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.
It’s a ride like any other on Blackcomb’s Jersey Cream chairlift in early December. Green light flashes, gate opens, liftee scrapes a shovel to clean the ramp, six skiers slide forward to the line, chair swoops in, skiers sit—and then, liftoff.
To the left of me sit two riders deep in discussion. They wear the uniform I’ve come to know as “Bro Whistler”: wide skis, Scarpa boots, head-to-toe black Arc’teryx. My usual approach is a “Hey, how’s your day going?” to engage chairlift chat once the safety bar comes down, but on this day there’s no getting a word in. These boys aren’t bros, they’re execs, and they’re engaged in an actual business meeting—no interruptions.
Tower one, tower two, tower three…we make progress up the mountain. To the left, the rocks and crags and low-snow cover of Staircase and Blowdown reveal a Whistler season still struggling to get going. One of them is saying something important. He’s waving an arm toward the peak, where the unmoving Glacier Express climbs into Hortsman Glacier. Naturally, I’m curious. Naturally, I’m eavesdropping. But I can’t make out exact words. The gist: “There’s a plan to…” “I’ve seen blueprints for…” “Next season we’ll see…”
Next season we’ll see what?
They’re talking like Vail Resorts executives. These two have intel I want in on.
But then one exec’s cell rings and he’s tied up in a call, and by the time we lift the bar to disembark he’s decided both of them “have to get back to the office.” I’m left at the summit by Rendezvous with a feeling I just missed out on a scoop.
Turns out, I did.
The Scoop
About a day later the news is revealed via a live online update by Vail Resorts CEO Rob Katz. Blackcomb’s Showcase T-bar will be dismantled at the end of this season. Last call if you want to ride it. Next year, pending approval, a fixed-grip quad will take its place in an effort “to provide more consistent and improved access to the Blackcomb Glacier.”
So, this is what my seatmates were talking about.
It’s all part of Katz’s first quarter fiscal report and announcement of Vail Resorts’ 2026 capital plan. It’s packed with jargony shareholder info, including a “Q1 fiscal 2026 net loss” of $186.8 million compared to last year’s Q1 net loss of $173.3 million. Plus the more compelling news the Whistler Roundhouse will get a facelift this summer.
Still, I’m not much interested in any of that. I’m still stuck on the loss of Blackcomb’s Showcase T-bar.
Mourning the T-bar Faceshot
Reports later in Whistler’s Pique magazine talk about Showcase as the last remaining of two T-bars installed on Blackcomb’s high alpine in the late 1980s—neighbouring Horstman T-bar was removed in 2020 due to climate challenges. Towers for both lifts were set on glacial ice, exposing the T-bars to snow instability. If approved, the new fixed-grip will be moved to the left of Showcase, away from the shifting glacier.
While I welcome progress, I can’t help but mourn the loss of yet another Canadian T-bar. I was raised riding a “tow” in rural Ontario. I’m one of few who can still ride one without hanging on—the scandalous equivalent of riding a chair without lowering the safety bar. And I fear future generations will miss out on the fun of dragging a pole basket to collect a clump of snow before flinging it at your riding mate: a.k.a. the T-bar faceshot.
I’ll also miss the mayhem as T-bar newbies somehow slide off track, twist backward, knock off other riders, and basically cause carnage until the liftee finally hits the red button. (Oh, how I’ve secretly yearned to hit that red button.) A T-bar is a source of endless stories and endless laughs at others’ expense. You might want to get your tush over to Blackcomb and onto the Showcase T-bar at some point this season. I know I will. Last call if you want to ride it.
The Ski Film To Catch This Winter
The second scene that caught my attention at Whistler this week was the premier of Forward at the Whistler Film Festival.
If you see one ski film this season, make it this one. Beautifully filmed and produced by Nic Collar and Tanner March, the story follows Clay March, an athlete with cerebral palsy whose sit-ski pursuit of deep-powder cat-skiing and big-wave surfing opens eyes to a world of possibility for adaptive sport.
In 2025, Clay, his triplet brother Tanner and their fearless mum embarked on an adventure to ski Skeena’s cat-skiing terrain and surf Tofino’s big waves. There’s no thought of leaving Clay behind―in the March family, there never has been. They “refuse to be defined by society’s perceived limits.” The three simply figure out logistics, with Tanner assisting Clay down steeps, through powder, and along ferocious Pacific surf breaks.
Ski scenes include these inspiring brothers warming-up at Big White and taking perilous rides up the Peak Chair at Whistler. Set to a resounding soundtrack and including footage of incredible feats—not just by Clay but by many adaptive skiers and surfers—Forward makes you want to stand up and cheer. In fact, the crowd did exactly that at the WFF world premier.
It’s a lesson in what’s possible.
Wall Art: Risky or Risqué?
But it wouldn’t be a Dispatch from Whistler without revealing experiences that make this place what it is: a soup of weird stuff in a 60-year-old town approaching iconic status and bursting with odd surprises.
This week the locals’ Facebook feed includes a lot of whinging about the fact Whistler is caught in a climactic “atmospheric river” that’s pouring rain way too high on the mountain. The result is limited terrain, liftlines that are long, and a lot of wet, grumpy souls. One commenter opined the loss of a lunch stolen from a backpack outside the Rendezvous. Beware. The birds, it seems, are adept at opening zippers and stealing Cheez Whiz sandwiches. And what’s with the saw-baring couples on the side of the Sea to Sky Highway cutting down roadside evergreens and slinging them on top of their SUVs? Free Christmas trees? Is that legal in B.C.?
And then there’s me, who somehow finds herself in a bar in the Village, eating nachos and drinking draft, oblivious to the fact the brick wall next to her is covered—and I mean wallpapered—with titillating Polaroids of women’s cleavage. No faces. No legs. No full torsos. Just boobs—big ones, small ones, all shapes and sizes—presumably belonging to bar patrons. Graffiti nearby says it all: BOOOOOBYS.
“What is this, the Epstein wall?” my husband asks as he pays the bill.
I look up. Cover my chest with my hands in fear of a hidden camera. Only in Whistler.
More Dispatches from Whistler in two weeks. Stay tuned.
