train. They are just on a sightseeing tour today, and what a day it is for sightseeing. The dramatic peaks of the Coast Range surround us, their jagged spines a structurally complex agglomeration of igneous and metamorphic rocks formed from the Farallon & Kula oceanic plates slamming into and subsiding beneath the North American plate. This was the same process that began the Laramide Orogeny, the mountain building process that formed the Rockies a few hundred miles to our East.
Another rider on the gondola mentions that he's going to meet his friends on the Whistler side. They say the skiing is better over there today. I'll take that deal, damn good deal. After disembarking I make my way over to the Peak2Peak gondola. I really should have planned this out better, I'm headed to my 4th lift and all I have to show for it is one short run. C'est la ski.
The Peak2Peak gondola is unlike anything I've ever ridden. Instead of going up a mountain, this particular cableway, as the name would suggest, is slung across the deep valley between the peaks of Blackcomb and Whistler Mountains. The cables form an enormous catenary suspended from two towering pylons on either side. As we ride a kid, who I'd estimate to be in the 10-12 year-old range and I'll just call Trevor, starts spouting facts about the gondola.
"The Peak2Peak gondola has the longest unsupported span in the world at 1.88 miles"
"The distance between the loading stations is 2.73 miles"
"It holds the record for highest point above the ground at 1,430 feet"
Everyone in the cabin looks at each other with a mixture of fascination, curiosity, and mild befuddlement. His parents, whose helping of befuddlement floweth over, ask him how he knows all this, shooting a glance to the other riders that suggests "he's not normally like this"
"It says it right up there"
We crane our necks to see a window near the top of the cabin that lists all the facts & figures that our young tour guide was reciting. All the adults erupt into an effervescent spate of laughter. It's the kind of laughter that makes friends out of complete strangers. All the while Trevor, who everyone assumed was some sort of Gondola Rain Man, just looks around confused. His face says, "what? Did none of you grown-ups not see that right in front of your dumb faces?"
We sure didn't, Trev, we sure didn't.
The 11 minute ride across the valley is nothing short of spectacular. The views are something you'd typically only be able to see in a helicopter. Perched over 1,400 feet above the valley floor, you could comfortably stack the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty (without her pedestal) beneath our dangling cabin. The magnificent peaks bestride a river of fog, flowing from the Fitzsimmons to Whistler Valleys.
11 minutes feel like 11 seconds and in no time we're at the top of Whistler. I assess the situation and decide to venture up the valley for a few spins on the Harmony chair. I then continue up the valley to an area known as the Symphony Amphitheater, so called due to its breathtaking natural amphitheater-like terrain. An enormous cirque drops into a copse of moderately pitched glades ideal for cruisin'. This area is more sparsely populated than others and I'm able to find some dynamite patches of snow.
I venture back to the front side to tackle the Whistler Bowl, which looked like it had some great lines. As I make my way around the face of the bowl I stop dead in my tracks. The view unfolding before me is too incredible to be believed. I take a few minutes to bask in all the glory that Whistler has to offer before snapping a few amateur photographs and charging back down the mountain. I ride up again, this time taking the Bagel Bowl, a bit to skier's left of my last run.
Once again the skiing is exceptional. This route takes me all the way back down to the mountain village, where I decide to head back up Blackcomb since I didn't have a chance to explore it this morning. The last few hours of the day are spent cruising around above the treeline. Around 3:30 I head back down to the mountain village, thirsty for an ice cold beer.
As I unstrap my gear I pop open SkiTracks to check my damage. I'm gobsmacked when I see the number. 35,629 vertical feet, the most I've ever skied by a pretty decent margin. Looking at the 3D map, however, I discover that it's actually juiced up a bit. The app registered the big swinging arc of the Peak2Peak gondola as a run & lift back up the other side of the valley. So 1,846' of that are phony. The real value is 33,783', still my personal record.
Satisfied with a solid day's work I notice a place right next to the gondola decked out in old-timey Western kitsch called The Longhorn Saloon. Well dadgum! If I'm in luck it'll be customers there amenable to drawin' up in a circle 'round a deck a cards.
I find my way to a hightop in the bar area, "like me a spash a whiskey ta warsh the traildust offen my gullet 'n keep m'singin' voice in fettle," I don't say to the young lady who comes to take my order. "I'll take the Après Pilsner," I actually say as I take a visual inventory of the place. Not exactly what you'd expect from a saloon. I mean, sure, they have all the gaudy knickknacks you'd expect from a place that was seemingly designed by the garish conglomerate who brought you Planet Hollywood. Faux weathered wood. Cowboy hats. Horseshoes tacked to the walls. Fake longhorn steer mounts. Wax statues of rough looking hombres with fabulous moustaches.
You get the picture.
But overwrought "Western" décor does not a saloon make. And this place is a saloon in name only. I'd consider it a clerb with the requisite pieces of flair to give it a saloon-ish patina. A DJ stands atop an elevated platform "spinning" disharmonic collections of sounds that the kids apparently accept as music these days. The scantily clad waitstaff are all exceptionally attractive and disconcertingly young. The clientele skews bro-y. It's really a terrible place.
As Ashton brings around my beer I notice a group of the aforementioned scantily clad waitresses gathering at the door to the patio. And right as the clock strikes 16:00 the DJ incomprehensibly screams into the microphone and the girls sashay onto the patio with sparklers and bottles of champagne affixed to plastic Tommy guns, spraying champagne into the air. This is my nightmare.
When I arrived and all the spots on the patio were occupied, I was slightly disappointed I couldn't soak in the beautiful weather. Now I'm overjoyed to be inside, looking through the glass at these animals like I'm at a zoo for adolescents with raging hormones. This is what I get for patronizing any establishment with "Longhorn" in the name.
After the unfortunate bacchanal subsides, I waive Ashton over to my table.
"Hey, so are there any bars around here that aren't..... like this?"
"Ha yeah, this place gets a little cray"
"I thought I was coming to a 'saloon' where I could enjoy a whiskey and beer in peace"
"Yeah, sorry about that, Whistler is kinda wild. I think your best bet is the Irish pub across the street there, it's a little more low-key"
"Ok cool, I was there last night, I'll go check it out"
And with that I dump back my beer and stroll back to the bar I left no more than 18 hours ago. I open the door and an ear-to-ear smile careens across the bar and affixes securely to my face. The two piece band at the front of the pub is playing The Chain by Fleetwood Mac. Y'damn right. Ok this is more my speed.
I plant my boots on the bar rail and order up a Guinness. The woman next to me, who introduces herself as Shannon, strikes up a conversation. She's a local who's here to watch her boyfriend play guitar. Righteous. As the bartender delivers my stout he regales us of the mayhem of St Patrick's, when they went through 15 kegs of Guinness & 525 Irish car bombs. They expect it to be bigger this year.
An older fella named Larry plops down next to us and starts in on jokes one after the other. Bam. Bam. Bam. In the middle of one of his knee-slappers, Shannon leans over and points to a plaque to my left. It's a quote attributed to one Larry Ryan. I look at Shannon. I look at Larry. I look back at Shannon.
"Is he Larry Ryan?" I point to my new friend
"Yup"
Suffice to say, Larry is well known 'round these parts. It turns out he's one of the founding members of The Old Goats, an informal fraternal order-cum-drinking club. The Goats are such a part of the Dubh Linn Gate family they have their own page on the bar's website. The Goat's most hallowed responsibility is to update the "Days Until St. Paddy's Day" sign every day. That and tell jokes.
While we're talking about the Goats, a woman at the end of the bar interjects,
"Hey! Whose dick do I gotta suck to get into The Old Goats club?"
"Well... mine," Larry smartly retorts.
God damn Larry, you ol' goat you!
I continue to carouse with my new band of miscreants, sharing pints and tall tales. The workers in the hunger factory of my body, jealous of the thirst division, order a small nacho platter (substituting tortilla chips for fried potatoes of course, seeing as we're in an Irish pub). What subsequently arrives to my bartop real estate is a grotesque bastardization of the word "small." This heaping mound of sustenance would only be considered "small" in the geologic sense. I could easily eat this for 3 separate meals and be completely satiated. I can't remember ever being so incensed at the size of a meal.
And it was fucking delicious.
Dammit, Dubh Linn Gate, you've done it again.
I struggle to fill my belly with as much Irish nachos as I can before tapping out and requesting a to-go box. My car will serve perfectly as a refrigerator in this February Canadian climate. I finish my beer, & head back to the pod to get cleaned up.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
I spill back out onto the wide arena of Whistler Village, devoid of my malodorous ski stench, ready to take on the town. I stroll around a bit, breathing in the cool refreshing air, nowhere to be, nowhere to go.
Somewhere along my aimless wanderings I find myself standing face to face with a pub called Buffalo Bills. Well pardon my French but fuck yeah.
I hand my identification to the gentleman at the front and take the stairs down to the pub.... aaaaaand I'm immediately disappointed. I thought this might be a Western-style saloon, being named Buffalo Bills and all, but it's got more of a 60s-era go-go bar vibe. Which is groovy in my book, baby, but there's nobody here. Which makes the whole vibe super weird. But I can't just come to a bar called Buffalo Bills and not order a drink.
Turns out I can.
I walk right back up them stairs, Buffalo Bills an unfortunate memory of what could have been. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel like I'm trusting the process. It doesn't feel like I'm doing my 1/11th. As I'm questioning my dedication to the team, I walk across the path to a nondescript joint called Tapley's Pub, where I'll snag a quick drink and re-evaluate.
I sidle up to the bar & order a Backcountry Brewing Pale Ale. I start chatting with the two young fellas to my left, who just moved here this season to work at the hotels & ski as much as they can. Seems like a trend. As we're chatting I see some goings on at one end of the bar and a steady stream of patrons entering the tavern.
Before I can decide my next move I hear a bombastic, disembodied voice, "Goooooooooooood evening ladies & gentlemen, weeeeeeeeelcome to Tapley's Tuesday night bingooooooooooo!!!!!!"
Well, looks like I just stumbled into some bingo. Doug, the bald & boisterous bingo-master, warms up the crowd as his minions pass out bingo cards. One particular instruction catches my ear, "aaaaaand when I call out O-69 the first people to come up here & 69 get a free shot of Jameson!" Uhh, yeah.. sure.
Everyone gets settled in and Doug begins firing off numbers. He has the perfect cadence and rollicking energy to call bingo for the rambunctious patrons of Tapley's Pub. A few dobs here & there then Doug pulls a ball and you can see a twinkle in his eye
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SIIIIIIIIIIIIXXXXXXXTTTYYYYYYYY NIIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!!"
And like a flash a half dozen twosomes rush to the front of the bar, throwing themselves into the sex number position with little to no regard for their safety. One pair of particularly rowdy fellas do a standing 69. I almost fall out of my barstool. This is the type of high-brow enterprise that I know my solitary reader expects from me.
I stay for three rounds of Bingo and the resultant three rounds of 69in'. I finish my Black's Pub Steamworks Flagship Northeast IPA before settling up with the bartender & heading back to the pod, ready for another day on the mountain.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
The next morning I roll out of my pod & strap on m'toolbelt headed back up to the mountain.
This time I head up the Whistler gondola, a much more expeditious method of travel than the Excalibur Gondola-Excelerator Express-Blackcomb Gondola route. I repeat my Harmony-Symphony-Whistler Bowl route from yesterday and it rips just as hard today. My ultimate goal for the day, however, is the Blackcomb Glacier.
To reach the glacier I'll need to, obviously, traverse over to the Blackcomb side. To the Peak2Peak I go, still astounded by the scale of the conveyance and the outrageous views. From the P2P I take the Glacier Express to the Showcase T-Bar. At the top of the T-Bar I unstrap the planks and hoof it about 5-10 minutes up a steepish snowpack to the top of the glacier. And by god it is glorious. I take a moment to enjoy the scenery before re-engaging the send sticks and dropping into the glacier.
The snow is a bit crunchy but the wide open expanse of the glacier is sheer bliss. About halfway down I see dozens of pairs of skis and snowboards lined up along the right side of the run. I scoot over to investigate what all the ruckus is about and find heaps of people in, on, and around the Blackcomb Glacier Ice Cave. I read about the cave but honestly had forgotten about it. The deep blue of the glacial ice creates a pleasing aura that's only broken by groups trying to pose for the perfect picture.
The rest of the run is a pretty mellow cruise back around the front. From here I make my way over to the 7th Heaven area, the only section of the resort I haven't skied yet. This is the mirror image to Symphony & Harmony, some nice runs in the valley towards Fitzsimmons Creek. This area closes at 2:30 so I'm only able to take two runs before heading back to the main area. I briefly consider taking the P2P back over to Whistler but decide to just jaunt around Blackcomb the last few hours of the day.
I end the day with 24,807 feet of vertical, a more modest tally but still a solid day in my book. Damn near 60k vertical feet in two days is prettay prettay prettay good if you ask me. I was able to essentially see everything both mountains had to offer and next time around (there will most definitely be a next time around, this place is incredible) I'll have a much better gameplan.
I'm pretty beat from two big days of skiing and the night is much more mellow. I have a 6 hour drive ahead of me tomorrow so it's best that I turn in early anyways.
BC Crossing
Another day, another drive. Today we head East, right up to the border of Alberta. My destination is Revelstoke, a little town in the Canadian Rockies. The ski area, Revelstoke Mountain Resort, is a relative newcomer on the skiing scene, only opening in 2007. The mountain boasts the largest vertical descent (5,620 ft) and longest run (8.3 miles) in North America.
This stretch of the trip has always been tentative, filed under the heading of "weather-permitting" in the planning committee's documents. Fortunately the weather is outstanding & the roads are clear. I load up the car & grab a coffee before bidding farewell to Whistler. The road out of town winds through some of the most spectacular mountain vistas I've ever experienced. The extent of the colossal, rugged peaks leaves me in a perpetual state of awe. About 2 hours from Whistler I come upon a lake of an indescribable turquoise color nestled between two spines of jagged peaks. I find a parking area overlooking the lake and pull off to get a better view.
As I'm basking in the beauty of the lake & surrounding landscape I notice a slightly worn trail that appears to head down to the water. Hell I ain't in no rush, let's go for a little hike. I head down the impromptu trail, under branches, through thickets, and over boulders. As I reach the bottom I see a road that goes right along the lake, a much easier journey to get exactly where I am now. Oh well, I could use a little exercise to break up the monotonous day's measure of hoof clops.
I walk out to the water, past a dock that's used for summer recreatin'. The vibrant water laps calmly upon the shore, a tranquil juxtaposition to the imposing peaks on either side. I dip my hand in the mineral-laden water, a refreshing sensation for body and spirit alike.
Once I've had my fill of the crisp mountain air and breathtaking scenery I hike back up to the car to continue my journey.
As I complete my bifurcation of the Coast Range, temperate rainforests make way for the arid expanses of the Interior Plateau. I catch the only road in Canada outside the little town of Cache Creek and follow it another 4 hours through the towns of Kamloops, Copper Creek, and Salmon Arm. As I drive, Waze converts the speed limits from metric to Imperial, leading to silly situations where I'm prohibited by law to exceed 37 or 41 mph. The fastest I can go on most highways is 62.
As I reach the western edge of the Canadian Rockies the sun begins to set. An hour later I pull into town just as a light dusting of snow begins to fall. I find my way to the Grizz Hotel, a no-frills accommodation with a great location and reasonable rate. I check in and head out on foot to explore. Revy, as it's commonly known, sits on the banks of the headwaters of the Columbia River, just after the mighty confluence makes a U-turn at Kinbasket Lake & begins its long, southwesterly push to the Pacific. The town was founded in the 1880s as a mining outpost as the tracks of the Canadian Pacific Railway were laid. It takes its name from Lord Revelstoke, a British banker who saved the railroad from insolvency.
I pop into the Craft Bierhaus for a pint and some vittles. I'm seated at a long table next to a group of Texans who are in town for a bit of heli-skiing. The mind-boggling scale of the mountains of British Columbia, coupled with its relative lack of commercial development, make it an ideal place for chopper-based alpine adventures. I've seen more outfits offering heli-skiing in the few days I've been in BC than I have in my entire skiing career.
The local guide, who will be chaperoning the group tomorrow, tells us about the mayhem that ensued from the monster storm that rolled through in December. He had himself a nice little side hustle pulling out stuck vehicles, sometimes dozens in a single day. He claims he once fastened a tow rope to a marooned automobile, tied the other end to a tree, and felled the tree with a chainsaw to free the stuck vehicle (I'm still dubious as to the veracity of this claim).
As I peruse the menu I quickly determine that I'll just enjoy a beer here & enjoy my supper elsewhere. This is far too fancy (and expensive) for my liking so I suck back a Beautiful Pale from Strathcona Beer Co. before bidding my new friends adieu. I wander around for a few blocks before stumbling upon a place called the Village Idiot Bar & Grill. That sounds more my speed. I belly up to the bar and order a Revelstoke Lager from Mt Begbie Brewing. I'm delighted as I scan the menu to see they offer poutine. This is my 4th day in Canada and I have yet to poutine (I see no reason why we can't use poutine as a verb). This sad state of affairs needs to be rectified immediately.
And so it was.
I strike up a conversation with a very nice Austrian couple, who are taking a ski vacation to Canada. I wonder why in the hell anyone would leave the Alps to go skiing but they just wanted to try something different. I guess that's just the human condition.
I finish up my poutine and guzzle another beer for good measure. Then it's back to the Grizz for a little shuteye.
Revelstoked
I arise to overcast skies and an inch or two of fresh snow. I pack my gear and make the short drive to the mountain. The resort is implementing a strict vaccine policy so the first time up the gondola I flash my vax card to prove that I am the proud owner of a Bill-Gates-5G-microchip-tracking-device.
The gondola takes me about halfway up the hill where I jump on the Stoke chair to the top. I'm hoping to try out some of the runs off Verigo Ridge & the North Bowl, however on my way up Stoke I realize that may not happen. The lift pierces into a layer of fog thicker than a bowl of oatmeal. By the time we reach the top I can't see 10 yards in front of me. If I knew the mountain I might hike up to the aforementioned runs, but as it stands I'll just take an easier way down, seeing as I can't... see.
I take two runs down from the top, at which point I reluctantly admit I'm not enjoying this. I may have better luck on the Ripper chair on the other side of the mountain, which appears to terminate lower on the mountain, possibly staying below the fog line. The next time down I venture a little farther afield, towards the Separate Reality Bowl to skier's right. This run would have ripped on a clear day but today it's just this side of miserable. I essentially have to make a turn, stop, check my line, next turn, stop, repeat. Not great, Bob.
I eventually matriculate myself down the hill & over to Ripper. As expected this lift stays below the fog line for the most part and I'm able to get some solid runs in over here. Around lunchtime I head back down to the base for a quick bite. The fog seems to have let up a bit so I venture back to to the top. Feeling a bit sporting I decide to head straight down, top to bottom, all 5,620' of vert.
I drop into Snow Rodeo and immediately feel the burn. The run is steep, bumpy, and chopped up with fresh powder. I make it a decent way down the top section before I need to stop & catch my breath. But as Revy sees it, we've only just begun. This is just the first of many, many breaks. As I descend, the number of turns I'm able to link between pit stops rapidly diminishes. At one point I just sit down on the side of the run for a few minutes to remind myself that I'm *having fun*. Each time I reach a crest that has to be the final descent to the lodge I'm chagrined to see another long stretch of piste grinning like a Cheshire Cat through snow white teeth made of moguls the size of Volkswagens.
I finally, mercifully, painfully, make it to the bottom. And I'm absolutely gassed. According to SkiTracks it took me 36 minutes. For context, the longest run I took during all 60,000 vertical feet of Whistler was 15 and a half minutes. From this point forward I shall dedicate my life to finding the roughest, toughest, rowdiest bull on the planet just so I can name him Revelstoke. Ain't no cowboy gonna ride that surly sunofabitch.
After all that I'm ready to call it a day. But seeing as I came all the way to the scene of the longest ski run in North America, I might as well ride the longest ski run in North America. For no other reason than to say I did. Fortunately for my legs it's an easy-peasy green all the way down.
I head back up to the top and get a hankerin' for some Fleetwood Mac. Right as I slide off the chairlift I pipe Rumours into my headphones, the perfect vibe for a nice, easy cruise down the Last Spike. 8.3 miles of wide switchbacks with a cool Canadian breeze on my face and Stevie Nicks in my ears. The only danger is evading the toddlers & the Jerrys.
At the bottom I check SkiTracks, eager to see how long it took to ride the longest ski run in North America. To my utter disappointment, it appears the app went haywire & didn't record the run.
You can't be serious!!
As I'm lamenting this technological travesty I hear John McVie's funky bass line in the outro of The Chain fade into Mick Fleetwood's high hat and the groovy stylings of Lindsey Buckingham's Fender Stratocaster in the opening of You Make Loving Fun. Well... now hold on just a second... We may be able to salvage this whole situation... If I add up the length of all the songs up to & including The Chain... I just may be able to back myself into how long it took me to ride the longest ski run in North America.
So let's see here, if we add it all up, convert the minutes to seconds, carry the two.... We come in just few seconds short of 25 minutes. Hot damn.
Rumours will never, ever disappoint me.
Smitten with my Fleetwood fortune I head back to the car with a jaunty gait reserved only for those who are blissfully unaware of their surroundings. I strip my gear and hit the road, continuing my eastward journey into the province of Alberta. My destination is Lake Louise, a glacial lake within Banff National Park named for Queen Victoria's fourth daughter. By all accounts the lake epitomizes beauty and splendor; the only reason I'm heading there is the effusive praise I've heard from people who have been there.
Two and a half hours of driving through the Canadian Rockies brings me to the Hostelling International Lake Louise Alpine Centre. I check in and drop my bags in the room. The common areas are pretty desolate, most guests presumably in the middle of supper. I walk about a mile to town, which is eerily dead. I find a single tavern that's open and belly up to the bar for an ice cold Labatt.
I overhear a couple blue collar fellas at the end of the bar complaining about the trucker strike going on at the border.
"Nobody wants to work these days, they come up with all these bullshit excuses and now I gotta deal with these assholes blocking the border."
"No shit, I heard someone out there interviewing the truckers and none of them knew why they were striking, they just wanted to weasel their lazy asses out of working."
It should go without saying that I keep my current employment status to myself.
I polish off another beer before heading back to the lodging. I'm in bed at a reasonable hour, the last night of my Canadian sojourn.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
I arise the next morning to fresh snow falling from the sky. Of course on the day I'm not even planning to ski we're getting fresh pow. I load up the car and make the short drive to the lake.
As I ramble through the snow covered pines to the shores of Lake Louise the word "disappointed" doesn't begin to describe my feelings. I'm sure the lake is stunning - every photo I have seen proves as much - however the low overcast skies and falling snow completely obscure the view. I drove all the way here for essentially the same view you'd get in a steamy sauna. A handful of people are skating on the frozen lake and I briefly consider strapping on my new skates that I commandeered from my cousin but think better of it. The non-zero probability that I fall and break a bone is a strong enough deterrent to keep my hiking boots on.
I had planned to hike up to a scenic viewpoint along the mountains that flank the lake but there's no point now. So I trudge back to the car, reminding myself that all things considered I am in no condition to complain. If a crummy view of Lake Louise is the worst thing to happen to me on this trip I'd say that's a resounding success. Just gotta think positive.
Back to the car and I hit the road, headed south to Schweitzer Mountain Resort in Sandpoint, ID. As I descend into the Columbia River Valley the snow turns to a light drizzle. I'm minding my business on the Banff-Windermere Highway when all of a sudden I see a sign that reads "Radium Hot Springs Parking Next Left." Well, now what's all that about?
I take the sign's recommendation and bang a larry into the parking lot. I see groups of people loading bathing suits and beach towels into bags. Whelp, when in Rome. I shove a pair of swim trunks and a towel into a bag and walk towards a stone building built into the side of a mountain. The complex, built in 1951 after the original facility burned down, houses two large pools - a hot soaking pool that's fed by the mineral hot springs that run below the facility, and a cold water lap pool.
As I walk up to the complex I see a line forming outside the door. Looks like we have about 15 minutes before the 10:30 opening time. I spend the time watching a mountain goat scrambling about on the cliffs above. By the time the gates open the crowd has swelled to over 100 by my best guesstimate. I enter the facility & pay the \$8 for a single entry pass. I pop on my trunks in the changing room and make my way out to the hot pool.
The steamy, mineral water soothes achy muscles, overworked from weeks of skiing. The hot springs were named for the trace amounts of radon found in the water, a decay byproduct of radium. I park myself on a nice spot on the ledge that runs around the outside of the pool. While I'm enjoying the soak a pickup truck drives by, gives two quick honks and hollers "NO PEEIN' IN THE POOL." Everyone in the pool enjoys a hearty chuckle.
I soak for about half an hour before rinsing off and heading back to the car. It's about another 2.5 hours of driving through the Columbia and Kootenay River Valleys when I reach the bridge on Canadian Highway 95 across the Moyie River. As I come upon the bridge I see my entire lane across the span is blocked by trucks, cars, vans, and bogans "protesting." As the grumpy old man stated at the bar last night, what they are protesting I'm sure they don't know.
Even if they did have a sound reason to assert their rights to assembly, which they don't, inconsequential wouldn't even begin to describe the effect of blocking the 400 daily vehicles that pass through the Eastport-Kingsgate border crossing. There are more cars parked on the side of the road than that. You can call it a protest, but 'round my parts they call this a tailgate.
The supposedly aggrieved revelers stretch on for a half mile, an unbroken line of maple leaf flags, "Fuck Trudeau" signs, fully stocked coolers, and amateur pitmasters manning their grills. For a minute I'm worried that I won't be able to cross, but at the very last possible moment I see a Mountie overseeing a gap in the line to allow ingress & egress. I give the public servant a wave that says "thank you for your service" and a look that says "my condolences for having to put up with these dipshits."
I pull up to the customs booth where a cheery gentleman greets me. He asks all the usual questions & when I tell him that I have food in the car he tells me to pull into a stall by the customs building and wait inside. Oy vey, this charade again.
When I enter the customs house the dour customs agent behind the desk begins grilling me with the autocratic air of an over-officious jerk. He's sure that the tiny sliver of authority he wields on the border of northern Idaho confers upon him a godlike status, The Defender of the Free World. When I tell him that I have a bag of oranges in the car he becomes personally incensed to a degree that you'd have thought I told him I was toting a kilo of cocaine across the border.
"How many oranges"
"I don't know, a bag's worth"
"You mean to tell me you are trying to cross the border without knowing what you have in your car"
"I have a bag of oranges"
"Where did you get the oranges?"
"Oklahoma"
He really wasn't expecting that. The confusion only seems to enrage him more, a predictable reaction from an obtuse make & model of Homo sapiens rubbing his full complement of two neurons together too vigorously.
With that he snatches my keys off the counter and storms out to my car in a huff. I take a seat on one of the folding chairs in the lobby, ready to get the hell out of here.
15 minutes later Barney Fife struts back in with the bag of oranges and a smirk like he just nabbed El Chapo.
"Do you have a receipt for these?"
"No"
"Well I'm going to have to take them"
"Yeah sure whatever"
He then proceeds to condescendingly lecture me about various types of citrus-borne diseases that necessitate the prohibition of any and all types of citrus fruits into the US. I resist the urge to insolently ask about the lack of concern for human-borne diseases given the fact that I needed not provide any Covid-related documentation to cross the border. I just want to get this over with.
He hands me a sheet that lists all the items that are barred from crossing the border and switches to a good cop routine.
"I just want to make sure you know the regulations," he says in a concerned father tone. "I'm going to issue you a warning for the oranges, check this sheet next time you plan to cross the border for any items that may not be allowed. When in doubt throw it out."
Ok I made up that last sentence. But I think it's pretty good.
He hands me back the keys and I feign gratitude for his leniency. The only thing that kept me from consecutive life sentences for each of the half dozen oranges is his boundless benevolence. Saved from a life behind bars. All praise His mercy!
I hop back in the car, eager to put that whole episode in my rearview. I pull out of the border patrol station, continuing my journey south. I see a sign up ahead that puts a grin on my face from ear to ear
"Speed Limit 60 MPH."
Damn glad to see you again.