In Whistler’s 60th year, Ski Canada co-editor Lori Knowles reacquaints herself with the ski town, one lift, one run, and one walk through the village at a time.
There’s a tree on a hill at the edge of Whistler Village that’s all lit up. Round a corner north of town on Highway 99 and it’s there, a beacon for a beautiful winter season to come. Its lights are ice blue and it’s ideally trimmed as proper holiday trees are. There’s no snow around it, sadly, not a flake. But it’s only the very start of December, this festive tree is telling me. Have some hope.
I’ve been in Whistler for two weeks now waiting for snow. The mountains have opened, first Blackcomb, then Whistler, both before the finish of November. But the base up there is marginal, and the skiing is more like back home in Ontario: two runways on each mountain, wall-to-wall skiers, crusty man-made snow. I ventured out once, staying away from the fray by wiggling down the runs’ edges. But the experience left me jumpy, stressed, worried for my family’s safety while skiing—all champagne problems, I know.
Chess Game
So instead of skiing I wander the village, taking in the galleries, the museums, the restaurants, the sights. I lived in Whistler once, a long time ago, and now that I’m back I know my way around…except I don’t. Nothing is where it used to be. The bars, the shops, the pizza place, the Australian pie shop, they’re gone. It’s been years, Whistler has grown exponentially. Like a slow game of chess, pieces have been moved around. The bank, the bakery, the post office, the bar with the cheap nachos, they’re around here somewhere, but where? I’m learning Whistler all over again, which is exactly why I’m here.
This re-exploration of the place is worthy, at least for someone like me—a ski writer curious about how things change and what change means. By many measures, Whistler Blackcomb is now North America’s largest ski resort, topping the list with 3,307 skiable hectares and 37 lifts. Detractors point to Utah’s Powder Mountain as bigger, greater, better…but hey, I don’t know. only a portion of PM is lift-served, which means WB is king. Then again, who cares? Is being king even relevant anymore? Is being the biggest, the deepest, the noisiest, the hippest, the craziest what people want? Whistler Mountain turns 60 this year, everyone around here is in a reflective mood. It’s a good time to find out.
Inspiration
One of my first forays to get to know Whistler again is attending the Women’s Film Fest 25. Billed as “a celebration of women in snowsports,” it’s a collection of short ski and ride films made by women, featuring women. The energy is electric: an audience of nearly 200, mostly women, mostly wearing beanies and barrel jeans. They line up to enter. The line snakes through the Village, with random FOMO passersby stopping to ask, “Hey, what’s going on here? Can anyone get in?”
The show features several short films mixing riding and skiing, the list is here. There’s Endorphin, a trippy take on French freeskier Manon Loschi‘s ski season 2025. Carving Space follows a band of Whistler women “reshaping what it means to belong in the snow world—especially in an environment that’s long been male-dominated.” And The Underdogs is a reflective foray into the Alaskan backcountry by four women whose trip-of-a-lifetime, spoiler alert, doesn’t go their way.
These films, they fill me with wonder and hope. Hope for women brave enough, not just to explore and ski big mountain terrain, but to transform that experience into art. I’m even more curious now. At intermission I Google all the ways I can experience art in Whistler. There’s the Audain Art Museum, the Adele Campbell gallery, and of course, the Whistler Museum. Aha! The Whistler Film Festival runs December 3 to 7. I tap the keyboard and leverage my job here at Ski Canada to secure a pass. My next plan: to acquaint myself with local culture through more film…while I’m waiting for snow.
Both Sides Now
The endorphins stoked within me thanks to the Women’s Film Fest fizzle out about two minutes after the show. I’m in a public washroom not far from the Whistler gondola late at night. A group of bored-looking women, maybe in their early 20s, are gathered around a stall snorting stuff up their noses while scrolling their phones. The men they’re with, also babies by the look of them, are banging on the door. “Hey man, can we come in?” Okay, I’m thinking as I butt-scoot around them, eyes averted…there are at least two sides to every story that need to be told, especially in a place as big, iconic, old, and beautiful as Whistler is.
On my way home I see the tree around the corner on Highway 99. It’s still lit, even this late, and there’s still no snow around it. But it’s still saying: Lori, have some hope.
More Dispatches from Whistler in two weeks. Stay tuned.
