After containing the savage in me, I noticed the snow was coming down hard. Tomorrow was going to be a great day for a great ski. The room where we were staying had four beds, and was quite warm and cozy. It was the perfect bedroom for our group of girls.
Awake. Tired. You can’t slow down though. You got to keep on, keepin’ on. Alright, that’s ridiculous. We lounged for a while. Made some coffee and spiked it with a little fireball. Warms the insides.
Geared up. Ready to go. Hiked the ski out. Skis on. Down and out. Noon and already feeling the effects of the fireball, we headed up the Blackomb Gondola. Unfortunately for the family that got stuck in the gondola with us, Brynn and I babbled on about the fireball, the night before, and the fun that was to ensue.
Before you deserve the right to apres, however, you have to put in the time. Ski it out.
Not feeling my very best, I was skiing like a newb, and uncharacteristically threw a tiny tantrum, in which Brynn responded, “You are going to cause an avalanche with that kind of talk.” I laughed. It was true. I was being absurd, and that was certainly not allowed on the slopes. One breath, two breath. Onward and upward.
Down the mountain. Trail after trail. Snow was great. Music running through my veins, we plowed through trees and bowls, powder and ice. Another epic day of skiing. I insisted we hit the chairlift that overlooks the park.
Spotted. A pig? Take two. There below us was a ridiculously amazing individual wearing a pig onesy. I needed to know this person. ASAP. Pop. Off the chairlift we went in hot pursuit of the pig. Brynn was unimpressed, but I happen to have an affinity for complete weirdos, so I was on it. There is nothing like a uniquely eccentric human being.
Unsuccessful, yet not feeling defeated we headed to the ski in. Success. My second day on the slopes and no epic bails to date.
Back at the cabin. Warm and snuggly. Ski boots off and looking quite fancy in our under ski garments, we stripped, grabbed some beers and things got pretty steamy. Nothing like a warm hot tub surrounded by snow. It’s magical really.
After some much deserved rest and relaxation, the girls and I discussed the night’s plan. After a short and seemingly unnecessary conversation, we came to the conclusion that it was going to be a Maxx Fish kind of night. We were going to get weird, and it was going to be a darn good time.
Coincidentally, one of my friends from San Francisco was also living the Whistler dream. Brock was a Stanford graduate and son to one of the greatest writers of all time, he was interesting, a delightful conversationalist and always up for shenanigans. We insisted he join the girls for a night out. He obliged.
The doorbell. It’s Brock. I popped up, overly excited to see the boys. There they were, tequila in hand. The first tequila of the trip. The troops gathered around the dining room table. One shot. Two shot. Three shot. Four? Uh oh.
With tequila flowing through our veins, the harsh bite of the cold was subdued. We all felt invincible. Down the hill we went. Sick of slipping all over the place I opted for my finest Uggs. My fabulous white down jacket I picked up while living in Milan kept me warm to the bone. Or was that the tequila? At that point, there was really no telling.
Into the village we paraded. We were like kids entering Disneyland for the first time. Each night that special feeling overpowered my entire body. I’m not talking about the alcohol. I’m talking about Whistler. The excitement made my body tingle, and every step I took heightened the elation.
If you have ever been in love, you know what it feels like. That tingly butterflies in your stomach feeling. That feeling consumed me, and wouldn’t escape me until the day I stepped back on that dreaded plane for LA.