1. A CHAIRLIFT ENCOUNTER
Another Sunday in March, two thousand and seven,
The rain kept on coming, pounding and numbing.
Friends flew to the bar like angels to heaven.
But the lift was still spinning and I was still grinning,
Soaked to the skin, and barely alive.

I sat down on the seat, with much sloshing of feet,
And at first paid no attention to the man I now mention
(My awareness was trapped in my body, sans heat).
He had bombed the last pitch, ducked the rope with a twitch,
And plopped on my chair, bearded and duct-taped and not very neat.

The fellow did rouse me, with a voice clear and bright,
“I don’t like the rain, so much moisture in vain,
And temps above zero all through the night.
No snow, only woe, from this damned southwest flow!
A big cursed soaking instead of pow, nice and light.”

2. THE MOUNTAIN CLIMATE OF WESTERN CANADA
I was struck dumb by his wagging tongue.
“You look lost,” he said, sagely nodding his head.
“Let’s start in the Pacific, with a storm, strong and young.
It grows up and moves east, then the Coast Range does feast
On snow warm and wet, and plenty is wrung.”

“For mountains are glad when storms come to play!
A system comes from the ocean with moisture and motion,
Then mountains stand up and get in the way,
Forcing clouds to go up, pouring wet from their cup,
The storm moves on smaller, with a little delay.”

“Then it will rest, and sooner is best.
Behind a tall peak the storm is quite weak,
And keeps much of the moisture close to its chest.
Just ask your Dad-O about the rainshadow,
Or hang out in Osoyoos, be dry and feel blessed.”

“Past Whistler it flows, the land of do-as-you-please.
The pow there is dense, and rain sometimes intense.
Our storm then heads on. Drier and colder, it flees.
Over the plateau, past Kamloops it will go,
Into the Columbias, and the steep-ass deep trees.

“Now the storm is no miser, just older and wiser,
So again the snow falls (but with slightly less balls).
Colder air and less violence becomes an enticer.
Thus the pow is more fluffy on Rogers than Duffy,
The amount may be less, but it feels that much nicer.”

“Then the storm heads up the big Rockies past Golden.
Some moisture remains in its grey cloudy trains;
The Great Divide will soon see what they’re holdin’!
At the height of our land lies the last great demand,
Where the storm spends it all, and its hand is now foldin’!”

“Our storm is well-travelled, tired and old.
At Sunshine and the Lake, the hills get what they take,
They grab it with fences, from wind and cold.
And if you dare look, there might be a Chinook,
A last blast of warm air from a warrior bold!”

3. THE WINTER WEATHER SYSTEMS OF WESTERN CANADA
“Storms move west to east, it all seems so plain,
And mountain ranges three set the clouds’ water free.
Yet to find the best snow there is more to explain!
It all comes to pass from prevailing air mass,
Just give me a light and I’ll still entertain!”

With that he laughed and pulled out a smoke,
And lit up a butt, that silly old nut
(Though it smelled sort of funny and he started to choke).
“So the Coast gets the most and the Rockies the least,
With Columbias between, under winter’s snow cloak.”

“An ocean storm from northwest, when seen from the sky,
Is a gargantuan swirl, a big cloudy whirl,
Called Aleutian Low Pressure, oh me oh my!
It then spanks the land, with a cool wet hand,
And brings snow to the people, unless there be a High!”

“A High is a curse and a blessing of sorts,
It has air that is colder and drier and bolder,
So blue skies and no snow are its major imports.
The trouble arrives when a High comes to stay,
For sweet Lows may bounce off it with a few whiny snorts.”

“Now of this High Pressure, there are two major kinds,
The first is born in Pacific, west or south is specific.
When it comes to Vancouver, nobody minds,
For they need winter sun; if this High is not done,
Even out in the Koots they may open the blinds!”

“Pacific High does not last in a nice stormy blast,
Unlike its bad twin with the cold Arctic grin!
When Arctic High comes, put the flags at half mast.
Cold air from the Pole drops into Alberta,
When it spills out to the west, the snowfall stops fast!”

“There is one more sort of air mass to discuss,
Born near Hawaii, it is mighty, but gross!
The Pineapple Express is a warm winter bus,
To the ridges it rains, causing great pains,
Smashing the shredding with a big sloppy fuss!”

4. WHY THE INTERIOR RULES
“And so, by-and-by, through blown mind and blown knee,
There are no two winters the same in this great chaos game!
But the snow always covers every rock, every tree.
And our thighs will yet burn, and we’ll get good turns,
For the best pow to be had is yours to go ski!”

“In middle BC, we see nature’s cahoots,
Compared to the Coast, our dry pow is the most,
Cold on the face, but not wet in the boots.
Next to the Rockies, our temps are less shocky,
And we get way more snow (hence the hollers and hoots)!”

5. WHY YOU SHOULD SKI IN THE RAIN ANYWAY
“That’s why,” he said, “I’ll ski here ‘till I’m dead.”
And so he spoke, and finished his smoke,
Then pulled out spare goggles, which he placed on his head.
“But that does not explain, here in the rain,
Why YOU are still riding, when all others have fled.”

“That’s simple,” said I, “and you may get my notion.
For I could be lurking in an office and working,
Way up in Cowtown, or down by the ocean.
But I’d rather be skiing, be it pow or clouds peeing,
Because that’s what I got, growing up Nova Scotian!”

Yours in snow,
TC