Above: Shots of Vancouver, the Devil's City, in all its glory.
It is approximately 4 o'clock and I am driving at the highest speed possible up a mountain and away from Vancouver. It is a wonderful place but after leaping from city to city for much of the trip so far, I'm somewhat anxious to free myself from civilization, hopefully only temporarily. There is still a bad taste in my mouth after Seattle, which is something of a bitter, fishy tasting city - not even the smooth butterscotch of Vancouver was enough to set me free of it. What I need is the minty freshness of small towns, large lakes, and, most importantly, snow. Obviously, I am in the wrong part of the year for that last ingredient, so I must set my sights higher, to Canada's top resort town, Whistler.
My car is sporting a new dent near the right tail-light, applied to my car in a crowded parking lot and by an absent minded Vancouverite woman, backing out of her spot directly into a wall of stopped cars. Fortunately for me she was walled off and unable to make it a hit-and-run, but fortunately for her there was a line of cars behind us and rain brewing in the air, giving her the excuse to make the insurance information she handed me scribbled and nearly illegible. I have reported the accident to the insurance company, but it appears that none of the possible readings of her name and number belong to an actual person, meaning I will most likely have to pay for damages myself. Yes, indeed, I must escape society.
California mountains seem feeble in comparison to those of British Columbia. I drove this route with my parents at age seventeen, but those memories are so vague and dreamlike that it seems like a brand new experience. The road winds around a large inlet from the Strait of Juan De Fuca - on all sides I am surrounded by mountains, yet the water which sits in between these colossi gives a feeling of massive empty space. No matter how big these rocks are, the air between them is bigger. The water is so damn reflective it looks like the mountains are coming out of the sky, like in a bad Yes lyric, but unlike Jon Anderson's, these mountains are not *just* standing there... they move as if alive, although there is a chance it is just my rapidly moving car and lack-of-sleep brain mode which is creating that illusion. I've never been skilled at describing natural beauty - it's as pointless as describing a work of art, and in a way it's the same thing. Just saying "it's beautiful" should be enough, and those we tell it to should have the good sense to seek the sight out themselves, and to see the hell out of it.
By the time I arrive in Whistler village it is almost six o'clock - and yet, in spite of clouds it still could pass for high noon back in San Diego. I suppose it's logical that the further north you go the longer the sun stays out, but it never really occurred to me until now that it would be to this great a degree. Sunglazed or no, it seems unlikely that I will be allowed access to the (gloriously) frost-tipped mountain at this hour... of course, staying the night in order to see the mountaintop hardly seems like a bad idea. Still, the ski-lift does appear to be moving... and as I approach it, I notice a large herd of people milling about the paved plaza slab which fronts the building, being gradually reshaped into a line and funnelled into the lift chambers. So perhaps there is hope... I approach the line in general, and in specific, a woman who appears to be an authority figure of sorts, in order to purchase my hypothetical ticket.
"Here ya go, enjoy" she says, and hands me a name tag. I almost speak up but curb my tongue and shuffle my way into the line.
I am moved into a car with two mid-30s couples and a group of three older gentleman, all of whom are wearing what seem to be the nicest brands of designer snow wear. Interesting, though, is the fact that not a one of them has a pair of skis - moreover, some appear to be wearing ties underneath their heavy gear. Is this some sort of business suaree, that I have inadvertedly been lucky enough to stumble into?
Thinking quickly, I turn my head towards the outside of the escalating pod. In the hopes of not being caught in a conversation, I pretend to be enjoying the scenery. I don't have to pretend very hard, as it's the best scenery my trip has given me thus far. Not only that, but the thin snow gets even snowier as we get nearer to the top. I hear an awkward silence in the chamber and focus my gaze even harder.
Just in time, too. The three men have started making conversation with one of the couples. The trio is from Germany, and it seems only one of them speaks enough english to mantain a conversation. Another lucky stroke for me. The male half of the couple tells that he is from Chicago, though his wife was born in Italy. I wonder why the second couple, both halves Asian, hasn't joined in the conversation - they simply nod their heads and laugh politely when one of the Germans says something that may be a joke. I wonder up until the point where the husband's cellular phone rings:
"Moshi mosh?" he answers.
Aha. Japanese. Along with Germans and Italians. So I am on my way to either some sort of international mountaintop business party, or some sort of top secret Axis-powers-shall-rise-again rally. Either way I'm bound to be stopped once we reach the top - the real question is whether I'll be allowed to take the ski lift back down or will be forced back the quick way.
To my surprise I am welcomed along with the rest of them into the elaborate lodge that rests on the edge of the peak. The servicepeople (snow-bellhops?) offer to take my coat, but I refuse after seeing that others from my pod are in fact wearing full formal dress underneath their winterwear. Without my coat I would stand out even more. I do find it hard to believe that anyone could have mistaken me - with my fuzzy black skunkskin coat, my unkempt mop-top mullet of a hairdo, and my loyal headlamp around my neck - for someone who belongs with this crowd. The only thing harder to believe is that they could *continue* to mistake me for part of this herd... but that they do.
I have never been much of a partier, so it's no stretch to say this is probably the largest "party" I have ever been to. Neither am I much of a drinker, but hell, there *is* free champagne here. If I am going to take advantage of this situation, I may as well take *full* advantage - and after all, not even booze could make this experience any more surreal than it already is. I hide on the corners of staircases while I chug the noxious drink - if these people could see how hard it is for me to force simple champagne through my throat, they'd know in a heartbeat that I'm an alien here. Alcohol is a demon and a disease, but it's an adventure I've never explored fully, and which I would be a closed-minded fool to not at least investigate.
While choking down my third glass of the foul thrillseeker's drink, I recall my reason for coming up here in the first place. The snow. I didn't make a huge inverted U out of my Canada venture for nothing - I came here to play with balls of ice, and I will be damned if I'm not going to do that right now. I dig my mitts out of my pockets and drunkenly waddle my way onto the balcony, down the steps to the snow. It's even colder than I expected it to be... one of the minuses of being a Socalifornian is the fact that we are always taken off guard when confronted with anything other than sun-heated sand and surf. Yet there is something oddly comforting about it as well - perhaps nothing more than the wonderful unfamiliarity of the whole thing. I would much rather freeze to death here in these strange foreign mountains than drown in one of the beaches I know like my own hand.
I make a snowman. I name him "Beowulf."
I realize at this point that I am, for lack of a more fitting word, drunk. There are of course many *better* words for it ("pickled" and "pixilated" come to mind), but none of them express the feeling, that clumsy waltzing and joyful retardation, as perfectly as that most common term does. I am drunk - any other word that has been cooked up for this feeling was clearly originally intended to give some illusion of sophistication to what is without a doubt the least sophisticated of all states of mind.
I wander to the balcony and take some photos of myself with a dangling wineglass. There must be a log of this. There has to. One of my fellow businessmen, a Bostonian perhaps, who is also on the balcony (an outsider, like me!) offers to take the photo for me. He does a commendable job but the angles in his are too straight (far too structured for a photo of drunkeness), and my demented stare is commendably much creepier when it's fixed directly into the camera lens.
His:
Mine:
Making my way back inside I realize it is time for a banquet, and they are herding the suits and their occupants out of the crowdly barroom into the roomish dining hall. Now, I realize, is a good time to make my exit. Partially because it may be hard for me to avoid conversation while seated politely next to higher-ups in some company I don't belong to, but there is also the danger that someone may reveal the reason for this gathering. While a part of me is somewhat curious as to the purpose of this decadent get together, there's a bigger and much older part of me which prefers a good mystery.
I'll gladly let that mystery be.
While riding down in the forklift the fourth glass of wine really hits me. I snap my headlamp around my head and decide that now would be a good time to talk to old friends. I call Bob and Don and Carl, and my boss Lou, and come close to calling a few people who are better left uncalled, at least in this particular situation, snicker snicker ha ha. The calls I actually make are presumably somewhat identical, attempting to describe the history of the situation to each, though you'd be better off asking the people on the other end as to what exactly I am saying. I am still so thrilled at my triumphant conquering of the mountain that what little part of my brain is still functioning isn't even bothering to sort the words coming from inside me.
I step off the lift and onto the large paved area which seems larger now than when I crossed it before, although the lack of the line might be a partial cause of that. It is after nine o clock and yet the sun is still shining, although it appears to be at long last retreating to its home beyond the scenery. Hardly balancing, I make my way into Whistler village. It is of course not a true village, in that nobody actually lives there. It is rather a collection of large, overpriced hotels, made up in the style of some northern European mountain town, but with shops akin to those you would find in any generic American mall. While the hotels are competitors, they share things like parking lots and heating devices, and are connected by a maze of cheap, cheasy, chitty bridges, tunnels, walkways, and what might as well be considered secret passageways. Most of what happens in the village is a blur. I wander into an internet cafe and spend a good half hour there, presumably annoying the baristas as much as drunkards in *my* work annoy *me*. I flirt with an Iraqi girl by the pool, and fortunately make a bad impression - can't have myself turning into a *total* lush, now can I? At some point I become lost in some labyrinth underneath the village movie theater, which eventually lets out in some sort of underground truck-delivery area. I take photos of anything I bump into, with no regard for framing or lighting or anything, and end up with some true photos of drunkenness.
I become lost on the way back to my car, and instead climb into the forest clearing pictured above. There I lay down and make a brave effort to wait off the effects of the champagne, and to reflect - at least, as much as one *can* reflect when one is hopelessly intoxified. One thing sticks in my head most clearly. I remember being seventeen, staying in one of these hotels (though I can't recall which) with my parents and sisters - but most specifically I remember a day when my father took me and my sis Samantha on a river raft, presumably within a mile of where I now sit stupified. Was it really only eight years ago? Or was it the first time we came to Canadia, when I was, what, twelve? Thirteen? Was that really only *twelve* years ago? Either way I seemed so much younger then...
Our dad was determinded to give us a wondrous outdoors experience - not only that, but a *new* experience, one which we had never seen before and would likely not again. That is the only kind of *real* experience, if you ask me - although I didn't think of it in such terms back then, I just wanted to be on a boat. We rode the river for a half hour until my father began to suspect he had taken a wrong turn. It was confirmed when we started approaching toppled branches and in some cases whole trees that attempted to block our way - rather than having us paddle, our father had each of us man one side of the boat, and help him by pushing us away from potentially dangerous fauna, while he moved whatever branches he could out of the way, occasionally having to snap a few. Eventually the river let out into an enormous lake, yet another thing it was defenitely, according to my father, not supposed to do. We paddled through the lake and eventually made our way over to a dock, where he asked for help from a couple of hicky Canadian fishermen, who hadn't even heard of the boat rental service that our fine ship had come from. They were able to call a taxi though, and I can only assume my dad was held financially responsible for losing the boat. When telling the story later, he always confesses that he was in fact scared out of his wits, but he did his best to put on a strong face so that my sis and I wouldn't be frightened. Neither one of us has the heart to tell him that his strong face wasn't strong enough, and it was painfully clear to both of us how frightened he was. Along with his desire to look bold - so we of course played along and let him be the hero.
And today I once again found myself riding on unfamiliar waters in the Whistler Mountan area, but while my father panicked and found his way to dry land at first chance, I paddled deeper into the mystery until I was finally, hopelessly lost. We have the rest of our lives to find our way back to normality - and when a chance to see something new presents itself, we're better off throwing caution to the wind than we are chaining ourselves to the dock. As far as danger goes - danger is just a part of adventure, and it can only hurt you if you're afraid of it. Like a dog, it can smell fear. Shudder when you're near it and it will bite you. Back away and you'll never know what it was guarding. But approach it bravely and you will instantly tame it, and have a friend for life.
Such are my thoughts as, for the first time in my life, I pass out from drunkenness, on a log in a clearing deep in the mountains of Canada.
