Edit Blog Post
Published: June 26th 2017
Geo: 50.1183, -122.954
Especially after spending a season living in the mountains skiing and snowboarding every day, I've always wanted to check out Whistler. Where dreams come true. No, where dreams are shattered, because Whistler puts even the grandest dreams to shame. A place of legend and mystery, of milk and honey, a place where your glass of whiskey is never empty and you can never lose a game of pool. Where every pickup line works, every bartender is a friend, where there is always powder but the skies are always blue... Whistler.
I was unimpressed. I'm sure the skiing in the winter is phenomenal (the mountain looks amazing!), but I guess I was kind of hoping for a little bit of a town, some "local" bars, and was bummed to find that it's pretty much just the Whistler village. There's nothing else, other than hoards and hoards of condos and mansions for people with way too much money. There was a huge stage set up with some free live music, which provided some entertainment and good foot tapping. I checked out an Irish Pub that had some live music, paid a ridiculous $8.25 for one beer (sorry ladies, ain't buyin you shit
tonight), and the music ended up being a goofball playing cheesy "Irish" music. Meh. Smoked a cigarette, sat down while the buzz wore off, washed my face in a Starbucks bathroom, got the truck, headed north out of town, and found a nice little nook behind some willows off of a provincial park road just a few miles out of town. A sobriety check was set up on the edge of town. Hello sir, where are you coming from tonight? (Sir? Wow, I wish the border guards had similar respect!). Whistler. How much have you had to drink? Nothing. Ok, have a good night.
I was anticipating a big hike the next day, only to wake to rain rain rain. A little dripping from the sun roof strip right above my head. Shoot. Finally got up, took a piss, went in to "town" to do a little work in hopes the clouds would break soon, as there were already blue patches here and there. Wandered out of town and found the Crater Rim Loop/Interpretive Forest Trail/Logger's Lake. The lake reminded me of Emerald Lake - tucked way back at the foot of Hallet Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park. I read
for a while on a homemade lookout tower, looking down at the lake past a rope swing and a bunch of small 2x4 chunks nailed on to a tree, leading to a diving board at the top probably 30 feet up. The lighting was off so I couldn't tell how deep the water was, but I imagine pretty deep to allow such a dive. The lake is formed in a collapsed volcanic cone, so a steep dropoff makes sense.
Ah, are you as bored reading this as I am typing it? <sigh>
Wandered up-river. A big, sunny opening and a white rushing river invited me to take off my shoes and wade, drying in the sun as I read On The Road.
With Whistler being less than par, I headed down valley to Squamish. The town felt sad. It reminded me of Klamath Falls and Bellingham and other small towns that feel like they just want to scream and shake the dust off themselves. Burger and another overpriced beer at the brewery. Up the mountain road and off a thin dirt turnoff to tuck behind some pleasant trees for the night. Sat for an hour or more on my tailgate writing music, sipping
on a small bottle of Crown I picked up, listening to the light Canadian rain fall around me. A good night's sleep, excited to head back to Vancouver the next day to see Shari again.
Another lackadaisical morning, a little sip of whiskey to get the day going proper, some Maple Nut oatmeal cooked up on the tailgate, and a few hours spent at Alice Lake - beautiful, but like a nursery - little goobers running and screaming all over the place! More guitar and reading, and sunshine. Spent a good hour or more "cleaning house" - emptied the entire cab, cleaned, consolidated, reorganized. So much better! Wish I'd done it weeks ago. Lunch on the tailgate - the good half of an orange that had started to spoil, whole wheat tortilla filled with a sliced banana, peanut butter, and a pouring of honey.
The native Squamish culture is fascinating, from the little I read about. They hunted mountain goats. I can't even imagine trying to track, hunt, and kill a mountain goat. They're like ghosts! I read one legend of a pack of hunters that went out to hunt mountain goats. They got trapped in a winter storm, but were protected
from harm with a thick blanket of snow. They became the giant mountains that shoot straight up from the sea, still covered in their blanket of snow, and their hunting spears became the sharp peaks lining the ridges.
Nothing special. Good time alone, time with my guitar and my thoughts, fresh wild hand-picked blackberries on the way back to the city, simply exploring.
Tot: 2.721s; Tpl: 0.057s; cc: 13; qc: 53; dbt: 0.054s; 2; m:saturn w:www (126.96.36.199); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.4mb