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- About Bob
It was the second-largest ski mountain in North America.
I gazed down from the very top--then pushed off.
Whistler
Mountain, British Columbia--A blast of arctic air
slapped me in the face as I stepped to the top of the ridge
and peered down the back side of the mountain. It was the
view, however, not the cold, that took my breath away.
Snow-capped mountains filled the horizon, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see--and every one of them, it seemed, was lower than the one on which I stood. Even the clouds hung below me, meager, puffy patches of fog brushing the tops of the spruce groves, way down at the tree line.
I took an unconscious step backward, disoriented not only by the dizzying height but by the sudden realization that, in mere minutes, I was going to be skiing down the side of this impossibly high slope.
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True, I had known what I was getting myself into when I took the ski lift up to the very top of Whistler Mountain, some 7,160 feet above sea level. I was fully aware that, with a vertical drop of 5,020 feet, Whistler was the second largest ski mountain in North America--dwarfed only by it's next door neighbor Blackcomb Mountain, with a 5,280-foot vertical drop.
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What bothered me was the fact that I had only been downhill skiing once before in my entire life, on a tiny hill in West Virginia. I had done well--but that was irrelevant. Whistler was serious stuff. Experienced skiers dreamed about coming here. Experts flocked to Whistler for a challenge, reveling in its steep powder chutes and formidable mogul trails. I was a beginner. What was I doing here?
And more importantly, how was I going to get down without breaking most of my bones?
With a combined total of more than 200 beginner, intermediate and expert trails, Whistler and Blackcomb are about the closest North American skiers can get to the Alps without leaving the continent. The two slopes, known collectively as Whistler Resort, boast the world's most extensive high-speed lift system, with 12 of their 29 lifts being high-speed models. Each mountain recorded nearly 1 million skier visits last year. Snowboarders flock here, as well, thanks to Whistler Resort's policy of welcoming them with open arms when other slopes shun them.
Originally called London Mountain, Whistler was renamed in the early 1960s in honor of one of its residents, the hoary marmot, known for its distinctive high-pitched whistle. The first lifts opened to the public in 1966, at a time when the only road to Vancouver was a narrow gravel byway that took five hours to travel. Word spread quickly, and today Whistler is one of the top-ranked ski resorts in the continent.
We had driven up to Whistler from Vancouver the night before, a winding, two-hour trek through pine forests and towering mountains, and along the tops of cliffs edging the Howe Sound. With me were about a dozen business associates, most of whom had gotten their ski legs as infants.
We checked into Crystal Lodge, a mere two-minute walk from the slopes. The lodge was situated in the middle of what's known as Whistler Village, a quaint collection of shops, cafes, restaurants and bars done up to look like an alpine village--though one of my Swiss comrades said it reminded him more of Disney World than of anything he had ever laid eyes on in his own country.
I rendezvoused with my group in the Ristorante Araxi, reportedly one of the prime eating spots in town. There I dined on tomato and leek soup and Seafood Risotto, which swam with prawns, scallops, salmon and mussels. The food was good, though it took an agonizingly long time to reach us for reasons that were never explained.
Afterwards I joined the crowds of young people strolling the brick-paved passageways of the village, peering in the windows of souvenir and ski apparel shops and listening to live music drifting out of warm bars. Long icicles hung from roofs, and fresh snow weighed down the boughs of pine trees in the squares. Buildings and passageways connected at odd angles, erasing all sense of direction. After five minutes of disoriented wandering, I finally stumbled upon my hotel, tired and ready for bed.
The morning
dawned with one of the clearest, bluest skies I had seen all
winter. Joining my group in the ski rental shop at 8:00, I
found a suitable set of gear and headed outside.
Already the line for the Whistler Village Gondola was packed with hundreds of people, their flashy ski apparel creating a swirling sea of color. Nearby, Blackcomb's Excalibur Gondola had a crowd of its own.
I was eager to get onto the mountain, but unsure of what I'd do once I got there. My one previous skiing experience had been a success, true, but that was only because years of cross-country skiing had taught me the fundamentals of balance. I hadn't had any lessons. And besides, Whistler was about 20 times as big as that hill.
I decided to sign up for a lesson, a decision I regretted almost immediately. Our instructors took forever to separate us into ability groups, and we ended up getting only about 90 minutes of tutoring, which, for $C37, wasn't much of a deal.
At noon I met my group at Pika's, a restaurant near the upper station of the Whistler Gondola, some 6,070 feet up. Hundreds of skiers swarmed the area, most of them lounging about on outdoor tables, soaking up the sun and slurping down drinks and food. I grabbed a quick chicken sandwich and then tried my luck on the nearest small hill. I didn't fall.
Bolstered by this success, I skied over to the base of the Peak Chair and stared up at the top of the mountain. Skiers shot down from the peak, weaving from side to side as they descended what looked like a sheer vertical drop. Daredevils attempted risky jumps from ledges, cheered on by those in line, who clacked their poles together in encouragement.
Somehow the
excitement of being there, so close to the top, nudged me
toward the line. Before I could think clearly, the lift had
hoisted my chairmates and I high above the snow, allowing us
to take in the broad, white landscape, dotted with the
moving shapes of other skiers.
Tearing my eyes from the captivating scene, I glanced at my map, trying to figure out how to ski down with the least possible damage. Trail names jumped out at me: Waterfall. Surprise. Doom & Gloom. I was going to die for sure.
A gust of ice-cold air hit us as we crested the final ledge. Then we were skiing down the ramp toward the opposite side of the mountain. I marveled at the awesome sight--mountains in every direction, with vast pine forests encircling frozen lakes below. Whistler Village, a mere toy town from this height, sat snugly at the mountain's base, miles away.
My map showed a green-dot trail--signifying beginner level--winding its way down from the top. That was what I planned to take, though I knew a Whistler-style beginner trail was not likely to be easy.
Overcoming the Fear
Pushing fear out of my mind, I took a last look at the incredible panorama, snapped my rental skis back on and glided over to the rim of the slope. Then taking a deep breath of the thin, frigid air, I pushed off, sending myself flying headlong into the unknown.
Traversing the hill from side to side, I labored to control my speed, trying to ignore the other skiers drifting in and out of my peripheral vision. At the bottom, the trail suddenly veered left, narrowing to the width of a road as it hugged the rocky cliff. Still racing at top speed, I made the turn, then put all of my attention into navigating the winding road. The trail took a sharp right, and I somehow made the turn, noticing with horror that, to my right, the slope dropped off a cliff into empty space. Trying not to think about the chasm that lie a few feet away, or the fact that I was rocketing down the side of a mountain on two pieces of plastic, I fought to keep my balance.
The trail left the edge of the cliff and widened before dropping even more steeply. Careening downhill at breakneck speed, my skies tangled and I went down in a twisted mess, skidding to a halt next to a trio of young ladies, who did their best not to giggle. Humiliated, I leapt to my feet and pushed off, ignoring the chill as a clump of snow worked its way down the back of my pants.
More turns awaited me and then the trail narrowed again, plunging me into a shadowy bowl with cliffs rising high all around me. The next hill shot me back out into the sunlight, around another bend and then uphill. Crouching low and using my poles to gain speed, I coasted easily to the top of the rise.
The descent became more gentle, carrying me through fragrant stands of Douglas fir and spruce. The trees swallowed up the sound of the wind, leaving nothing but the soft swoosh of my skis to disturb the dark, silent woods. I cruised steadily along, gazing around in awe at the alpine wonderland all around me.
After about 10 minutes of gentle coasting through the pines, the trail dumped me out onto a wide slope. Skiers and snowboarders came at me from all directions as I tried frantically to maneuver back and forth on the steep hill. I crashed once, twice, three times, until I was covered with snow from head to foot. Eventually I hit the hill where I had been taking lessons earlier. Feeling like a pro now, I cut easily back and forth, taking wide turns as I dropped the remaining distance to the gondola mid-station. I had been skiing for a full hour--and I was still more than 1,100 feet from the bottom.
This lengthy bout of skiing did not go without its consequences. My knees were in agony, sore from the constant tension. Undaunted, I took the gondola back up to Pika's and headed down a new trail, plunging down wide open slopes, before cutting into the woods on narrow, twisting roads. Other trails merged in, then veered off, leaving me alternately vying for space and completely alone. Despite a number of falls, I made it to the base of the Redline Express lift in 15 minutes and jumped right on. There was no line.
Once at the top I headed down again, trying a different trail. The lifts were scheduled to shut down at 4:00, so I raced against time, making it back to the same lift station with five minutes to spare.
By now most people had cleared off the slopes. I had very few skiers to contend with as I headed down one final time. I made it easily to the bottom of the now-silent lift, then rounded a bend and kept going, intent on making it all the way to the village.
I maneuvered onto a trail called The Expressway, a wide road slashing diagonally across the face of the mountain. The grade was relatively mild, allowing me to gaze out over the edge and enjoy spectacular views of the towering mountains and the village, still far below.
I shot past the gondola mid-station and down another slope, not falling any more, excitement pumping through me as I swerved and curved my way down. Patches of ice appeared, attempting to send me crashing, but I ignored them. Unseen moguls popped me into the air, but each time I steadied myself and continued my descent.
My legs were screaming for rest, but they would get none until I reached the base. I sensed I was close. Then, rounding a bend a few minutes later I broke from the trees and saw it: the village. Rock music blared from happy hour celebrations below. Hundreds of people filled the street. And down I came on my last run of the day, weaving back and forth in perfect form for all to see, proud and victorious.
The next thing I knew I was sliding face-first into a pile of snow. So much for perfect form. Righting myself, I skied easily down the last 100 feet, coasting to a halt inches from the pedestrian street.
Freeing myself from my skis, I marched on wobbly legs to the outdoor deck of the Garibaldi Lift Co. Bar & Grill where my group had agreed to meet. They cheered my arrival and welcomed me with a mug of beer, which I thirstily gulped--a well-earned reward after a successful run down Whistler Mountain.
section and in the Newark Star Ledger.