Saskatoon nights. Berard photo
My father has always played hockey. I found myself at the rink more often than not, watching him in adoration on those rare occasions when he’d put the puck in the net, or on the more numerous occasions when he’d smear a right-winger’s face across the boards. I even played myself for a few years. When adolescence came, however, I found myself in a new town surrounded by new people and quit the game. I can’t really say why; maybe it was the pressure of competition, or fear of taking a shower with nine other dudes.
He never said anything, but I always felt Dad’s disappointment over my quitting. Throughout high school he drove me to mountain bike races, band practice and the ski hill. Although he supported me in these pursuits, I knew he secretly wished I’d stuck with Canada’s hallowed game. Still, he was there every day after skiing to pick me up. In the ferocity of a Vancouver Island storm he’d remove the chains by himself as my friends and I sat in the car and talked about how rad our day was. He’d carry my skis into the house as I ran ahead. Then he’d grab his hockey bag and head to the rink.
I clearly remember the day I hesitantly told him I wanted to be a ski bum. Expecting a stern lecture about getting a trade and growing up, I said I wanted to work at a ski hill and ski as much as possible. His response was surprising. “Great idea!,” he enthused, likely hoping for some short-term cure. “I wish I’d done that when I was your age.” The next four years were a maelstrom of swirling snow, great friends, late nights, early mornings and unforgettable experiences. Like many before me, I rode the ebb and flow of the ski town wave, taking it all in and not questioning where it was taking me.
At 23, I picked up a camera and pen and began recording my experiences. Dad watched nervously as I dedicated myself to the task and expressed an unshakeable interest in making it a career. The concern started to show; subtle hints at job openings for positions that involved steel and lumber, warnings about the high cost of living and questions about earning potential in the ski media. I felt the pressure.
Then, like a vicious reoccurring case of herpes, SKIER magazine erupted in my life: a blurry, half-page photo credited to me. A full-pager followed, and then another. The following season, in a stroke of brilliant luck, I bagged the cover. Though I was soon writing features and shooting photos for other magazines, I was always working closely with the twisted minds at SKIER. The snowball was growing.
Nine years after I left home to pursue a life centered on skiing I sit in this office, surrounded by the remnants of past editors and the legacy of a magazine dedicated to the experience of the everyday skier. I feel grateful to be a part of it and I thank my Dad for his peculiar style of support. It’s easy to forget the steps that brought me to this point and it’s uncertain how it all happened. One thing is certain: This is my rink. —Mike Berard
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mike, how are you doing? tell me a story … robertdunnet@hotmail.com
rob