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text Lisa Richardson // photos Robin O’Neill
First sign of a conspiracy between Old Dutch potato chips and hockey. Location: Revelstoke Grizzlies hockey arena.
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THERE AREN’T MANY SAVINGS TO BE HAD FOR AMERICANS NORTH OF THE BORDER, BUT A SEASON IN THE GREAT WHITE NORTH MIGHT JUST SAVE YOUR SOUL.
BECOMING
Canadian IT WAS A SUNDAY AFTERNOON. I was approach-
ing the back of a checkout line at Costco, and I knew I had made a grave mistake. Any long-time resident of Bellingham, Washington has feelings about Canadians. The rest of the country knows almost nothing about our frigid, northern cousin besides its general location (up), its favourite pastime (hockey), its association with England (isn’t there a queen or something?), and its vast, imagined herds of moose. But Bellinghamsters, dwelling
just 17 miles (or 27 kilometres) south of the B.C. border, have a far closer relationship, consisting mostly of fist-shaking as we spend extra hours in traffic, or, as it happened that Sunday, finding Costco stripped of cheese and milk by crossborder shoppers. Costco—the store that sells salsa by the barrel and soda by the forklift load— completely out of jumbo-sized blocks of cheese and four-packs of gallon (that would be four-litre) milk jugs.
TEXT SAKEUS BANKSON :: PHOTOS GARRETT GROVE
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Why are so many ski photos at Whitewater taken at sunset? Because that's when skiers like Chris Rubens slow down enough to model them.
AFTER 10 MINUTES SORTING THROUGH LOONIES AND TOONIES, I REALIZED A POUND OF CHOCOLATE-COVERED GUMMY BEARS COSTS $19.
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In retrospect, this sign was a foreboding double entendre. Or is that "entender"?
But American skiers have a completely different, if similarly uninformed, stereotype. We can quote a dozen ski towns on demand, and most of us would give certain body parts to take a trip to Retallack or Mica Heli. We know it’s Shangri La, we just don’t know anything about it. And 30 minutes into standing in that line, my mind full of stereotypes and road rage, I suddenly needed to know—not just if the skiing actually lived up to the legends, but also if Kokanee is the only beer on tap, if poutine is the standard appetizer, if those herds of moose shut down highways, and if every sentence really ends with “eh.” Shortly after, I found out that photographer and friend Garrett Grove and his wife, Bridget, had also been having the same yearnings to investigate our northern brethren. Plans were made, Canadian-to-American dictionaries purchased, bills exchanged for coins, and a few months later on New Year’s Eve, we moved into our house in Revelstoke, B.C. Our mission was clear; we were going to become Canadians. THE STEREOTYPES STARTED WITH OUR FIRST STOP FOR GAS. To be honest, most of my pre-trip perceptions of Canadians (and Canada) were based on the film Strange Brew. The old SCTV skit turned cult-classic comedy depicted the endearingly oblivious and bumbling Bob and Doug McKenzie on a lager-soaked, eh-laden quest to save the world. But the McKenzie brothers did not prepare me for the shelf of Old Dutch ketchup-flavoured potato chips as I entered to pay for the tank. Or the ponderous mountains walling in the highway as we made our way towards Revelstoke. Or the 100 km/hour speed limit signs. Or the immediate scolding from neighbours for incorrectly parking in our driveway and not picking up our dog’s poop within the half-hour. They did, however, prepare me for the accent. Unfortunately, I was disappointed—sort of. While there was a conspicuous lack of anticipated ehing, one of the most interesting things I found about the Canadian accent is how uninteresting it actually is—and how easy it is to catch. As I asked for spaghetti noodles in the grocery store (“Paah-sta on aisle three”) or schwag from the local ski shop (“Here’s some bumper deck-als”), or about someone’s job (“Working on a proh-ject for the park”), the rolling pronunciation snuck into my own vocabulary. I started saying “keen” and calling restrooms “washrooms.” Soon, the only accents I noticed were from Europeans, Aussies and French Canadians. But no matter how much I was made fun of—and it was a lot—there was one word I wouldn’t let slip: “toque.” I’m all about cultural acceptance, but it’s a beanie, goddammit. Despite my strong emotional feelings concerning headgear, the initial cultural differences were small. But as time passed, those subtle differences added up to big ones. On our way home, when we stopped at that same gas station, those tiny yellow and red Old Dutch logos would represent a lot more than just an odd food choice. ANY RATIONAL HUMAN BEING WOULD AGREE FRENCH FRIES ARE DELICIOUS—the
same goes for gravy and cheese. Combine the three, we found out, add a donut and a jug of lager and it’s high-calorie bliss. Besides the accent, the most
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immediate—and tasty—differences we found were in restaurant, bar, coffee shop and Tim Hortons menus. A Canadiano (a shot of espresso and maple syrup) for the morning? Yes. Post-tour poutine burger? Obviously. Maybe a Caesar for some mid-afternoon clam juice? Most definitely. And although I never went as far as turning down a good IPA, Kokanee makes a pretty badass après-ski beverage. But man cannot survive solely on poutine and pints of lager (Quebec notwithstanding). Ready for a night of vegetables and home-cooked Americana, we walked hungrily to the nearest grocery store—only to be hungrily disappointed. Cans of beans cost three times as much as Stateside; ingredients to make Muddy Buddies (Chex Mix cereal covered in chocolate, peanut butter and powdered sugar) nearly $30. After 10 minutes of conversions and sorting through loonies and toonies, I realized a pound (apparently .454 kg) of chocolate-covered gummy bears cost $19. And considering the country’s fascination with cheese curds, the prevalence of processed cheese—and lack of quality cheese in general—was depressing. Sure, there were dozens of choices in the maple syrup department, but $8 for a block of Cracker Barrel medium cheddar? I’d be making the drive to Costco, too. Hoping to make up for the lack of dairy with some Cariboo Genuine Draft, we quickly found the liquor stores offered no consolation. But there was a greener answer; while alcohol was expensive and of poorer quality (at least to our microbrew-conditioned palettes), weed was
cheap and amazing. Besides the economic and existential benefits, marijuana was also appealing in another way: no hangover, which is crucial when surrounded by endless, world-class terrain. BEYOND THE WONDERS OF B.C. BUD, British Columbians know they live in a spectacular place. It’s impossible not to; enormous mountains tower above towns like Rossland, Golden, Revelstoke and Nelson, and beautiful rivers and lakes wind their way in all directions. Most of the ski hills and a tiny, tantalizing portion of the backcountry can be seen from town, and the forests on the sides of the highway look sublime. This leitmotif culminates on the intimidating—due as much to the ranks of merciless semis as the foul road conditions and stunning drive to the top of Rogers Pass—where giddy skiers are treated to a view as massive as anything south of Alaska. And with any mountain driving comes the search for the perfect mountain vehicle, a puzzle that in the mind of the U.S. ski world, Canadians have dialed. Jealous Legacy and Tacoma owners speak lustily of Delicas, Hiluxs and other righthand drive, all-wheel, diesel-powered steeds imported from the mystical roads of Japan. They are drooled over in parking lots and quested for on Craigslist. And, by the end of four months, I hated them. “What are you doing?” I was asked multiple times, as I stood next to what 27 years of conditioning had taught me was the shotgun side. Canadian super-car owners
A typical B.C. up-track. Garrett Grove and Aneka Singlaub on Mount Matier north of Pemberton.
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"Look up, look waaaay up." (Americans please Google The Friendly Giant). Patrick Haggerty in Revelstoke.
Cody Barnhill: "Dude, are you gonna let me drive this time?" Chris Rubens: "Um‌ no."
Got wood? Everyone in B.C. does.
A draft dodger's delight: the Monashees at sunrise.
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Tower of powder: Chris Rubens somewhere outside of Whitewater.
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BECOMING
Canadian
BRITISH COLUMBIANS KNOW THEY LIVE IN A SPECTACULAR PLACE. IT’S IMPOSSIBLE NOT TO.
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In Canada, you can't even take heli pilots seriously.
have as much pride in their vehicles as American skiers have lust. And in the universal—and usually for me, awkward—language of body posture, standing next to the driver’s door meant I wanted to take it for a spin. This, I slowly learned, is not an option. Although I was happily offered a ride every time we headed to Rogers Pass (at the price of a muffin—cheap considering gas cost somewhere between 124 and 135 cents per some undetermined unit of measure), it seems that generosity didn’t extend to the driver’s seat. BESIDES THE INITIAL POOP-AND-PARKING-INDUCED difficulties with our neighbours, we quickly found a community willing to accept even transients like ourselves. When you said hello, people cared. When you talked, people listened. And when you needed two feet of snow (fine, 60 centimetres) plowed out of your driveway, the city plowman was happy to do so, and scrape out your walkways, too. Talking to locals during our stay, a contentious, although overwhelmingly positive, topic was government-provided healthcare. According to the expatriates we met, it was also a major reason and cause for that friendly tranquility. As my cousin, an enthusiastic Canadian via marriage, put it: when a government construction worker is standing idle, the fact he’s being paid through government-run employment insurance isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It means he’s also paying taxes that will go towards assuring that my cousin’s wife and two sons have a safety net. And that ease of mind, that innate concern for the community as a whole, is worth paying a little more for. As much as healthcare or other socialized institutions, though, much of the neighbourly-ness we experienced could be due simply to universal, small-town ideals. Neighbours know neighbours in a town of a few thousand, and with knowledge comes a sense of belonging and a sense of responsibility. But the roots of this acceptance are beside the point because in B.C.; most ski towns are small towns. Unlike classic U.S. ski resorts like Tahoe, Snowbird, Vail or Squaw, many Canadian ski hills are a long and often-treacherous drive from the nearest metropolitan area or international airport. Because of this (besides the influx of Europeans, Kiwis, Australians, French Canadians and, yes, Americans) both the ski and civic communities seem to stay cordial and close-knit. When you know you’re going to see the same people in the lift or coffee shop line every day, you don’t want to be a dick. Well, that’s assuming you’re outside of a hockey rink.
and the Sicamous Eagles, two small-town Junior B teams in a rink about the size of the high school’s gymnasium. It was one of our last nights in town, and although we never had the chance to go curling, the intensity of that hockey game more than made up for any lack of brooms or giant stones—and by intensity, I actually mean complete insanity.
THE MATCH WAS BETWEEN THE REVELSTOKE GRIZZLIES
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What is the sound of one skin ripping? Paul Kimbrough ямБnishes a climb in the Selkirks.
AMERICAN SKIERS CAN QUOTE A DOZEN CANADIAN SKI TOWNS ON DEMAND, AND MOST WOULD GIVE CERTAIN BODY PARTS FOR A TRIP TO RETALLACK OR MICA HELI.
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Aside from soccer hooligans, few sport nuts are as belligerent and rowdy as Canadian hockey fans, even though—despite being the most archetypal of Canadian stereotypes—it’s not the country’s official national sport (that would be lacrosse). With only inches (I know, I know) between the players and the drunkest, loudest fans, hockey enters into a whole new realm of head game, including father/son bonding while shouting insults about the goalie’s mother. While initially we were surprised that a populace so laid-back in all other aspects could suddenly burst with so much vehemence and volume, after some thinking it made sense. Their system isn’t perfect— just ask a B.C. resident about Prime Minister Stephen Harper. But Canadians have as passionate an investment in their homeland and community as they do in their hockey teams (although hockey pride is much, much louder), whether they’re rooting for a local farm club or NHL superstars. It’s a combination of smalltown ideals and big-picture vision, a mix that reaffirms the best—if sometimes goofiest—parts of Bob and Doug McKenzie’s maple-leaf-shaped mould. A MONTH AFTER RETURNING TO BELLINGHAM, I was standing in the same line at the same Costco with a cart again devoid of milk or cheese. I knew I would be sitting in traffic for 20 minutes to get out of the parking lot,
sandwiched between B.C. license plates, beating on my steering wheel while using copious amounts of four-letter words.... But I also knew that—along with a cheese-curd-shaped blockage in my aorta and a maple-syrup-induced blood sugar spike—something had made its my way into my system during those months, which was causing my rage to sputter. Here in the States, amidst our fierce individuality, our fiery patriotism, and our bald eagle-sporting ego, it might be called weakness or apathy, or just dull simplicity. But I would call it kindness. Be it the free healthcare or the mellowing capability of ketchup potato chips, the many communities and ski operations we visited during our winter in B.C. were underlain by a quiet and uniquely Canadian pride. It may seem odd to Americans, but then again, Canadians really don’t care; they’ve got their own good thing going and, despite America’s confusion, are fine with just that. While the madness for first tracks may transcend languages and nationalities, I know this coming season my rage will continue to subside. When some aggro powhound threatens to take my line I’ll still be pissed, but instead of whacking them with my ski pole and yelling obscenities, I’ll tip my toque, wish them well and try to be happy they got some good turns. Unless it’s a hockey game, eh? Then take off, you hoser. y
Yup, we'd say Lynsey Dyer looks pretty pleased with herself.
CANADIANS HAVE THEIR OWN GOOD THING GOING AND, DESPITE AMERICA'S CONFUSION, ARE FINE WITH JUST THAT.
Like they need to advertise this. Location: Whitewater.
Leysa Perotti off the top.
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Taxi?
If you have to jump over the rime, you're probably‌ American. Cody Barnhill on Ymir Peak above Whitewater.
Things were so expensive in Canada that the Americans took to busking for beer at backcountry huts.
Cheers, eh?
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