Photo: Berard
“Will you marry me?”
It was my first marriage proposal—something that’s not entirely unbelievable unless you count the fact that a) it was a woman proposing to me and b) it was the first time I’d met her. The girl, a stereotypically-blond Norwegian with an aquavit-heavy slur, had just been introduced to me in the parking lot of Hemsedal, Norway, by an Austrian with a big ol’ bottle of Polish fermented potato. I’d accidentally stumbled into this impromptu end-of-season staff party after sitting out a full week of rainy spring weather in hotels without internet, hot tubs or palatable food. Naturally, out of pure boredom, I was drawn to the ancient A-frame discoteque with the curious slogan “Ski in. Dance-out” and the horrible techno-crap thumping the evening air.
The reason for the proposal wasn’t my good looks or vast wealth but rather something the Austrian had proudly stated when he introduced us. “This is Mike,” he said in a thick German accent. And then, in a tone of awe, added “He’s from Whistler.”
The entire group of shit-faced Euros all stopped talking and looked at me in reverence, which was when the Norwegian girl made her matrimony offer, preceded by an “Oh. My. God. You’re from Whistler?” I was shocked at being put on a pedestal by a citizen of Norway (the country that invented skiing) and being paraded around the party as a celebrity by a citizen of Austria (the nation that perfected skiing). The whole experience was making my head spin. And it wasn’t just the vodka making the rounds. These people really admired me simply because I hailed from Whistler.
It made me wonder over what exactly defines an iconic ski destination. Is it history? Quality of terrain? Culture? Of course, it’s all of these things combined but what I realized was that just like music and food and sexual positions, one man’s pleasure was another’s pain. After all, Whistler is an amazing place; it embodies all that a skier like myself needs to function. It wasn’t always so. When I lived in the Kootenays, my view of Whistler consisted of a Disneyland-esque fashion show of bro-brahs and pro-hoes constantly congratulating each other on how awesome they were. Everyone who moved from Whistler to the Kootenays had either given up on the excess or carried an attitude that quickly made them unpopular. Frankly, it seemed like a pretty douche-heavy scene.
Years later, burnt out on the limited opportunity of small towns and dealing with the deep depression of dour Toronto, I found a way back west. And it meant moving to the town I’d always been critical of but had never examined closely—good ol’ Whistler.
Six months later and I’m in love with this place. Of course, the bro-brah attitude is as lame as I’d heard, but great people, rich culture, active lifestyle and superior ski terrain far outweigh the roving packs of angst-ridden, cookie-cutter wanna-be’s.
What makes a ski destination qualify for the title of Motherland? It goes beyond the innumerable statistics tossed at us by marketing firms—this much snowfall, that much vertical, one more lift built to satisfy stockholders and validate the pay parking. Neither is an historical contribution to your nation’s status—just ask the Norwegian who wants nothing more than to live in Chamonix or Nelson. There is only one thing that qualifies a mountain or region to be recognized as an epicenter of exportable ski culture, and it’s in how you experience it. It could be Whistler, Chamonix, Portillo or Holiday Mountain, Manitoba. It could be in the depths of a Whitewater snowstorm, the sculpted pipe of New Zealand’s Snowpark or on the 30 cm lip you built on the mild incline of your backyard when you were 8 years-old. In short, if the location fits, it’s your Motherland—whatever environment gave birth to your ski universe. Enjoy the delivery. – Mike Berard
