From across the globe, skiers and snowboarders gravitate towards this youthful utopia and #humblebrag their way to the top of their friends’ Facebook feeds. Instantly recognizable landmarks dot the background of their Instagram photos. Their Vine videos capture chairlift smiles and minigolf cliff drops to whiteout landings. They walk amongst sponsored mountain gods in lift lineups scattered amongst a seemingly endless sea of alpine peaks. A spectrum of languages and dialects ring out, reminding these visitors they are where they should be. German, French, Kiwi, Mandarin, Aussie, Slovene…the cacophony is empowering, uplifting, energetic. And the skiing? Well, the skiing is why everyone comes.
can score a sweet snap-button cowboy shirt from the funky used clothing store. And you can get a used snowboard from the buy-andsell section of the community corkboard in that same store. The mountain is 30 minutes away. It gets wetter-than-preferable coastal snow. The wind can be brutal. The tempestuous storms that rattle out of the Pacific Ocean leave
The trees here sag under weight of the heavy snowfall forming snow that stand at lazy attention on the horizon.
In these mountains—alongside millions of others—I’ve dug deep into bottomless coastal snowpack. I’ve skied beneath the towering timbers that only exist thanks to an endless deluge of Pacific precipitation. Here the moisture is your friend. When it blows sheets of rain sideways through the concrete streets of Vancouver it is absolutely puking here. When umbrellas fold out on themselves along Robson St. hardcore locals are pulling Gore-Tex hoods over their toques and pushing off into deep, dark woods full of white treasures. You know this town. It is the one you think it is. It is paradise.
ghosts
I left this town behind. behind thick coats of rime as they continue on to gift other mountains with lighter and lighter snow until they finally lose power somewhere over the foothills of Alberta. The trees here sag under weight of the heavy snowfall locals still insist on calling “powder,” forming snow ghosts that stand at lazy attention on the horizon. When the sun comes out—and it rarely does—the full glory of the Strait of Georgia stretches below you. The runs are short. The lifts are empty. It seldom quits snowing.
I moved to another town. One you have probably never heard of. It has a main street in the way that old towns in movies featuring gunfights have a main street. One street where everything you need is situated. There is no zipline. You cannot buy a smiling plastic polar bear in a snowball with the name of this town etched into the base. You can buy a bottle of beer for $3.75. You can purchase a steak from an actual butcher. You can ride stunning singletrack 49 out of 52 weeks. You
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