Whistler in the Rough

By Frederick W. Johns

A monthly walk toward the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver and Whistler, B.C. distinguishes recreation as the currency of choice, but nature has its own agenda, and get-rich-quick schemes historically continue to threaten the core of the Whistler lifestyle. Imagine a romp toward February 2010 where a series of rough and tumble mountain sports enthusiasts collide in an avalanche of errors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danforth Book Distribution
• Release date: Jan 5, 2010

Frederick W. Johns

Rick has a B.A. in Sociology but a Master's degree in skiing. He has worked and played around the globe, always looking for that next adventure. He attended the Olympics in Sarajevo, traveled the length of South America by bus, and spent two years sailing his 35-foot sailboat from the Puget Sound to the Panama Canal and up to Annapolis, Maryland, with his wife, Helle. He currently transcribes documents for the Trauma I hospital in Seattle and is planning another trip to build memories to share in future writings, both nonfiction and fiction.

Book preview

Whistler in the Rough

Frederick W. Johns

Ardea Communications • Seattle WA

Book Publishers Network

P.O. Box 2256

Bothell • WA • 98041

Ph • 425-483-3040

www.bookpublishersnetwork.com

Copyright © 2010 by Frederick W. Johns

Graphic clipart © 2010 Jupiterimages Corporation

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LCCN 2009910828

ISBN13 978-0-615-31252-1

Editor: Vicki McCown

Cover Designer: Laura Zugzda

Typographer: Stephanie Martindale

For Mom

Who showed me the world

Contents

1. MAY 2009

2. JUNE 2009

3. JULY 2009

4. AUGUST 2009

5. SEPTEMBER 2009

6. OCTOBER 2009

7. NOVEMBER 2009

8. DECEMBER 2009

9. JANUARY 2010

10. FEBRUARY 2010

11. JUNE 2010

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my sincere appreciation to Sue Varland, teacher extraordinaire, who tolerated my first draft and encouraged me to carry on. Also to Adam Findley who gave me excellent guidance even if I didn’t always listen. A special thanks to Vicki McCown who wove her way into my psyche hammering out all those sentences that didn’t make sense. I also want to thank Sheryn Hara and her talented group at Book Publishers Network for turning my story into an exceptional book. Above all I want to thank my wife, Helle Andersen, my persistent assistant, for her understanding when the weather was too good to stay inside writing and more sailing, skiing, hiking, swimming, biking or kayaking awaited us.

Never underestimate the power of snow descending from above as a mere snowflake. For the residents of Whistler snow can mean the difference between an oxygen bar and asthma. They need snow but, most of all, they love snow. When the temperature has dropped and the rains come down, they know that not so far up, snowing is falling and all is wonderful in the world. But if it’s still raining up there, they know it may be time to pull out the inhalers and hold their wallets close as well. They recognize that sometimes winter comes slowly with warm storms stealing away the promise of early winter.

By spring, though, skiers understand the snow must melt away and they can’t have it back for six months or so. Like a treasure found and lost, they resign themselves to other pursuits, reminisce on another quiver of memories, and hope the next winter season will come along quickly. Summer works out all right but snow is to breathe for, to live for that bit of heaven floating down to earth. Snow blankets Whistler, making dreams come true for skiers and snowboarders, sledders, shredders, pinheads, and even skaters. Snow breathes life into an otherwise mountain among mountains for the critters of Whistler/Blackcomb, but snow courses through the veins of those who know and many years ago the skiers transformed Whistler into a mountain of mountains.

Spring brings blustery weather and the snow is lost to springtime rainy soggy days. Creeks develop beneath your feet and dribble and gurgle along their way, destined for lower, always lower land until they blend with the Pacific. Clouds hang low on the mountains so folks don’t even look up to that lost treasure for days or even weeks, as the mountains are just gray with water-drenched sky above and their treasure found is once again melted and skiing is done for the year. Water melted by water. It’s what some call a double wet. Wet rain.

Then again, if a skier isn’t too picky, there is glacier skiing and even some occasional snowfall right into June or starting back up again as early as August. Rare, but treasure always is, isn’t it? And the whizzies, as the locals are called, know something about treasure. They thrive on any hint of anything hard to get, easy to lose, thrilling to find, and downright debilitating to ignore. Treasure comes with the Northwest Territory; the history, the climate, the nature, the fever that treasure creates. Whizzies know hardship and hard-won fun, and they understand fun is one of the best-kept secrets in the world. And if that work-fun ratio can be tilted a bit, then let the prize be unveiled and may the best one win who finds that state of mind and love of nature not so easily found elsewhere.

In the meantime, May 15, 2009, was just another workday in the off season with no treasure in sight.

* * *

Sunrise had just started to hit the peaks when Della stepped outside the bakery to put out yesterday’s trash. She blew her black bangs out of her eyes and stepped up to the dumpster. Then she ducked as she felt a whoosh of air by her ear and heard the familiar caw, caw, caw.

Hey! It’s a bit early to be out harassing people, isn’t it? Darn you, Coconut. I’ve got your number. Don’t you think we know who you are or where you live? she said irritably. Then she ran back inside before he could take another swipe at her.

It’s the spring, her dad, Alberto, said smiling as she quickly closed the door. Seems everybody gets a little crazy this time of year.

Yeah, well, that one’s dizzy about something. He was out there waiting for me yesterday too. Della washed her hands and wiped them dry on her apron.

Alberto confessed, I think I dropped a bun out there the other day. Now he wants seconds. Alberto’s hair showed a little black-going-gray. One day Della realized he couldn’t out-ski her anymore, but then she couldn’t wear his apron. He thought she truly excelled outside the bakery when she could put a little muscle into her ways and means, out-skiing, hiking, biking all her girlfriends and a lot of guys.

Dad, you ought to know better. At least his girlfriend’s got some manners, but that one—especially this time of year—he’s trying to prove something or other.

Yeah, just don’t make him mad. He’s got a pretty good memory.

Della snapped a dish towel at him. Exactly why you shouldn’t encourage him with treats, baker maker.

Well, he and his lady just looked so sweet together huddled shoulder to shoulder the other morning. And they looked hungry.

He doesn’t act so sweet right now, though, does he? she said while running a rack of bread out to the front.

Alberto thought this might be a good time to change the subject to one that had been building up for a few days. He liked to think he had an inside straight on the village, but it looked like he might get trumped with four jacks. He just couldn’t figure out what his buddies might be up to this year. He smiled without confidence and ventured into the abyss.

Della, I know something’s up. I see you whispering, catching someone’s eye, running outside to talk a minute. It’s my birthday next week, and I think you’re up to no good, he said, hoping for a clue.

Della was setting tables with her back to him, so he couldn’t see her smile. Oh? Yeah, I guess that’s right. But, no, I’m not up to anything.

"Yeah, daughter, and I don’t suppose you know anything about my conversation with Eddy the other day. We were talking about his next editorial in the Whistler Wind. I brought up the Olympics next year, and out of the clear Fitzsimmons he says to me, he says, ‘Islands in the stream.’ Then Eddy tried to cover his tracks and got all cross-eyed and said, ‘Whistler is just a ‘rest stop in the grand scheme of the world’s stream,’ or some such nonsense. He’s up to something. Eddy doesn’t say funny stuff like that."

Della turned back toward the kitchen. Really? He’s always telling me funny stuff.

Well, that’s just ‘cause you’re cute and he’ll practice flirting with anybody.

That’s not flirting. C’mon, Eddy’s one of our best buddies. He likes to entertain. Then she smiled, thinking of his stories and the one she wanted to share now. Just the other day he was remembering some TV commercial he missed. It went ‘Cuckoo for coconuts, cuckoo for coconuts!’ I think… he said. But she paused too much and Alberto caught the clue, dropping his coffee.

There, there! That’s another one. See, you just dropped another one. You’re up to something, he grinned. Just don’t go dropping Coconut on my dinner plate next week. I’ll get it. I’ll get to the top of this.

Della tried kicking herself and that hurt a bit so she ignored her dad and finished up with sorting through all the myriad of magazines and brochures lying about the corner nook.

Then Alberto hit a dry spell for some days to dwell on his few clues.

* * *

A few days later Alberto was just walking over to Village Square to deliver a couple dozen croissants to one of his favorite girls when he bumped into Clay as he was coming out of the grocery store. Clay made an occasional fortune selling condominiums but mostly golfed and skied. A natural athlete, Clay still looked pretty good, but since he didn’t much care for exercise, the years were gathering momentum.

Alberto smiled happily and said, Morning, Clay. How’s things?

Clay replied, Doing great, Big Fatty. How about yourself?

Big Fatty? Alberto wondered, whispering to himself after he passed Clay. He turned around and yelled back, Same to you, buddy! Neither looked particularly overweight, and the two men usually got along pretty well. Then Alberto realized that Clay was probably in on the birthday joke too. He didn’t have a lot to go on yet, but Big Fatty was better than nothing.

When he went back to the bakery he found Della pulling out of the oven what looked like dozens and dozens of slightly curled French fries.

And what is the surprise cookie this week? he asked looking at them without much hope of selling any.

Conch fritters, she said happily.

What the heck is that?

Stewart walked in and sat in his usual place, a corner window alongside some of Alberto’s fossil collection. Sheriffs have a way of sitting anywhere they please and they tend to sit as if on duty, always with an eye swirling around, even during their breaks.

Isn’t that something pink flamingos eat? he suggested with his usual canted smile, one corner a little lower than the other.

Now I know that look, Stu, Alberto said, and I’m pretty sure you don’t know a darn thing about pink flamingos or couch flitters, but I can smell a couple of doughnut holes a mile away.

Alberto looked somewhat perturbed at these two, what he called cookie cutters, making faces at him and snortling over by the front corner window. The problem was he didn’t know anything about pink flamingos or clogged filters either. He rubbed his tan face and scratched his long eyebrows in frustration, then disappeared back into the kitchen to look over some bakery recipes he’d been dreaming about.

* * *

Treasure has been a part of these mountains ever since gold and silver were first mined in the mid 1800s since logs have been milled and stories have been told. Back in 1877, the Pemberton Trail found its way linking the Pemberton Valley with the Pacific Coast, allowing access to lumber and mining that had until then been reserved only for the hardiest trappers and prospectors. Progress was slow, taking decades. In 1910 Myrtle and Alex Philip arrived from Maine and built the famous Rainbow Lodge on Alta Lake, which opened in 1914. Only then did the railroad, officially the BC Rail, link Alta Lake to Vancouver and Whistler, the latter which became a real base for logging and mining. Slow progress indeed. Nearly forty more years passed until other lodges opened in the 1950s and Whistler became a bona fide summer resort.

Then, like a spark of mountain-top lightning, someone looked up on a winter day and recognized another treasure would take hold in the surrounding mountains. In 1965 Garibaldi Whistler Mountain opened with a four-person gondola, one double chairlift, and two T-bars. By 1969 a two-lane paved road ran from Whistler to Pemberton. That was enough progress for some time. The first modern day whizzies must have felt they landed in some kind of heaven no one else had ever heard about. It took another ten years to get around to developing a town center, what with all the great skiing to be had first. They only had to look across a wide valley divided by a little creek to see more, great vertical to be had. That slice of skiing perfection became Blackcomb, which opened in 1980.

Treasures are never a secret for long, though, and the whizzies knew they either had to grab on tight and go for the ride or just remain tag-along ski bums with day jobs that got in the way. Most didn’t make enough income to stay, actually, as is often the case with too much powder skiing, but many did and rode that bull right straight into the bank lobby, making Whistler the number-one ski resort in North America in 1992. After Whistler and Blackcomb merged in 1998, the new venture enjoyed the distinction of being the top resort many times in the following decade. When in 2003 the folks in Vancouver and Whistler won the bid for the 2010 Winter Olympics, some of that treasure would be redefined—for better or worse. But, sure as sun in July, all treasure is elusive, as they well knew.

Whistler is the human condition all laid out before the whizzies’ very eyes. One man’s treasure is another’s treasure lost, and treasures always have a way of being more than they seem or less than is known. They exist if only in someone’s dreams and can come alive as nebulous barroom fish tales or as solid as concrete. However the latest whizzie’s dream comes about, it is always with great cheer and encouragement by the fellow whizzies of Whistler for yet another grand scheme too good to be true but held in high regard for its style or loftiness.

History shows a cruel side to nature’s gifts and the locals know this, so they stick together rather than get so far out there in their grand Wild West independence as to live life a tad shorter than necessary. So they entertain themselves with stories and conjure up something to go outside and fight about. But they always come back inside and have another talk to work things out. The locals know what to do. They understand their actions have consequences, but that treasure can have ramifications no one can see coming, making it all the more fun and all that more, well, treasurely. Like those gamblers of old, they still dream and pray, watch for luck, hoping for enough and pursuing their treasure. Those more firmly on the ground create their dream, their own living themselves, as Whistler has come to mean home to whizzies before and after it grew into a top o’ the crock resort like none other.

* * *

In the midst of it all, no one realized they were being watched year after year, morning until night. It’s not the sort of place people felt they needed to look over their shoulder or saddle up into a corner chair. Because it never occurred to them that the onlookers peered down from above and followed them around, the whizzies never had the opportunity to turn the tables on them. Those funny critters had no opinion one way or the other, but the whizzies found them a mystery. Though most of the time folks didn’t look twice at them, they always looked once. They didn’t know the crows of Whistler had been watching them for generations.

The crows of the world are as wild as any Asian tiger but as common as backyard squirrels. Most people don’t even talk about them. They scavenge but within a respectful distance both from humans and for humans. Most people can’t tell one crow from another so we don’t even ask ourselves, Who are they?

A couple of hundred years ago people might have been watched by crows that knew only the First Nation people who wandered through the primal forest. A hundred years later, the miners and loggers were watched by the descendants of those crows. Later, more crow descendants looked down to see buildings and the railroad, and garbage, pendants, and pocket watches. Another generation looked down to see hikers and skiers, picnic crumbs and compasses, trail mix and apples, coins and wallets.

Crows either pass on their knowledge to each new generation or they learn quickly, for nothing gets left around very long.

The crows here in spring are at their best. Sometimes they sit side by side as lovers do, shoulder to shoulder, and just simply hang out together and watch the world go by. Whizzies—the oldest, longstanding generation of Whistler folk—are pretty good at that too, but they sense these birds are keen observers. For most of the year, they act just like birds. But when mating season comes around, they put on a performance one would swear must be for the benefit of the whizzies down below. The acrobatic act crows perform could shame a champion snowboarder. Anyone paying attention would have seen them do 360-degree rolls one way and back the other. They marveled to see them even do flip head-first, wings tucked in, somersaulting wildly head over heels, then spreading their wings out again in the hope their mate is watching. Of course, they get to fighting a bit too, but mostly it was all in fun, as crows know something about fun too.

Like ol’ Coconut. Everyone knew the crow with the speckled-white wingtip. He came from a long lineage of thieves and had developed into a thief extraordinaire. Twice a year—in early June and late October—a guy named Ben Barker followed Coconut to where he seemed to roost at night. Ben went out, watched for a day or two, and then figured exactly which tree. Then he took some climbing gear and finagled how to get to Coconut’s roost to collect the yearly stash of watches, keys, jewelry, sunglasses, and cell phones. Eddy devoted a column in the paper to each season’s reclaimed treasure and folks came and identified their lost items. Coconut picked up trinkets off the slopes, the tops of cars, picnic blankets, and picnic tables. He wasn’t picky. People said Coconut was rich, able to give jewelry and other prize possessions to his gal, who was always by his side. Whizzies named her Connie because she could con a man, an intelligent being some say, out of anything he ate.

Coconut started his day early at the northwest end of Alta Lake. He took a