2004 DTR - Whistler, B.C.

When in Rome do as the Romans do, and when in Whistler, act like a Roman. The madness of what will come to be known as the Trail of Tears continues: Snowboarder Magazine invades Canada. Have you ever taken too much of something and don't know whether you are laughing or crying? That's the closest I can describe how I am holding up. Maybe John Cougar Concentration Camp said it best: "Ooh, baby, make it hurt so good." Nearly two months on tour and we have seen it all: jackalopes, trailer folk and Mormons, but lord help us--not the Canadian. To say that I was ready would be a lie. To say I needed a blood transfusion might be more accurate. If you have ever been to Whisler/Blackcomb you know what I am talking about. For anyone else, just keep reading.

Our arrival upon the Las Vegas of ski resorts was not unlike the Viking slaughter that paved the way for this country's first settlers; a savage display of tyrannical behavior only overshadowed by the heinous odor left in their wake. An ensemble cast was put together for this most compelling adventure. First and foremost there is Jeff Baker, known to the masses as the Mighty Caesar, but known to us as the Cracker Jap with the Girl on his Lap. Second, we have Jose Antonio Lopez. We may call him Lucky but luck has nothing to do with it. Skills, big skills. Signing in as director of mayhem is Mike Maikovich whose specialty lies in pain and the limits thereof. Of course, we have Peter Shiera, Peatrice if you will, known for long, meaningful phone calls and a tendency to snap under pressure. For one week only I give you The Criminal, Chris Fitsimmons, a painful reminder that old habits die hard, or in this case rise from the grave. As a very special guest and member of the Snowboarder Mag hall of fame, Martin Gallant. The only thing he does better than riding a snowboard is something he calls "the moonlight fondue." And recently beefed up to a touring weight of 98 pounds, with the unpredictability of a badger in heat, Nathan Marcel Deschenes. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Agents of Abuse.

Day one: The Gong Show Baker employs the faster-is-better driving technique, obviously getting kilometeres confused with miles per hour. You can't ollie a 30-foot motor home, Jeff. Once in the town of Whistler Lucky frightens Euro trash with the megaphone. No comprende nada. The air raid siren proved to be most effective on the old and weak in particular. Our accommodations were at the Coast Hotel, quite a nice place to stay, only a two-minute walk to the lifts and the village. Today we chose the latter. Whistler Village is the epicenter of the entire town. Anything within a 10-mile radius gets sucked into its powerful vortex giving it the characteristics of a black hole; nothing can escape, the harder you try to leave the deeper you find yourself. So indeed, that is inevitably where we ended up. A place called Max Fish's seems to ring a bell, yes, how could I forget (Really, it's not that hard. Call me for the recipe). This is where we were introduced to the one and only Martin Gallant. There are myths and there are legends, and then there is Martin. This is one gentleman who leads by example. The entire night consisted of him ushering us around barging into every huddle of ladies in the bar (literally, with force). Now if any mortal were to try this I assure you he would be on the receiving end of many a slap, yet the advanced method with which he works coupled with the French-Canadian accent seems to have a mesmerizing effect on women. How do you spill your drink all over some chick, clearly ruining her outfit and get rewarded with a kiss? Ask Martin. Many beers and many bruises later I feel a blackout coming on, all of my boys have either found some friendly company to entertain or in my case some personal hell. I realize that I will be on my own tonight, facing defeat under the heavy cloud of disaster.

Day two: Pain Monopoly I can't speak for the rest of the crew but I didn't sleep at all last night. I didn't even pretend to. The reason is a term called "cutting your losses," which is exactly what I did. The knock must have come around 7:30 a.m. from none other than Martin, who evidently faired better than I the previous evening. Judging by the grin on his face I could tell he was involved in some ultra-violence. Because of my extreme participation last night I had forgotten the fact that it was snowing damn good, good enough to keep our powder streak alive and well. Snowboarding in a state of sleep-deprived delirium is entertaining if nothing else, however, riding in two feet of fresh with no visibility down foreign terrain is borderline psychosis. Luckily for us, our guides Alex Auchu, JF Pelchat, and Martin had a good idea of what they were doing. Over the river and through the woods, traversing and reversing across Whistler we came upon stash after stash of pillows and gullies tucked within the forest we were shredding. This is the kind of riding that will never ever bore me; screams and giggles echoing throughout the trees, a group of friends hot on each others' tails, watching your bro take the funniest beater right in front of you, this is what snowboarding is all about. It only took one run for satisfaction to set in. That and the fact that it began to rain, turning our pow to mud. Rain sucks, but what a perfect excuse to get back on the bottle, eh?

In Canada they have this fake-ass money situation. There are no one-dollar bills; instead they have one- and two-dollar coins called Loonies and Twonies. Personally I like this, the gold coinage that accumulates in your pocket gives me the feeling of a pirate fresh of a wicked plunder. Then there is the actual paper money situation; each bill is a different color: green, blue, or red and they all have different scenes on the face. Some have the queen, others have some artic wasteland, and the coolest one of all has a backyard hockey session on it. Now this is fine and all but my Yankee self had absolutely no control over the speed and amount of spending with this monopoly money. Mike can back me on this one. Every time we went out all of the money in our wallets was surely to be gone by morning. I told him it didn't matter because of something called an exchange rate, which I'm still not sure the meaning of. Hey, any excuse is a good one when beer and smokes cost 40 bucks.

If I am forced now to recall the events that took place this evening although you are putting me in a tough place, but I'll give it a go. Please forgive the scattered nature of my memory. Whistler Village: strong gravitational forces pull Mike to the pavement sooner than expected. Le Petite Pete disappears. This could be good or bad. Lucky meets Queen Amidala herself, winning her confidence with a single lash of the silver tongue. Baker also strikes quick and accurate, landing a model, perhaps? Searching for the wild-cockeye I become visually impaired and mistake a keeper for a lunker, a cougar for a toad and am left with only my shame to spend the night with. I often feel that I may be hindering the progress of the crew, then I tell myself a little something that always helps: "If nobody saw it, well, then it didn't happen, right?"