This piece was originally published in SKIER magazine in 2004. Since then, things have changed in Fernie – some of the story stands true today (like the incredible skiing) and some has changed. Still, if you haven’t skied there, you should be planning a trip. Right. Now.
Growing Pains
The challenges of rapid development may make Fernie, B.C. an imperfect paradise but it’s a paradise nonetheless.
The question is inevitable. On the chair lift, at the bar, hitchhiking; Fernie residents have one question on their mind and it’s bound to come sooner rather then later. The coalminers deliver it with arrogant, almost aggressive confidence. The rookies; steezy, doo-rag clad Manitobans and trendy, former urbanites from Vancouver ask it with genuine interest, curious of your seniority in the peculiar caste system of ski town credibility. The tourists seem to inquire out of sheer awkwardness, bankrupt of anything relevant to say and nervous in the presence of someone who knows their way around a ski-town. Nevertheless, the question remains the same, “so…are you from Fernie?”
A classic question in a classic ski town but in Fernie the answer you give has become something much more important than friendly banter. It’s a status symbol, a sign of rank, and a measurement of your worth in the hierarchy of the ski bum microcosm. The recent accelerated growth of the tourist trade in this Kootenay powder haven has left angry coal-miner locals seeking revenge for the loss of “their” town. Many of the original transplants who moved here 8-12 years ago in the glory days have become bitter over the shameless marketing of “their” hill as a destination resort. As the case is so often, the tourists are blind to it all and blissful in their ignorance, much more interested in Fernie’s legendary powder than the conflict surrounding its management. Despite their differences, everyone in this divided little town seems to have an invested interest in just how long you’ve lived here. It’s that interest that forms the basis of Fernie’s unusual, nay, unique environment.
On the surface of Fernie’s exterior it appears to be the typical, almost cliché Kootenay ski town. Massive snow banks divide narrow roads pocked with potholes and rippled from the frost heaves of a town pounded with over nine meters of snow annually. Skiers are everywhere; there is a noticeable lack in the lanyard headband-holding-back-unkempt-hair steez now associated with our confused sport. In fact, mention steez to a Fernie-ite and you’ll get a confused look and an honest “What the hell is Steez?” There are no sponsored freeskiers here and only a handful of professional photographers. It seems that most Fernie skiers are content to leave that part of our culture to the Whistler folk, preferring to stick to the traditional dirtbag ski culture; ripe with duct tape, old fatties and a worn pair of skins. It’s about skiing here, It has to be. This is a town with very little tolerance for unnecessary glitter and it’s no more evident then in the eyes of the locals.
The big Dodge is bad-ass. There’s no doubt about that. The sled in the back is just what a ski bum dreams about; big enough to pull a skier and all his gear up a mountain…or an adult moose out of the backcountry for that matter, a completely likely situation as the owner of the sled is almost as big as a moose and twice as territorial. His gaze shifts unapprovingly towards a lone skier walking along the road toward him. The day-glo Arctic Cat jacket serves as a warning flag to the disheveled dirt bag wading thru the roadside slush; skis over the shoulder, head down, exhausted from bagging a days worth of turns in what could be the worlds best slack-country skiing. The skier has dealt with these men before. These fashion-challenged folk are dangerous; volatile individuals who believe conflict to be a source of entertainment, a way to balance the monotony of everyday routine and a means to maintain the confines of ignorance. Late nights at closing time outside the bar on 2nd Ave. have taught the skier to exercise caution in the company of these men. Avoiding eye contact, he crosses the road quickly.
This intolerance runs like a theme throughout the Fernie experience. The coalminers don’t want you, the notoriously unstable Rocky Mountain snowpack will kill you if given half a chance and the skiers have little time to show you the goods. Growing pains from recent resort expansion and tourism growth have had a noticeable impact on the skiing experience and many local skiers are slow to share “their” hill. Why would they? Despite a media onslaught in former years Fernie still remains relatively underrated and continues to offer, arguably, the best snow in the country. The in-bounds terrain is unparalleled in the Kootenays and the backcountry is easily accessible, offering up the diversity of terrain that modern day freeskiers demand. There’s no question why locals of skier and roughneck variety, want to keep everyone out. The only question is…have they succeeded?
Ross Janzen, Lost Boys Pass, Fernie Alpine Resort slackcountry
The repetitive beats echo throughout the towering alder trees as flames lick the last of the melted P-tex from an old pair of Kastles. The music is uninspired, the mood…hostile. What was once a backwoods get-together for the small, dedicated ski scene has now become a drug-fueled, teenage rave, an outlet for the disillusioned, the confused and the angry. The skier can’t help but feel old as he recalls the classic parties named after the namesake coffee/Kaluha/rum concoction, the Mogulsmoker. The burning skis, the camaraderie, the casualness. It’s gone, replaced by admission fees, food vendors and pungent porta-potties. Rock n’ roll has succumbed to tedious trip-hop. The skiers have been replaced by insecure young girls in tight shirts and the sexually frustrated teenage boys who chase them. He’s had enough. As he digs deep for shuttle fare home, a fight breaks out to the right of him. He turns his back and walks away.
Like the ever-evolving sport responsible for Fernie’s growth, the past eight years have been a time of transformation and growth for the people who live there. Former ski bums are finding new careers opening B&B’s, auto repair shops and ethnic restaurants. Unfortunately, for every desperately needed sushi bar or Thai diner built, the landscape is branded with yet another logo of North American convenience. The main drag is in grave danger of becoming another strip of golden arches and neon boredom. Fernie Snow Valley has died and in its ashes the equally beautiful Fernie Alpine Resort has risen. The perpetually slow but always moving Bear t-bar has been retired, leaving a lonely brick hut beside the much faster, mechanically-plagued Great Bear chair as the sole reminder of a simpler time. Everywhere there seems to be an underlying conflict, a struggle for balance between the fruits of growth and the loss of skiing’s soul. The one constant, the glue that holds this small, fragmented town together is the skiing. A powerful adhesive comprised of equal parts powder, trees, cliffs and eternal skier stoke; a Fernie powder day is infectious. It swims in your bloodstream and fucks with your thought patterns, eradicating all alien, non-skiing brain activity. All neurons are firing in sync with every faceshot, every weightless air, every single turn. It’s these times when you understand why Fernie skiers endure the hardships of a burgeoning ski Mecca. It’s the reason we put up with asshole rednecks and the perpetually growing influx of tourists. It’s the motivation behind putting up with tyrannical pass price increases, the burden of minimum wage and a severe, debilitating lack of decent Mexican food. Life in Fernie can be challenging but it’s these days; these perfect, beautiful days that make it all worth it.
The bar reeks of sweat and stank feet. Steamy bodies emerge from peeled back layers of Gore-tex, seeking cold draft and overpriced nachos to quench the fatigue that can only come from a true Fernie powder day. Because the grooming here is not excellent, despite what the snow phone says. There is no piste here; no need for edges, no desire for carving. There are no easy cliffs here; only hold-on-to-that-branch-make-a-quick-right-jump-turn-and-point-em’-make-sure-you-clear-those-rocks-silliness. It’s deep, delicious powder. It’s long traverses weeding out the snowboarders on your path to steep, sexy fall-lines. It’s respect born out of fear of the Lizard Range’s tendency to kill without prejudice. It’s sinuous lines down raucous faces. It’s sphincter-clenching tech lines through rockbands leading to double-drops. Most of all, its open, alabaster bowls and endless, perfect powder. This is what it’s all about. This is why we come here. This is Fernie. – Mike Berard
