My teachers are undoubtedly beginning to make the connection. When the weather’s cold and stormy, I’m not around. You’d think that my impending graduation would keep me close to the University of Victoria. But when I heard that an Artic air mass was on course to collide with a huge band of moisture from the Pacific, I made the instinctual decision to skip a few classes and travel by land and sea to Whistler/Blackcomb.

I was able to drag a couple friends on the ill-advised mission to the mainland. Ben Ferrel, the little brother of a good friend, and his roommate Kevin shared my irrationality. Actually, aside from the scholastic shitstorm that we were ignoring, the trip was a fantastic idea. We knew we were heading to the right place at the right time.

My entire life has been characterized by stuffing too many people, my dog and my net worth of possessions into small vehicles and traveling along bad roads towards optimal conditions. I hope trend the continues, because for me, that translates into happiness.

The word from our host Matty was that the mountain was deeper than he’d ever skied it. Hearing a claim like that from an eight year resident instantly justified our journey from the Rock. Our educational concerns floated like smoke into the atmosphere. We were ready to shred some mother%$#@ing pow.

Our trip coincided strategically with the first day that the Glacier Chairlift opened to the public. Diamond Bowl confirmed Matty’s claim. A small drop deposited me in snow up to my armpits and the turns afterwards rendered me invisible to my hollering friends. I’ve had some amazing days in the last few weeks, but none of them delivered face shots like these.

That night, I eased my conscience by tackling a small portion of my scholastic workload. While celebrating the day with a few cold ones on the couch, I cracked open The Mysteries of Udolpho, a gargantuan novel from the 18th century with microscopic print. I recommend it—it’s a good drinking book.

The next day, we opted to head up Whistler for the opening of the Peak chair. But with the disadvantage of not having local knowledge, the crowds got to the goods before we did. The decision to head back over to Blackcomb, where I've had the opportunity to follow around M,D and K, was an easy one. After a few zags where other people zigged, we felt like we were heli-skiing sans the $1000 tab.

Flakes were falling through the Arctic air at a promising rate by the end of the day. So instead of driving back and hitting the books, we got drunk, passed out and woke up to 15 cms of cold smoke. Kevin thought that wasn’t enough to get out of bed, so we teased him until he changed his mind. We were slow getting on the hill, but it didn’t matter. The whole mountain was serving up delicious turns, even the lower mountain at the end of the day.

And then it was time to face the music. Mama Nature was cooking up another foot of fresh for the next day, but our collective conscience told us it was time to get back to the world of responsibility. We hopped into our tiny white truck with the unhealthy transmission(?) and limped through the storm back to Victoria.

In the end, the world of responsibility to which we were returning had been thrown into complete disarray by the storm that had made our trip so fun. Victoria looks beautiful under a foot of snow. But it’s got nothing on Whistler/Blackcomb.
I hope my teachers don't read this.