The two mountains I have been skiing for the last week are the most beautiful and extreme mountains I have ever skied. Whistler Blackcomb has the reputation as being the best place to ski in North American. As far as I can tell it's true. Vail, Ajax, Aspen Highlands, Snowmass and Beaver Creek are all puffed up blues when compared to the extremes on Whistler or Blackcomb Mountain. These mountains are chock-a-block full of orange cliff signs with ski trails leading up to the signs and past them. I don't ski cliffs...I will never ski cliffs. But it's nice to know they are there in case I ever get depressed.
We took a ski lesson the first day primarily because they were free. Our instructor was a man from Japan. Seichi. He was a very nice guy. He was a cook in Japan when he wasn't teaching skiing. (No he doesn't cook American food.) Soon he will have mastered English. All six students in the class said "No Bumps!" when asked what we wanted to do in the class. Seichi says, "Okay. No Bumps!" Everyone smiles...Bumps are for masochists. We follow the Master down the hill into a forrest of Bumps. Seichi says, "Ski Bumps." As we spent the day bouncing down the hill Seichi kept saying to hold the poles like they were newspapers. Apparently they hold newspapers in a unique way in Japan. A little bit like we hold ski poles here in the West. Every so often he would say to you...Good...Like newspaper. The best thing about the lesson was that we got to cut to the front of the lift lines. Talk about evil looks.
"Dude We're learning the Bumps!" At the end of the day after three people had disappeared from the class (swallowed by the Hungry Bumps no doubt) Seichi took us to the top of Whistler Mountain. They had ten feet of snow in January on Whistler Mountain and it was all still there when we got to the top. The sun was brilliant on the snow blossoms and the valleys below us were all filled with clouds. Only the peaks of the other mountains in that part of the Coast Range were visible. We spent twenty minute up there just looking. Seichi told us that in 4 years of teaching at Whistler this was the most beautiful day he had ever seen. I guess the bumps were worth it.
The next day we skied Blackcomb Mountain. Whistler's twin brother. We skied the Blackcomb Glacier and a place called Seventh Heaven. In Colorado you ski the rounded mountains and look across the valleys at the steep stuff. In British Columbia you ski in the sharp stuff. The lines in Seventh Heaven went either down the 50 degree face of Blackcomb Mountain or in the still steep foothills right under the face. It was from another world. Tuesday it was back to Whistler where we skied through the Notch after riding up the only ski lift I have ever been on that scared me. On Wednesday we returned to Blackcomb Mountain. It had snowed the night before so we had powder in Heaven. It was Heaven in Heaven. Thursday it was back to Whistler were we skied the 2010 Olympic Men's Downhill course. I have already asked my boss for two weeks off in 2010 cause I think I can win. As long as I can master the ski pole as newspaper technique which I admit is still a bit foggy to me. Day Six... the last day was back on Blackcomb where we met a seventy-five year old man from Sheffield England that had a Steeler fan for a son. Steeler fans are everywhere. (more on this in a second.)
On day seven we rested. Time to return to the world. The trip back to the world was made easier by the path. Back down the Sea to Sky highway to one of the most beautiful cities in the world....Vancouver. The only city I know of that has the ocean and snow capped peaks in the city limits. I wish I had had more time for Vancouver but a plane to Las Vegas where I would catch the red-eye back to Pittsburgh was waiting for me.
If you have been to Las Vegas you know that the Las Vegas Airport is one of the major portals to and from Hell. After a week of skiing Seventh Heaven and a day puttering around the magical city of Vancouver it is a sad shock to step off a plane and find yourself in the Vegas airport/portal. There is a man on a stretcher in front of a slot machine. The medics seem doubtful. The slots keep on tinkling. As you walk down the corridor to your connection your eyes are raped by backlit wall size ads featuring steroid inflated male strippers from Australia. The All Male Revue from Down Under needs to be buried down under something. The men are all wearing John Travolta Saturday Night Fever head bands and loin clothes. Women of the world please tell me this has no appeal or I will know that I have learned nothing in my life about you.
Of course the corridor leads you to your midnight flight to Pittsburgh...where I have seat 22C on the Ugly Plane. The waiting area is full. Of Them. My fellow Pittsburghers. They are Old...Fat...Bald and....no I've said enough. And this week they are all wearing polyester Black and Gold rags. Winking and Nodding at each other. The Steelers no longer even need to be mentioned. This wink means that play. That nod means this play. The secret language of exhausted Super Bowl winners and slot machine losers. I wanted to run away. Getting on a plane to Pittsburgh is a bucket of cold Iron City in your face. (Hopefully none gets in your mouth.) The vacation never happened. Younz is going home.
22C on a 737 is the last seat in the back of the plane. It is the one seat on the plane that will not go back and it is the seat on the plane next to the only toilet on the plane. It was my seat. The man in 15A wearing the Steeler beret puked eight times that night. It was a victory symphony and I had the best seat in the house. Where are the orange cliff markers when you need them?
