The "Magic" of Whistler, the Hangovers and my Hereditary Fear of Heights

After a bad lunch at a high altitude, I set out to do a few more runs.
I started down a different route than before, and rather quickly lost my way. Luckily, a nice Aussie skier named Serge (Note: 90% of the population at Whistler is Australian for some reason) was kind enough to lend me a hand.



"You okay, mate?"



"Well, I think I'm lost. I don't know these routes."



"Do you want circle-runs (easy hills)?"



"Definitely. I kind of suck."



"No worries, mate, just follow me."



I followed in his exact tracks for some time, and gained a few more experience points on how to properly carve the wider hills. However, halfway through the run, the visibility became so poor, that I momentarily lost track of him. After a minute, a shadow in the distance banked off to the right hill. Assuming this was Serge, I followed him. And then, off to the left, I hear a slightly distant, "No! Not that way!"



Black diamond.



Cliff. Air...land. No crash yet. Steep hill.



"OhfuckohfuckohfuckI'mgonnadieohfuck..."

Straight down. Moguls, deep powder. More jumps and small cliffs. Blind.



"ohfuckfuckfuckingshitfuck"



Final jump. Land. Done. Fall over, vomit. More vomit.



A few people stopped by to see if I was dying. The snowmobile passed by and asked me if I wanted a lift. I declined, and continued my panic attack. Perhaps it was the altitude sickness, the bad lunch, and the near-death experience, but the vomit hurt worse than any vomit I can remember. And then, a voice approaching.



"That was fucking awesome mate! You did it!"



That was my last black diamond for the entire trip, and probably for the rest of my life.



When they close the lifts is when the accomplishment really sets in. The endorphins are kicking into overdrive, and the crew rallies for a beer at the bottom of the hill in the saloon cranking Prince and Blink 182 in the same breath. I tell them my story, and they talk about the amazing tricks they did off the beaten path. I see the pictures. They're really good. I wonder if I'll ever be able to do what I see in these shots.



Day time to starlight, we collectively soak in the hot tub, eat, and pre-drink for a night on the town. I'm an out-and-proud homosexual, so the thought of female rejection doesn't really faze me. However, my heart goes out to almost every non-aussie male person in each of these bars, as they're completely fucked in the wake of this continental invasion.



The girl: "Hi boys!"



"Hey, my name's Matthew, I'm a law-practicing, orphan de-worming doctor with a Ph.D in astrophysics and kindness."



"Oi! Name's Ken, and I work in a gas station down under, mate! I love nacho cheese and old spice!"



The girl: "Oh Ken, you're so smart and hardcore, let's drink more and have the wild sex."



Luckily, we managed to find an Australian doctor staying in our lodge who was kind enough to get the lot of us completely hammered. There's probably more of a story here, but there's too much liquor to cloud it at this point. Maybe it's better left forgotten.



And then the terror sinks in. The next day, I'm up on the lift to Whistler mountain, alone, and I make the mistake of looking down. Apparently, when I am hung over, I gain my father's hereditary fear of heights. This does not bode well, and the brilliant sensation I felt yesterday with all that bullshit about the view down in relation to the ride downyadayada having been replaced by a notion of absolute and incredible fear.



The entire morning, I went about twice as slow as the previous day, which on a busy mountain like Whistler, is incredibly humiliating. I had to deal with the entire mountain's populace moving past me, including the so-called "Whistler kids." These are children, around five or six, who have no poles, wear gay little vests, and ski in proper line with their instructor.



And they always passed me.



"Watch out, guys, there are a lot of beginners on this hill, and we don't want to hurt them." I want to stab that bitch in the face with my pole. How dare she! These kids are fucking posers. They're just cocky little fucks who think they can walk all over the terrified guy's confidence. They don't even have poles! I'm a professional! I have poles.



In short, there is no worse feeling in the world than allowing kindergarteners to get the best of you, especially at the age of 22.



I remedied the situation by having a salad for lunch, and about a litre of water. The mountain is forgiving to hopeless alcoholics, and it let me ride down my final slopes good and proper. Of course, for the second half, I switched back to Blackcomb. It's much less tragic to be humiliated by 'roided Aussies than people who can't tie their own shoes.



The last few rides were much better. They were routes with which I was now familiar, and empty, because most beginners start at Whistler and end up on Blackcomb for the hard runs. Miraculously, in all of this, I didn't bail once. I fell the first day during the Ottho speed-course, and that was it. That, coupled with the black diamond the day before, made me feel quite content with my ability by the end.



I celebrated my last run, halfway down, with a cigarette. I sat on the side near some trees, and watched the skiing families and boarding friends bomb down the hill on the last run of their weekend. It's hard to describe the feeling I had watching this. It's like a sense of proper balance. The father teaching his daughter how to carve, the daughter teaching his father how to put on his goggles properly. The skier shooting some photos of the boarder, the boarder spraying the face of the skier. The squirrels fucking, the snow falling, and the view of the village, and I conceded that this place is, indeed, quite the magical place.



That, and there's the part where I finished my cigarette and heard a loud "GET OUT OF THE WAY!" shortly before a twelve-year old kid crashed into my face with full force.



Everything is symmetrical.