Robin needed his truck in Whistler so we loaded it up and charged him for the gas. The windsheild wipers were rotten and the radio busted, but we didnt have time to waste. We needed to be on the first chair the next morning. We got as far as Golden before we resigned ourselves to the fact that we needed new wipers and tunes. Driving in the early hours of the morning would demand some hardcore rock and roll to keep us rolling.






We pulled in from the fog and snow haunting the Trans Canada Hwy and bought some new wiper blades from the gas station. The clean swish across the glass felt like wiping the sleep out of our tiring eyes and gave us new hope. The attendant pointed us in the direction of an electronics store where we might be able to buy some speakers for the Ipod. In the store the guy stood and shook his head at us. We were driving to Whistler through a snow storm that had set Golden and Rogers Pass up for prime time powder. It really was an absurd plan. Why chase a storm down scary roads when it had already arrived?

The idea of locking the truck and getting a burger and beer and enjoying some sleep crossed our minds briefly, but Whistler had gotten over 4m of snow in November. Yes November! That was reason enough to hit Whistler. And since the storm we were driving through had already left a copious amount of fresh pow in its wake and the next system already taking effect, we had to go. We were in the priveleged position to go where ever it was good, and it was best in Whistler.






The salesman simultaneously envied and scolded us, but he also took pity on us, giving us a discount on our speakers and so we forged on into the mystery of the next bend in the road. Progress was slow. Up and over Rogers Pass we poked, white knuckeled and spilling salsa down my shirt for fear of taking my eyes off the road. The fog was dense and had substance that resisted the trusty old truck as it waded through the night. We crept along at 40km/h on 100km/h stretches of road.

On the other side of the pass, bound for Kelowna we gained momentum as the small speakers belted out tinny, bassless tunes. The snow had turned to rain and the wipers only worked on the fastest setting. It was all or nothing for those blades; and for us.






I tagged out and crawled into the backseat to steal some sleep as we climbed over the Kokahala Highway. All the while though, the precipitation continued to precipitate and while it was wet on our windshield, it would be frozen and fluffy in the mountains. If we made it, it would have been a good choice. If not, we would be sitting in the rain on Hastings St in Vancouver, our faces pressed against the clammy windows with the doors locked.

Once we hit Vancouver I took over again with renewed energy and stoke. We were close now. Really close. Climbing from the ocean back into the mountains the mercury dropped and the snow began to fall. And so did the fuel gauge. We had come so far and then were were about to blow it. Luckily we made it to Squamish and grabbed a top up. The old truck wasn't so effient however and we nearly ran out again nearing the Whistler Village. The snow was accumulating by the minute and we were pinching ourselves that we had gambled and won.






We creeped up the stairs at 3.30am and stepped over the half dozen other storm-chasers that had trickled in from the all over the contry in anticipation of the weather system that had graced the Coast Mountains. Scratching out a spot on the floor we passed out in nervous anticipation for the coming day.

We all awoke to the sound of bombs and Matty frying eggs as Robin finally walked through the door with Doug Ward at 7.30am. They might have arrived late, or early, which ever way you want to describe it, but they definitely weren't late for the first chair.

And it was epic. Everybody cruised as a huge relolving posse, splitting off and catching up to others, only to ski the next run with another buddy. We all got what we had come for. When the day was done we all snuggled down on the boys floor with dozens of boot liners stacked by the fire like grandchildren sitting around grandad as he tells a story. Laying there with grins on our faces, the elements applauded our appreciation and continued to dump 50cms of fresh throughout the night.






Thursday morning brought unrivaled stoke. The house was jumping as everybody piled into cars to get to the gondola. It would be one of the deepest days ever. Mossop wanted to shoot pictures, but couldn't stop, and when he did, Dom, Matty and the boys just disappeared in a cloud of white. Forget that. “Just shred,” became the motto. The alpine didn't open keeping eveybody off the Glacier chair and out of Spanky's. We were just going to have to do it all over again the next day.

I'll spare you the superlatives and turn for turn comentary- you get the idea. And to be honest, it was so deep, you could barely get you skis off the fall line with out stopping.






The Biglines.com Freeride Scholarship Final was on that night and everybody managed to drag their tired bodies out to see Nelson local and former Whistler shredder MC Larivee take home the cash before we all hit the sack again in order to recharge the batteries for Saturday and more of the same.

It is days after now and it is still going on- ground-hog day. Everynight , white, frozen, stellar flakes tumble down, and in the morning we rise to go ride the mountain with friends. Now I'm here in Whistler, Im not leaving any time soon. Im taking a leaf out of Allan Weisenbecker's surf odyssey, “In Search of Captain Zero”- never drive away from a storm.