It’s a spectacular sunny Sunday on Whistler’s Blackcomb, the snow has finally started to cooperate. It’s fluffy and dry with just enough edge. The light is bright and the rocks are covered, and by some act of some higher power, there’s still space in Parking Lot 8. This is strange because the word is out across Whistler: Drop everything, go skiing.
Therein lies today’s puzzle: How to ski Whistler Blackcomb when you’re feeling old, the snow is fab and the slopes are insanely busy. Every young, fast, fearless skier under age 40 is out here on the hill ahead of me. They lean on the backs of their boots and head straight down the fall line—their instinct to turn, slow down, or even stop somehow eluding them. Plus, with Vail Resorts’ Epic Pass sales up three percent in sales dollars over the 2024/25 season—coupled with what VR’s Rob Katz calls “the most challenging winter across the (U.S.) Rockies that we have ever experienced”—it appears as if, today especially, every Epic passholder in North America has beelined it to British Columbia.
They’re whizzing down Wishbone and Zig Zag. They’re travelling three abreast on the cat track to Crystal. And they’re clogging the liftline at 7th. Indeed, the line extends midway up the Cloud 9 exit—the wait time on the Epic app reading 20+ minutes (which could mean 30, 40 or even 50+ minutes). If I’m going to make the most out of this incredible day on this equally incredible mountain—and make no mistake, Whistler Blackcomb’s terrain is terrific—I’d better find a fun, safe, relatively crowd-free way to ski it.
It appears as if every Epic passholder in North America has beelined it to British Columbia
That’s When I Spot…
That’s when I spot a man much, much older than me snaking handily down the Horstman traverse. He’s wearing the widely accepted uniform of the Whistler male local: all-black Arc’teryx. And while he appears old enough to qualify for the elusive Super Senior pass (age 75+), there is no sign of any hitches in his giddyup. I have to pole and skate hard to keep up with him.
He steers left off the cat track along a ridge, staying high, past the entrances to Saudan and Sylvain toward the double-diamond Pakalolo. I’m thinking I don’t want to ski Pakalolo, but I’m also thinking it’s too late. At this point, I’m in for a pound, in for a penny. In skier talk, that translates to: I’m screwed. I followed the guy in here, now I have to ski my way out of it.
By this time the old man is looking over his shoulder. He’s swinging his gaze toward me every three turns, probably wondering why this brazen woman in blue is so hot-to-trot after him. I smile, give a little wave, wait for him to ski on so I can follow. But eventually he stops short and faces me. Asks: “May I help you?”
“All good,” I say, careful to sound confident, casual, cheery. “Seems like we’re headed in the same direction.”
He looks me up and down doubtfully. It’s true. Unlike him, I don’t have the uniform of a Whistler local, probably because I’m not a Whistler local. My look says “clueless Ontario tourist.” For all he knows my skill level is limited to the stem-christie.
But then the old man shrugs, lets it go, pushes off, makes the decision not to be responsible. There truly are no friends on a powder day. He skirts a rock face, weaves in and out of some jagged stones and disappears over a rolling edge. I’m in hot pursuit, even if I am following at a respectful distance.
What happens next is glorious…
We ski a secret face with perfect snow—it has the look, feel and sweetness of fluffy white icing. The face is steep, but not crazy steep, and the snow is dry and cool because it’s mostly in the shadows. My unwilling partner dances down the moguls like he’s been doing it forever—probably because he has been doing it forever. And best of all: We’re the only skiers in here. On this fine, busy day on Blackcomb Mountain, it’s a Eureka! moment.
Sadly, I haven’t been able to find that exact entrance to the run again, nor in my 60-plus days skiing this season have I encountered that same old man again. He disappeared into a mass of skiers fleeing like ants down Glacier Drive, never to be seen or heard from. I have sallied forth along that same pathway many times since, searching for the sweet line he led me to—the one I now call Old Man. But no luck. My worst attempt led me headlong into the icy entrance to Pakalolo, the ski patroller ahead of me popping out of both bindings and pummeling headfirst into a ridge of hard-as-rock bumps, then rocketing downward 12 metres.
“Well,” I thought, “that fills me with confidence.”
The moral…
I have yet to determine the true message of this Dispatch from Whistler. It’s definitely not to suggest following a stranger into a tricky part of an unfamiliar ski area, even if he does appear old enough to qualify as a Super Senior. The result could be disastrous.
Perhaps the safer, simpler lesson is this:
When a ski mountain is crowded, slow down, stay high, lean forward, know how to stop, and always follow at a respectful distance. Plus, never underestimate the old fart skiing ahead of you, especially at Whistler Blackcomb.
