Mountain Life – Coast Mountains – Fall/Winter 2024-25

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TABLE of CONTENTS

UPFRONTS

P.16 WILD TIME On Geese & Ice Skating

P.19 LIFE AT THE TOP On-Mountain Caretakers

P.25 UP WE GO Mountain Mentors

P.27 REQUIEM FOR A GLACIER Will They Stay?

FEATURES

P.34 CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF Alenka Mali Snowboard BASE

P.45 DAWN PATROL The Early Early Start

DEPARTMENTS

P.57 BACKYARD Cold Crushin’

P.75 FOOD Nice Dump(lings)

P.83 MOUNTAIN HOME Under The Bridge

P.96 GALLERY Frozen Moments

THIS PAGE Leanne Pelosi, Whistler backcountry. BEN GIRARDI ON THE COVER Chad Sayers, Tantalus Range GUY FATTAL

Mountain Life Coast Mountains operates within and shares stories primarily set upon the unceded territories of two distinct Nations—the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh and the Lilwat7úl. We honour and celebrate their history, land, culture and language.

PUBLISHERS

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EDITOR

Feet Banks feetbanks@mountainlifemedia.ca

CREATIVE & PRODUCTION DIRECTOR, DESIGNER

Amélie Légaré amelie@mountainlifemedia.ca

MANAGING EDITOR

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WEB EDITOR

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DIRECTOR OF MARKETING, DIGITAL & SOCIAL

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FINANCIAL CONTROLLER

Krista Currie krista@mountainlifemedia.ca

CONTRIBUTORS

Colin Adair, Jorge Alvarez, Steve Andrews, Leslie Anthony, Nora Boileau Morrison, Jessy Braidwood, Mary-Jane Castor, Chris Christie, Stuart Costello, Joel Ducrot, Guy Fattal, Andrew Findlay, Ben Girardi, Rich Glass, Kara-Leah Grant, Robert Greso, Mark Gribbon, Grant Gunderson, Erin Hogue, Lani Imre, Cliff Jennings, Alex Joel, Blake Jorgenson, Reuben Krabbe, Carmen Kuntz, Stu MacKaySmith, Jimmy Martinello, Mason Mashon, David McColm, Oisin McHugh, Paul Morrison, Steve Ogle, Robin O’Neill, Celeste Pomerantz, Cooper Saver, Spencer Seabrooke, Steve Shannon, Andrew Strain, Jeff Thomas, Anatole Tuzlak, Pat Valade.

SALES & MARKETING

Jon Burak jon@mountainlifemedia.ca

Todd Lawson todd@mountainlifemedia.ca

Glen Harris glen@mountainlifemedia.ca

Published by Mountain Life Media, Copyright ©2024. All rights reserved. Publications Mail Agreement Number 40026703. Tel: 604 815 1900. To send feedback or for contributors guidelines email feet@mountainlifemedia.ca. Mountain Life Coast Mountains is published every February, June and November and circulated throughout Whistler and the Sea to Sky corridor from Pemberton to Vancouver. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited. Views expressed herein are those of the author exclusively. To learn more about Mountain Life visit mountainlifemedia.ca. To distribute Mountain Life in your store please call 604 815 1900.

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Photographer: Silvano Zeiter

TIME KEEPS ON SLIPPIN’

Nothing kicks us around harder than time. Mostly because time, or at least keeping track of time, is a human construct. The human psyche craves order so much that we’ve had to categorize all of existence onto a linear, endless (and purely invented) structure that we convince ourselves we are capable of manipulating. We’re always either saving time or wasting time or, hopefully more often than not, enjoying some time well spent. But the truth is we aren’t doing anything to time at all, and instead, much like the crocodile in Peter Pan, time is hunting all of us. Tick tock, tick tock…

Many of us know about “island time,” the sensation that the pace of life slows down once you surround yourself with enough water that just any old person cannot access you at any old time. Up here in the mountains, it feels almost the opposite—as if time were somehow woven into gravity. As if the same invisible forces that pull us down snowy slopes and tug our rivers out to the sea also ensure our time keeps on slippin-slippin-slippin’…

Likely, some of mountain culture’s hardwired draw towards immediacy has evolved from the scarcity of a fresh snowfall on the mountain faces—it won’t last forever (or even an hour sometimes) so go, go, go. As such, the mountains seem to attract more type-A, go-getter hares than slow-and-steady tortoises. “We underestimate what we can do in a day,” my friend Kitt always tells me, “and overestimate what’s possible in a decade.”

So take your time. Which isn’t to say slow down (though that can be good, too), but rather actively take control of your time. Take it and be aware, be patient, be purposeful—how we spend our time is how we spend our lives, and the time poured into our passions is the very thing that makes them important. So book that plane ticket, practice that grab, head out on the multi-day trip you’ve been talking about and chase those storms and create those bonds with the people or places that ignite your mind and heart. Because throughout it all, despite it all, time marches on. And for us, time is terminal.

It’s an inevitable bummer if you dwell on it. So don’t. We can never claw our back up the neverending slope of time, so pick a line, ride it out, and remember what Grand Master Oogway, the great tortoise philosopher, once said: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow’s a mystery. But today is a gift, that’s why it’s called the present.”

words :: Susan Musgrave

Every August 1, give or take 24 hours, the geese return to the bay in front of my house. I know because for the last thirty years I’ve marked this day—a prelude to fall and winter—on my calendar. My calendar confirms what the honking of the geese tells me, but how do the geese know? Is it a new shade of grey in the morning light out on the water, a sound another migrating shorebird makes, the way the harbour seals wriggle their noses into the salt-smelling breeze?

I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve been missing, what pleasures I’ve been in too much of a hurry to appreciate or even notice, by strapping some controlling measure of time onto my wrist and hanging a reminder of the coming month on my wall, X-ing off the days.

Since the industrial age, time has become a measure of our productivity as well as our most valuable commodity. The onslaught of new technology that promised to set us free has instead made us slaves to our cell phones and laptop computers, which instill expectations of instantaneous action. Overall, these machines fuel the trend that every nanosecond must be accounted for; we are quick to condemn those whom we perceive as “wasting their time” and surround ourselves with time-and-labour-saving devices such as my newly acquired food processor that decimates a cabbage in no time at all (and takes the rest of the day to disassemble and clean). If I wish to walk across the road and watch the geese float out to sea, I will likely chastise myself for “getting nothing done” and for squandering my precious time. Yet what could be more precious than living fully in those magic and spontaneous moments that make us happy to be alive?

A friend from Ottawa accused me of having entered her into a time-warp on Vancouver Island (I asked her to take off her raincoat, gumboots and watch when she came to visit me one soggy November), but why is living in harmony with the moon and tides more warped than waking to an alarm and your first thoughts being, “How much time do I have to get up, get dressed, get out the door, drop the kids at daycare and get down to the House of Commons?”

In the daily grind, circa 2024, we’re up 365 going 24/7 in a heavily

weighted competition against the clock. Stopping to chat to a neighbour over the fence or slowing down to watch the geese float out to sea will only make you late for your appointment with your time management consultant.

Island time is what Jay Griffiths, author of A Sideways Look at Time, calls wild time. “Just as vast wilderness once surrounded us, so too, time was wild: everlasting, undefined, unenclosed, unnamed, a mystery.” Time, she says, has been seized and colonized in the West; clock time—or tamed time—is a mere construct, arbitrary and artificial, of modern society. Wild time, by contrast, is an openhanded hour, the open-hearted day.

Wild time thrives in nature, and in the spirit of play (western society fears play, which includes sex, drug-taking, rock ‘n’ roll and other intoxicating behaviours, such as art, which is serious play—of a subversive nature) and every child is born exuberantly full of both wild time and play. “Adults were enemies,” Anne Wilkinson wrote in a memoir of her Ontario childhood. “Not bitter enemies (except on occasions) but natural, inevitable ones. Their greatest offence was in regard to time, an abstraction they did not in the least understand.”

Adults, she continued, were always ringing bells or calling time for breakfast, time to come in out of the cold, time for bed. “Whereas we, with a more philosophical concept of the clock, knew that time,

in their sense, did not exist. What we happened to be doing was forever.” Whether that was skating on the frozen lake or lying in bed, hibernating, on a winter morning, Wilkinson recalls: “Slowly the enemy won, and thereby robbed us of immortality. Before we knew it our own hands were shaking bells and calling time for dinner, time to go to bed.”

Too soon we are forced to grow up, to live at the mercy of two authoritative taskmasters: the clock and the calendar. In our busy lives nothing happens if we don’t plan it, often months in advance. We work full-time or part-time and wonder where the time goes. We’re not here for a long time, but for a good time, the saying goes—a trendier way of describing how we kill time until time kills us.

But stop for a second: Look back on a near-death experience or an ecstatic night of lovemaking; recall, in terrible or blissful vivid detail, how time stood still. Perhaps we all need to take time to appreciate those moments, those brief glimpses of immortality between birth and death that have nothing to do with the hands on a clock.

Currently living on Haida Gwaii, the author of more than 30 books and once labelled the wild sea-witch of Canada’s northwest coast, Susan Musgrave was shortlisted for the 2023 Governor General’s Award for Poetry.

Kid time is the best time. Casey and Fletcher Ogle examine some classic coastal ice. STEVE OGLE

Life at the Top

Throwing it back to the days of full-time, on-mountain, live-in

ski lodge caretakers

words :: Cooper Saver

Imagine living in the Whistler Roundhouse or the Rendezvous on Blackcomb—full-time, rent-free, with a ski pass provided. That was the life of an alpine caretaker, the Whistler dream job you never knew existed.

Caretaker is a vague title consisting of a little bit of everything. Wake up early, shovel the decks and check the snow meter to call head operations with the pow report (this position predates everyone’s favourite snow-stake webcam). The job also meant food prep, cleaning and housekeeping. Obviously, caretakers got first tracks.

The bad news: This position was terminated in the late ‘80s. The good news: Some of those lucky few OG ski bums that got to live this dream are still around, and they remember it pretty well.

were considered “too fat” for the era. Over the years, the wildhaired, exuberant Rabbit would become one of Whistler’s most recognizable icons.

“At first, he was very clean-cut and living in the city,” says his daughter Jess, aka Pika. “He came to Whistler one weekend and was like, ‘That’s it. I’m never going back. This is paradise.’” With her parents as alpine caretakers, Jess grew up on the mountain until age 7. She would ski to school, take the gondola or snowcat home, and most of her free time was spent in the alpine. Pika’s restaurant in the Roundhouse is named after her.

It all began in 1978, when quintessential Whistler local John “Rabbit” Hare created the job of living on the mountain.

It all began in 1978, when quintessential Whistler local John “Rabbit” Hare created the job of living on the mountain. Rabbit and his wife, Rocky, moved into a shack near at midstation, then later to the Roundhouse to “take care of things.” Their team grew with the addition of their daughters Jess and Tara in the following years. People thought Rabbit was crazy for having his family based on the top of a ski hill. They said the same in the early ‘90s when he’d zip into the lift line on his 100 mm underfoot skis, which

Jess’s early exposure to an unconventional lifestyle of skiing, working in solitude with her folks atop a mountain (along with a bit of after-hours partying), informed a philosophy for her: “It’s important to enjoy life and live how you want to live, because life is short and anything’s possible. And even figuring out how to do it without a lot of money.” She remembers scolding lifties at age 5 for assuming she didn’t know how to load the chairlift and says of those years: “The colour of the mountains in the morning when the sun rises, the smell...It’s like, Oh, I’m home. Those are things I don’t forget from living up there.”

With the opening of Blackcomb Mountain in December 1980, the Mountain caretaker roster grew. The new ski operation featured a cafeteria and restaurant (Christine’s), an upgrade from the

Top of the world (or at least the Whistler world). LEFT Whistler Roundhouse with old Red chair and construction underway on Pika's, the new restaurant that opened in 1984. CENTRE Jess Hare living the life. RIGHT The legend himself, Rabbit, circa 1982. PHOTOS COURTESY OF JESS HARE

“At 5 a.m. I would get up and do the weather report. And then when the sun was shining, I would crank a little Vivaldi and serve cappuccino to my wife. When the patrol gave us the go-ahead on a good day, we would get a run in before the public came up.“ – Phil Lavoie

grab-and-go bag lunches previously available on Whistler. Part of the Blackcomb caretaker duties included baking fresh pastries every morning (a welcoming smell for early morning skiers) as well as heating up the soup and chili for the lunch crew.

“I made the muffins and donuts every morning,” says Sue Clark, who worked and lived alongside Drew Lattin as the original Rendezvous caretakers. “Drew had been roommates with Rocky and Rabbit so we knew about the job and lifestyle. We were hired by Alta Lake Foods, who were contracted to improve mountain-top dining. It always made me laugh that I was too young to be a liftie but they were okay with me helping look after this brand new lodge on the top of a mountain.”

Sue stayed on for the 81/82 season, working with Dave Roberts (DR) who she described as the smoothest, most beautiful skier she’s ever seen. “That was an epic winter, and I learned to ski powder following DR, Ragu and Johnny O around the mountain, skiing trees where the Jersey Cream and Crystal chairs are now and hiking up to access Blackcomb Bowl, Horstman Glacier and beyond.”

The Rendezvous expanded in the summer of 1987, and the caretaker role shifted away from food prep and more into cleaning and maintenance. Phil and Rose Lavoie were up to the task that winter and recall some of the more luxurious aspects of their morning work routine. “We’d begin at 5 a.m.,” Phil says. “I would get up and do the weather report. And then when the sun was shining, I would crank a little Vivaldi and serve cappuccino to my wife. When the patrol gave us the go-ahead on a good day, we would get a run in before the public came up. Around 4 p.m. I fantasized about being the fastest vacuumer in the world. I would just be in shorts, no shirt, and try to get it done in two hours.”

Blackcomb caretakers were on site seven days a week from October through May. “It’s still, as far as we’re concerned, probably one of the best pages of our life,” Rose says. “We were very happy to be up there, waving to the white light snake [of traffic leaving town] on Sunday night as they all went back to the city.”

ABOVE Sue Clark jumping into False Face. Blackcomb, 1988. LEFT Dave "DR" Roberts and Phil Lavoie discuss vacuuming techniques on a coffee break, Blackcomb Rendezvous. BOTTOM '80s pow looked better. Phil Lavoie enjoying his day job.

COURTESY SUE CLARK

Valley locals often asked about their mental health (Stanley Kubrick’s stir-crazy ski lodge horror film The Shining was released the same year Phil and Rose took the job), but boredom was never a factor and caretakers were well-rested after working and skiing all day every day. “Our socializing happened during the day, skiing,”

"We were pretty good employees, 97 per cent of the time…We did have a few tray races.” – Rose Lavoie

Rose says. “No TV, just skiing. That was our life. We saw incredible sunrises and sunsets and the silence of no one around was very, very special. We were pretty good employees, 97 per cent of the time…We did have a few tray races.”

They also had a drum set, a unicycle and a hacky sack. “A lot of people would say, ‘When are you going to get a real life?’” Rose recalls. “They couldn’t imagine, but that was the best life ever. It wasn’t as busy back then, and there would be powder all day.”

Which isn’t to say there weren’t hardships. Even four decades later, the Lavoies remember dealing with colds, flus and even the odd broken bone all on their own. At times they’d have to barricade the lodge doors with chairs and tables to combat extreme winds overnight. But it feels like they’d all do it again in a heartbeat.

“I kind of miss the freedom,” Sue reminisces. “Anything went. If it sounded fun, it was a go. The demographic of Whistler was starting to change by 1980, but there were still plenty of hippies and ski bums just trying to get away from the rat race. Everyone was sure there were other ways to live other than the nine to five and play on weekends.”

The mountain caretaker positions have long been phased out, but the sentiments remain: Mountain people don’t hesitate to trade a living for a lifestyle, and the unconventional path always has its rewards.

TOP The lunch rush. Blackcomb Rendezvous, early 1990s. COURTESY WHISTLER MUSEUM AND ARCHIVES. MIDDLE End-of-shift coffee. Rose Lynch and Sue Clark share a cuppa whilst caretaking on Blackcomb. COURTESY SUE CLARK. RIGHT Dropping in! Blackcomb Rendezvous, 1981. CLIFF JENNINGS

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UP WE GO

Mountain Mentors celebrates 1,000 new faces into backcountry spaces

Pop quiz: What’s the most common way to get into the backcountry—whether skiing, climbing or hiking?

Hint: It’s not via a map, a gondola or even your feet.

It’s through friends, contacts and cultural context. It’s because you grew up in a family where it was the norm. It’s because your peers did it, so you joined in. It’s because your school offered it and taught you the basics.

But if you have a yearning to get out there and it’s not something you grew up with, none of your friends partake and you don’t know where to start—then what?

Founded in 2016, Mountain Mentors is a nonprofit organization that supports Sea to Sky and Vancouver women, womenidentifying individuals and non-binary folks who want to get into the backcountry.

While the core of Mountain Mentors is a seasonal one-on-one mentorship program, participants additionally benefit from “interpersonal skills shares, leadership workshops and conversations on how we talk about conflict or feedback,” says Monika Tesiorowski, president of the organization. “We also offer opportunities to build hard skills with industry professionals, such as anchor-building and wilderness first aid.”

Summer 2024 marked 1,000 humans making their way through the various programs, both summer and winter. For a nonprofit with an annual budget south

of $30,000, that’s an outsize impact. It’s evidence of the passion of the volunteers who run the organization (only one employee is paid, for all of 12 hours per week) but also the value of the concept, not just for firsttime participants but also for mentors.

“Mentors have reported that they received more value than the mentees,” explains JoJo Das, program development director. “One of the most consistent pieces [of feedback] is, ‘My mentee didn’t objectively need me. The skill was there, and the knowledge was there.’ What they needed was a supportive human to be affirming, to share with and to talk through situations.”

Tesiorowski herself started as a mentee, transitioned to mentor and then became secretary for the nonprofit before taking on her current role as president two years ago.

“I did a year in the backcountry on my own and experienced what many females of my age do,” she explains. “I’d go into the backcountry with dudes and I didn’t feel safe enough to speak up or ask questions. The culture is so different. It was like ‘We’re charging to the top and eating cookies—and don’t slow us down.’ I was like, Oh my god I’m scared, and I don’t know how to evolve in this situation.”

As Tesiorowski discovered, Mountain Mentors isn’t just about getting humans into the backcountry or teaching people efficient ways to fill a backpack or read weather. It’s about fostering a culture of emotional and

psychological safety that creates empathetic and wise leaders.

“For the first time I experienced morning check-ins that included, ‘How are you feeling about today and about making decisions in the backcountry?’” she says. “I felt super-encouraged. Those women brought such safety and made it really okay for me to be me.”

That development of empathetic and wise leaders is the core of Mountain Mentors and the cultural shift it’s envisioning. Strategic success over the next ten years has two distinct levels that reflect that vision— one is expanding reach and the second is becoming obsolete.

“Ideally we don’t exist anymore,” Das says, “because we’ve triggered a large enough cultural shift in society that it’s no longer difficult to find people to reach out to and show you the ropes, literally and figuratively, to get into the backcountry.”

One thing that would help is funding. “Every dollar makes a big difference,” says Das. “For example, I’d love to pay our program manager a full-time salary instead of contracted hours, so they have greater job security.”

The power of nature meets the momentum of inclusivity and empathy. Maybe it’s time to send a few politicians through the program. – Kara-Leah Grant

Mountain Mentors participants Hayley and Versara practice snowpack analysis skills. Adventure is more fun when it's shared. OISIN MCHUGH

Requiem for a Glacier

2025 is the official “Year of Glacier Preservation,” but what does that mean?

words :: Andrew Findlay

There is human time and there is glacial time. From between about 75,000 until 11,000 years ago, most of North America was frozen beneath ice that was three kilometres thick in places. Known as the Wisconsin glaciation, it was the last ice age to grip the northern hemisphere. Time must have stood still in this virtually lifeless landscape.

The word “glacial” is a metaphor for things that move ponderously and painfully slow. However, that metaphor is melting. The glaciers that we see and know nowadays are vestiges of ancient geological history and they are rapidly leaving the ice age, thanks in large part to human-caused global warming.

Helm Glacier is certainly showing its shriveled age. Nestled on the north face of Gentian Peak near Garibaldi Lake, the Helm is one of the most studied glaciers in southwestern BC.

Federal government scientists have been studying this glacier since the 1960s, when it covered an area of around 4 km2. These days, it has shrunk to just 1 km2, and according to Mark Ednie, a geologist with Geological Survey of Canada, the Helm is not long for this world.

On a late September day in Whistler, Ednie loads his equipment into a chopper headed to Helm Glacier, one of dozens that he monitors in the Western Cordillera of Canada, from the Rockies to the Coast Range. He visits each glacier twice a year—once in the spring to measure snow depth and density, and once in late summer to measure ice melt. Combine these two measurements and you get

something called “mass balance,” a metric that offers a more precise measurement to quantify the amount a glacier is growing or shrinking.

“It’s usually in the negative column,” Ednie says.

After a short flight, Ednie and his technician assistant Jason VanderSchoot clamber out of the chopper onto bare ice near the top of Helm Glacier. Meltwater gurgles along runnels carved into the ice while Ednie and Vanderschoot strap crampons to their boots and start descending to the first of six stakes set to help measure latesummer ice melt.

A healthy glacier has two zones: the zone of accumulation, where the ice remains snow-covered year around, and below that snowline (also known as a “firn” line) is the zone of ablation, where more snow is lost than accumulates. Often by summer’s end this zone is bare ice.

Glaciers are in constant motion. Snow in the accumulation zone feeds the ice, which is always moving from the upper to lower reaches of the glacier. However, since Ednie started visiting Helm Glacier in 2018, there has been no zone of accumulation. Whatever snow falls in winter is completely gone by the end of summer.

“So that means the whole glacier is melting,” Ednie says.

He adds that it’s a similar story for most of the glaciers he monitors. In some ways, it’s like being in the business of palliative care. He makes the rounds to ailing glaciers to take measurements the way a nurse regularly takes the vitals of a terminally ill patient. They know the end is near, but they do it just the same.

The United Nations has declared 2025 the International Year of Glaciers’ Preservation, an effort to draw attention to the rapid decline of glaciers around the world. Hundreds of millions of people globally depend on rivers that originate in high mountains. In western Canada, the majority of streamflow water is the result of melting mountain snowpack; glacier ice melt contributes less than 5 per cent. However, that small amount comes at an important time, giving streams and rivers a pulse of water during the hottest months.

Glaciers have been called the water coolers of the earth, storing it until we need it the most. When these water coolers vanish, it will have a cascading effect on irrigation, drinking water, fish habitat and how we manage water.

Scientists report the earth is on track to lose one third of its remaining mountain glaciers by the year 2100. That’s why the United Nations declaration has an undercurrent of desperation—a call to action without an easy path forward.

Despite this dim outlook, it’s easy to understand why Ednie loves his job. He grew up in Quebec, where he developed an appetite for rock and ice climbing. A winter spent out west skiing in Rossland got him hooked on the big mountains. Since joining the Geological Survey of Canada in 2004, Ednie’s work has taken him west multiple times every year to study glaciers that have become like old friends.

And even anemic ones like the Helm are still beautiful places to behold. Earth’s history is written in the layered, turquoise-coloured walls of a crevasse like the rings of a tree. They appear, for the most part, still and silent. Yet they are animate, moving imperceptibly by the pull of gravity as they scour, claw, grind and shape the underlying rock, taking thousands of years to forge new landscapes.

ABOVE Collecting snow samples for density analysis, April 2024. MARK EDNIE. TOP Time travelers. Anna Segal and Yuki Tsubota skin past the toe of the Decker Glacier in Garibaldi Provincial Park. ANDREW STRAIN

For anyone who spends time in Coast Mountains, it’s very hard to imagine them without glaciers. Next to scientists like Ednie who study the ice for a living, mountain guides—perhaps more than any other group—have an intimate relationship with glaciers that is both professional and personal.

Evan Stevens is a Squamish-based guide. Born and raised in New York State, he has lived in Sea to Sky Country since 1998. In span of time so brief it doesn’t even register on a geological scale,

Earth’s history is written in the layered, turquoisecoloured walls of a crevasse like the rings of a tree.

Stevens has witnessed dramatic changes in the Coast Mountains. Moats and bergschrunds are bigger and harder to navigate. Glaciers like the Serratus in the Tantalus Range are so shattered and broken up by late summer that they are becoming too dangerous to travel. Where ice retreats, unstable ground is uncovered, creating new rockfall hazards. In other cases, these changes result in mass wasting events, like the cataclysmic landslide that ripped off the north face of Mt. Joffre in 2019.

According to Stevens, in the context of glacial recession, most

people think about the toe or terminus of a glacier. You can witness its retreat year after year, marked by glacial till that looks as though it has been freshly uncovered and piled up by a Cat D9 dozer. But from a mountaineer’s perspective, it’s the thickness of ice—or diminishing thickness—that has the most profound impacts, particularly at that threshold between rock and ice. As the ice thins, the glacier pulls away from cols and mountain passes that historically were simple, straightforward ski descents in winter, but may now require technical rappels to negotiate.

“As guides, we’re always thinking about plan A, B, C and D, and making decisions on the fly,” Stevens says. “But in some cases, the decision is simple—it’s to not go. The seasons are getting shorter and in some places hazards are higher. To be honest, it’s kind of grim. I guess it’s not changing what I do, but it’s changing where and when I do it.”

Glacial travel is now more than simply a physical act; it is also becoming an exercise in nostalgia that strikes at something existential to mountain people: the notion of mountains without glaciers.

“Don’t me wrong,” Mark Ednie says. “It’s alarming, but it’s also scientifically fascinating to imagine what we would have seen hundreds of years ago and what we will see in the future. I have two young daughters and I want to make sure they see these places.”

The clock is definitely ticking.

The big blue. Alison Criscitiello explores a local ice cave (while she can). BEN GIRARDI

Snowshoe & Sauna Experience

Callaghan Valley Whistler

restrictions apply

PH: Tim Gey

CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF

words :: Feet Banks photography :: Jimmy Martinello

Up on Goat Ridge, just south of Squamish, a steady wind blows snow into Alenka Mali’s face as she pats the snow down to form a small jump atop a 77-metre (250-foot) cliff. The in-run is set, the jump looks good, and if that wind ever pisses off, Alenka intends to jump this sucker.

Of course, the 25-year-old Squamish snowboarder/ climber/BASE jumper is no stranger to having a bit of air under her toes. “I can clearly remember crossing a river on a zipline under Cerro Torre [in Patagonia],” Alenka says of her childhood. “I was six years old, or five.”

She comes by her mountain lifestyle naturally. Alenka is the daughter of alpinists—her parents both climbed professionally. Her dad, Klemen, is now a mountain guide and her mom, Monika, continues to climb and ski most of the year.

“They were chasing rocks and they brought my siblings and me with them,” she says. “My mom is Argentinian and my dad is Slovenian, so we were raised in both cultures. Summer was the priority, going from hemisphere to hemisphere to avoid winter. It’s funny because now I chase winter like crazy.”

"As a girl, you see a girl do something and you know it is possible. It opens a fire inside you." – Alenka Mali

As a kid, Alenka had near-endless energy and started skiing and snowboarding as soon as she could walk. Independent and headstrong, young Alenka had a knack for figuring things out for herself and would often end up leading an entire pack of other climbers’ kids on whatever adventures sprang into her mind while the adults were on the rocks.

Raised by her mother after her parents divorced when she was six, Alenka decided to join her father in Squamish when she was sixteen, and immediately formed a deeper passion for snowboarding. “I’d never ridden powder on a snowboard before,” she says. “Then one of my dad’s friends took me up on a snowmobile and said, ‘Ride this.’ When I got to the bottom he was blasting music on a speaker and it was so cool. I thought, This is what it’s like to be a snowboarder! and started spending more and more time outside in the backcountry and beyond the piste on the resort. Then I started looking at freeride comps and thinking, I can do that. It’s not that easy to get on the world tour; there is a ladder you need to climb when it comes to qualifiers, getting invited, etc. I just started at the bottom and went up. Like anything.”

That straight-ahead attitude—which Alenka credits partially to her European roots as well as being the oldest sibling to three younger brothers—mixes with a quiet patience, in both action and conversation. “I never look too far into the future,” she says about planning, goals and time in general. “I make lists and I focus on the goals in front of me. Anything is possible with determination and persistence.”

Honed in on big-mountain snowboard competitions, last winter Alenka pivoted that persistence and focus into a film project set in the Coast Mountains. “I love being in the backcountry and having the freedom to do whatever,” Alenka says. “Competitions are very structured—you get one run, it’s usually on shitty snow and you need to show your style but there’s one chance to do it. Usually I’m nervous and there’s a lot at stake. They are good for my progression, and it is a great way to meet and connect with the community. We’ll see where it takes me, but really I just want to ride mountains.”

Alenka’s new film, The Beginning, started as a backstory about her unique, mountain-based childhood. However, with a slow start to last winter, her ideas began to shift toward making a film about her journey to complete a snowboard BASE jump (riding your snowboard off a cliff so large you need to pull a parachute/canopy to float down and land safely).

“I don’t know of any other women who have done that on a snowboard,” Alenka says. “I know some guys who have, and Spencer [Seabrooke—her BASE mentor] did it a few years ago, but it seemed like something new to try.”

Alenka has more than 180 standard BASE jumps under her belt. “That’s still a rookie in the BASE community. But I liked the idea of combining my two favourite sports. And sometimes when you’re looking up at a mountain and you see a really cool line but it doesn’t have an ending… With snowboard BASE I feel like those kinds of lines become possible.”

An accomplished lifestyle, action, nature and commercial photographer, Alenka spends her mountain and creative downtime with her dogs, surfing abroad, boat camping along the coast or even winter camping in the mountains.

“I TOLD HIM, ‘GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MIND. WE ARE JUMPING WHEN THE WEATHER IS BEST, NOT WHEN THE LIGHT IS BEST.’”

South American Cristóbal Ruiz joined the team as director, and Alenka’s mother, Monika, spontaneously flew from Slovenia to film some mother-daughter shredding in the iconic Tantalus Range. The film was underway, but with just half a winter to get an entire movie shot—as well as pull off her first snowboard BASE jump— timing was tight. And the season was shaping up to be one of the least snowy in memory.

But there are always opportunities. “It snowed in Squamish, so Spencer and I went up the Chief on a snowy day and did a practice jump together. It was my first snowboard BASE so I felt quite nervous. Plus there was a camera crew and other people up there using the same exit. So it was loud and crowded and still quite technical, not the best environment. But once I left the edge it felt amazing. Once you’re in the air, you’re on your own.”

Besides her role as subject of the film, Alenka produced it as well, organizing everything from the budget, transport, safety and scheduling while also managing a crew, meals and more. “Cris [Ruiz] and I did a good job of setting boundaries and working together and we got to know each other on a deeper level,” Alenka

says. “Having someone else control your story was a challenge for me. I had to let go a bit, but I am very happy with the end product. This is just a moment in time in my life, it’s not the full story.”

“I always bring a tent instead of snow caving—my tent is 1.5 kilos, so it's not much to carry, and there’s nothing better than unzipping the tent in winter and seeing those first rays of sun hitting you in the face. It warms you up and just… it’s so beautiful. I recommend everyone go winter camping at least once in their life.”

In early May, a weather window arrived and conditions looked favourable for Alenka’s primary winter goal—snowboard BASE. She assembled her eight-person camp-and-camera crew and helied up to Goat Ridge, just west of Sky Pilot in behind the Sea to Sky Gondola zone with four days to get the shot. Originally, Ruiz was hoping to film the jump at sunset, but safety was everyone’s top priority.

“I told him, ‘Get that out of your mind. We are jumping when the weather is best, not when the light is best.’ I’ve never had an issue with people not listening to me—I say what’s on my mind. So yeah, he had to let some artistic ideas go for safety reasons but that’s number one, everybody’s safety.”

Which isn’t to say close calls can’t happen. BASE (and big mountain snowboarding) carry a certain level of risk, even when all precautions are taken. In June of 2023, Seabrooke suffered a late chute opening and some twisted lines while BASE jumping off Siyám Smánit/Stawamus Chief. He had only enough time to twist and grab onto bushes as he slammed into the near-vertical rock wall. Helmet-cam video of the crash shows him immediately pulling out his phone to call Alenka as soon as he knew he was safely stuck on a ledge.

“None of those situations are easy,” Alenka says, “but that’s part of it. You just navigate them as they come. I was watching when that cliff strike happened, and as soon as he called I knew he was okay. He called really quickly, but you have to, right? He knew we were watching. But you can break your neck going down an icy driveway or die in a car accident at any time. You can’t really live your life fearing these situations. My parents experienced it; I remember going to their friends’ funerals as a kid, people they had lost in the mountains. And they always answered these questions the same way I’m answering now—you can die anytime, anywhere.” Up on Goat Ridge, the wind was howling on day one. Wind creates inconsistencies for BASE athletes—there’s an increased chance of a wall strike—so the crew dug in and built snow barricades to protect the tent while Spencer and Alenka investigated the exit—the exact spot she’d leave the snow and launch into the ether. “You want a bit of stiffness there so you can go in with speed,” she says. “We built a little kicker to help get

What would Alenka tell the 16-year-old version of herself if she had a time machine to go back? “I would tell her hard work is more important than talent. And drink lots of hot beverages when you’re winter camping, but stop at least an hour before going to bed. Getting up to pee is no fun.”

some separation out away from the wall, but not so far that I’d be too close to the opposite side of the gully.”

That evening, near sundown, the wind suddenly died—perfect conditions for jumping. “But we were exhausted from building camp,” Alenka says. “And I would have still had to climb back up the gully in the dark. We decided to wait.”

The next day was even windier. Regret and doubt swirled with the spindrift. Had Alenka missed her chance? She spent the day practicing the inrun while wearing her BASE rig (the harness and pack that hold the canopy) and securing her ice axe to her board between her bindings (for the post-jump ascent back up the steep chute). And then, at about 6 p.m., the wind began to falter. The camera crew got into position, the filming drones took to the air, Alenka strapped in, ripped the inrun with perfect speed, and launched.

“It felt really good. Everything went perfect. I cried at the

bottom. Everyone was freaking out on the radio. Then Spencer jumped right after me and we climbed back up together by headlamp. We’d gotten the shot at sunset, just like Cris wanted,” she says.

The Beginning showcases the world’s first female snowboard BASE jump (or at least the first recorded one) but Alenka says the accolades are not the point at all. “It’s about combining two things I love to do,” she says. “And it’s about time and solitude in the mountains. Go out there, have fun, survive and come home. That’s it.”

The Beginning will screen at the Whistler Film Festival December 4 to 8, 2024 and will see a wider release later this winter. Catch a full conversation with Alenka on the November episode of the Live It Up with Mountain Life podcast. Find it where ever you get your pods or at www.mountainlifemedia.ca/podcast

“WE BUILT A LITTLE KICKER TO HELP GET SOME SEPARATION OUT AWAY FROM THE WALL, BUT NOT SO FAR THAT I’D BE TOO CLOSE TO THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE GULLY.”

“The darkest hour is just before the dawn.”

Or so the adage goes. And yes, generally this timeless bit of wisdom is meant to inspire resilience in those struggling through difficult times: “Keep going; it’s bad but it’s almost over.” Taken literally it works, too: The final hours of night, particularly during a coast mountain winter, are the coldest, darkest, least-hospitable hours of the year.

And yet there are those who just can’t get enough. Those hardy souls who awake in the night, don the extra layers and venture into the snowy peaks—by snowmobile or on foot—to be ready when those first golden rays of winter sun finally crack the horizon.

We reached out to a few of them, the photographers and athletes most comfortable amongst the deep blues of pre-dawn and the uncluttered pink silence of a fresh morning atop a powdery white wall. Why do they do it? What drives that hunger? How does it feel out there on the perimeter, meeting each day head-on? What’s life like on the dawn patrol? – Feet Banks

How these days start. Erin Bruhns, Pemberton. MATT BRUHNS

photo & words :: Mason Mashon riders :: Joe Lax & Joe Loverin

location :: Pemberton Backcountry

“Joe Lax likes to get up psycho early. Wake up at 3 a.m. to get to the trail by 4:30 to be in the alpine by 5 and get on top of these heater lines before anyone could even get there with a helicopter. I mean, he’s not wrong.”

“I despise alpine starts, but this is quickly forgotten as the sunrise lifts over the horizon and the changing colors bring incredible energy to the day ahead. Cold digits are quickly forgotten as the landscape changes and shadows of the mountains fill with light, revealing the day’s objective. I’ve never regretted a sunrise in the mountains. And that is the first thing I remind myself when the alarm goes off way too early.”

photo & words :: Chris Christie skiers :: Eric Carter, Paul Greenwood, Marcus Waring location :: Mount Garibaldi

"I'm big fan of early morning dawn patrols. Winters at Mount Baker don't see too many sunny days. Often, the first light of the day can be the only few minutes of sun we get, so taking advantage of those early moments is important. It’s also nice to be skiing back down knowing you had a great session when the rest of the world is just starting to show up at the hill to get your sloppy seconds."

“We got up at 3 a.m. or something, drove up, and sledded in on frozen crust. Around 4 we hit the alpine, tandemed up to the glacier in the dark and had to hike for about an hour along a techy corniced ridge just as the sun started poking up. It was hard and shitty in a way but so fleeting and ethereal at the same time. Alpine starts are like that, you sneak in before the mountain wakes up and when it all comes together you’re dropping in bathed in golden morning light. It seems otherworldly.”

photo & words :: Grant Gunderson skier :: Casey McHugh location :: Mount Baker

photo & words :: Delaney Zayac rider :: Joe Lax location :: Pemberton Backcountry

“I’d choose sunrise over sunset every time. For clarity of mind can be found in the peaceful moments before dawn, uncluttered by the buzz of the day. I love it. Mornings like these remind me of the power within that comes from the union of purpose and passion. How easy it can be to kick off the sheets or slink out of the cozy sleeping bag into the cold, when the waves are firing or there’s a mountain objective on the schedule. Dark starts are the best starts.”

photo :: Connor Winton words & rider :: Taylor Godber location :: Haines, Alaska

HEART CORE

Not your typical slopes.

The mountain means something different for everyone. If you’re like us, it’s one part love for the people we do it with and one part commitment to pushing ourselves. It all meets where family flows together on the Okanagan’s best terrain, covered with 100% from-the-sky snow. If this sounds like you and yours, join us, knee deep in joy and lifted high by our village vibe.

We’re here for the heart core.

P: Chris Christie

Cold-Crushin’

Deep-water soloing meets ice climbing in Squamish

words :: Feet Banks

photography :: Jimmy Martinello

It happens almost every winter on the south coast: An arctic outflow weather system dips down and turns most of the south coast into a deep freeze. It’s unpredictable and ephemeral, but for those willing to face the north winds head on—there is always fun to be had. And in January 2024, Squamish adventurers Jimmy Martinello, Tim Emmett, Matt Maddaloni, Valtteri Rantala and Luca Malaguti pulled out the extra layers and did just that.

Jimmy Martinello: Mamquam Falls has been a project of mine for the past five years, after first accessing and exploring the bottom of the falls by paddleboard. Initially, the smooth granite caught my eye for rock climbing. It’s a spectacular setting. I rappelled in and bolted a few lines and the routes climbed amazing. I knew there was potential for some incredible mixed ice climbs. Caught in this wild cauldron of rock, mist and spray, in cold weather spray ice would form on the surrounding walls.

Pretty chill, Valtteri Rantala tests the (frozen) waters.

Tim Emmett: Jimmy always has a mission in mind. Mamquam is a 60-plus-foot waterfall that’s become increasingly popular with kayakers and hikers over the years. In spring and summer, tourists are common. During an icy, freezing arctic outflow though—not so much.

Matt Maddaloni: No sane person would have thought to climb it. Jimmy was excited to play around down there but I don’t think any of us thought it would actually go. And then as we got closer I thought, Maybe this will go

Tim: Ever since my first spray-ice climbing on a trip to Helmcken Falls in Wells Gray Provincial Park in 2010, my climbing radar has been locked onto waterfalls that don’t freeze solid. Mamquam is one of those. Climbing the frozen spray beside the waterfall is like being beside a living organism. It’s noisy and constantly moving. It adds a new dimension to the experience and definitely opens up the adrenaline floodgates. The other draw of ice climbing on frozen spray is that it’s generally softer and more aerated than pure water

ABOVE What does "Team Good Times" wear under those drysuits, though? BELOW Tim Emmett and Valtteri Rantala start the commute home.

ice, allowing for first-time placements with sharp axes. This offers a better chance of getting into the flow state because there is less battling with the placements and repeatedly striking the ice trying to get a good one. When you add all these together you get an iceclimbing experience like no other. It’s very cool, indeed!

“No sane person would have thought to climb it. Jimmy was excited to play around down there but I don’t think any of us thought it would actually go.” – Matt Maddaloni

Matt: Jimmy went first. He tried a traverse and got into a hard overhanging section about fifteen feet up when a piece of ice broke off and he fell into the water. He had his drysuit on, so he just came up and gave it another go. Then Valtteri tried, and then Tim started tooling around…

Jimmy: Keenan Nowak and I had bolted a route here previously, but I always believed it was possible to access by paddleboard and deep-water solo it. Deep-water ice soloing in that area was always

the dream. I checked every winter during a cold snap, and this time the dream became a reality. And sitting on an inflatable paddleboard, putting on crampons and holding ice axes only adds a new element to the thrill.

Tim: I helped pioneer deep-water soloing—climbing above water without ropes for protection—in the UK and Mallorca, Spain. It’s my favourite style of climbing, but usually you’re climbing in shorts and dropping into warm water. A little different than dropping into ice-cold water while wearing a drysuit! Sinking my first tool into the ice and traversing towards the waterfall, I felt like a character in a cartoon—this was an outrageous position and a wild proposition, yet here we were. A thin shell of ice snaked to the top of the waterfall on the left side. Was it solid enough to climb? I carefully ventured upwards, placing each tool with precision like a surgeon making calculated incisions with a scalpel. With each placement, I ventured closer to the top. Falling off now, with axes and crampons, into the raging torrent below, was unthinkable.

Matt: Tim just started tooling around and he just kept going and kind of explored his way to the top!

Don't look now but... you're high. Tim Emmett is pretty cool.

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Photographer: Chris Christie | Location: Broughton Archipelago

Tim: I made it to the top and turned to take in the splendor of my surroundings. From that high up I wasn’t too excited about jumping off in a drysuit armed with ice axes and crampons, so the only option was to reverse down what I’d just climbed. I carefully descended a bit then jumped into the caldron where Valtteri picked me up on a board.

Jimmy: We came back the next day to freedive because the water was so clear. The river can change so quickly if the temperatures rise, and the water can get murky-brown and silty. We took advantage of the calm and the clear.

Tim: Wearing 7mm wetsuits, weight belts, fins and masks, we dove to the bottom of the turbulent pools and played with the currents. Bubbles from the waterfall drifted past in a mesmerizing swirl. It didn’t feel real. Surfacing for each breath, I could feel the bite of the cold air on my cheeks. The air was colder than the water. How lucky we were to share this magical experience above and below the waterline. And no one was more stoked than Jimmy. I love it when a good plan comes together.

Matt Maddaloni freedives some of the clearest winter water Squamish will see.

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Michael Darling, Vancouver Island.

After the loss of his mother, Marcus Paladino takes to the water with thoughts on grief and passion and being exactly where you need to be.

words & photography :: Marcus Paladino

I drive back to the coast with tears in my eyes, receiving text after text from friends, family and surfers sending their love and asking about the upcoming swell, wondering if I’m going to be able to make it. I’ve seen this forecast on the horizon for a while now but now I face a moral dilemma: Should I even be here?

I arrive earlier than usual to embraces, hugs and kind words from my closest friends and colleagues in the surf community. Slowly I slip into my wetsuit and arrange my camera inside its water housing. Normally when the waves are pumping like this, I can’t help but feel anxious, excited and nervous about what’s to come. But today, in this moment, I feel nothing. Numb before I even touch the bone-chilling water. At the uneven shoreline, navigating the slippery rocks with the high tide and solid swell pushing into me, I have difficulty timing my way out into the lineup. Instead, I simply stand there and speak, repeating out loud with no one around to hear me, “Let me in, let me in. I need to heal. Please, let me in.”

Less than 24 hours earlier, I woke up to a 3 a.m. phone call from my aunt: “Marcus, your mom has gone...peacefully in her sleep.” It felt more like facts and less like destructively emotional news—we had been anticipating this news for a few days. The first words out of my mouth were, “She’s so smart. She never would have left if my sister or I were in the room with her.”

Rushing to the palliative care unit at Nanaimo Regional General Hospital, I found my family—in tears—waiting for me, the last to arrive, to come say goodbye. I walked quietly and mindfully down the hall, listening to my footsteps and holding my breath. The room was lit with battery-powered candles, surrounding my mother with their gentle glow. Her mouth was slightly open, looking peaceful, as if sleeping. Realizing this would be my last time seeing her, I touched her forehead, surprised at how cold she was. My girlfriend asked if I wanted a moment alone. I instantly replied, “There’s nothing left to say. It’s not her anymore.”

Shortly after making my way into the lineup, I’m mesmerized by empty waves hitting the shallow reef at the top of the point and rooster tails of water streaking skyward from the howling offshore wind. I sit in a trance and forget I even have my camera. I start shooting just in time to see Pete Devries catch the biggest wave of the morning, speeding down the face, only for the bottom to suddenly drop out beneath him. He dives through the barrel to avoid injury, but surfaces with all the fins blown out of his board and blood trickling from tears in his wetsuit. He gives me a half-hearted thumbsup and paddles in. I notice the stunned faces in the lineup: If someone like Pete, one of the best, can take such a close-call spill, what does that mean for the rest of us?

Later we learned that, once he reached the beach and the adrenaline wore off, Pete fainted and had a minor seizure. In that moment, I was reminded of how fragile even

the strongest can be when something vital gives way. It’s a strange thing to witness— that split-second when someone is no longer invincible. Pete was okay, but his day was over before it even began, and I can’t help but wonder how many moments we don’t see coming, others ending before they even start.

My mom had been suffering from breast cancer for the last eight months—a tumultuous experience, to say the least. In and out of the hospital, with doctors and specialists, in and out of chemotherapy; watching her body deteriorate and age twenty years in such a short amount of time. The pain of watching a loved one in pain is unimaginable—until it happens.

It happened relatively quickly, but I also had a feeling things were getting close to the end, despite an initial diagnosis saying she would have a few years to live. I wrote my mom a letter, letting her know everything

Michael Darling, Vancouver Island.

I ever wanted to say, thanking her for being the best mom she could ever be to me. I was lucky enough to ask her all the questions I was curious about, like what her favourite childhood memory was and what she was most excited about in the world when she was my age. In the end, I read that letter to her as she lay bedridden. I’ve always struggled to express my thoughts and feelings accurately in the moment; words would often fail me. But writing it all down gave me the space to share how I truly felt, expressing gratitude and saying goodbye. A few weeks prior to her passing, I got a tattoo honouring one of mom’s famous catchphrases: “Good morning, canary.” She’d say this to me every morning as a kid, so I had started saying it to her every morning in the hospital.

Back in the water with Pete watching from the sidelines, two of my good friends, Blair Forsyth and Michael Darling, go wave-forwave on the incoming sets. I can’t believe how well they’re surfing without the subconscious obligation of handing priority over to one of the most iconic guys in the lineup. Somewhere in all the excitement, I forget that my mom died yesterday. Then Michael paddles back to the lineup, chats to me briefly about the previous wave then asks how I’m doing. I reply with tears. Michael—soft-spoken, quiet, and often at a loss for words—gets off his board to hug me in the water then he says something I’ll never forget: “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

My mom was always so proud of the photographer I became, but more so of the person I am. I credit all the traits she loved in me—honesty, hard work, generosity, positivity—to her. She never had an agenda for me in life; she just wanted me to be happy, and I’m truly grateful that she got to see how happy I am with the life I’ve created for myself. She often worried about me swimming out and shooting in waves of consequence but she never voiced her concerns, out of respect for the effort and determination she’d seen me put into my craft. Regardless, I started wearing a helmet this past year, just in case.

I swim for about six hours that day, shivering to the core, because I know if I get out of the water, reality will start to settle in. I’ll have to start thinking about how to plan her funeral, what to do with her condo, how to tell people the news and how to find a way to deal with an experience I never thought would come so soon in my life. It’s incredible how the ocean has such a powerful energy and can make you feel such an array of emotions, almost an out-of-body experience. The time I spend in the water— just a day after my mom’s passing—feels as if I’m being lifted somewhere, a place of knowing that, with enough time, everything is going to be all right. Later, I speak with my family and tell them to go out and do something they love, for her, to find an outlet of joy to temporarily numb this loss. And I believe it just as much today. If you are hurting, or lost, go do what you love. Find your equivalent to swimming in the ocean and photographing your friends. Whatever it is, go do it. Maybe because it’s what you need right now, and definitely because that’s what Laura Eaton would’ve wanted you to do. But also because it will fill those empty moments in your heart. It will produce moments of joy, maybe not many, but they will be there—and they will add up until there is more joy than pain. Like the tide, time sweeps over the wounds of grief, wearing down the sharpest edges until they’re smooth enough to bear.

Make time for moments like these. Marcus and Laura. NORA BOILEAU MORRISON

Nice Dump(lings)

Local versions of a worldwide classic

words :: MJ Castor

No one calls them this, but dough pouches can be found in the cuisine of almost every culture on earth. From Italian ravioli and empanadas of South America to the dumplings of ancient China, stuffing meat or vegetables or fruit (or anything) inside a pocket of dough and cooking them is a timehonoured tradition.

“It’s a universal food,” says Chef Michelle Musey. “Traditionally, it was a poorperson food, a way to stretch your carbs to feed big families. But it’s also a traditional art: An entire family—multiple generations—

will come together to pinch pierogi for an entire day to stock the freezer.”

Musey is the driving force behind Mamma Musey’s Pierogi, a Sunshine Coast-based (pre-boiled!) pierogi company she started in 2017, using a recipe from her husband’s Ukrainian grandmother—a recipe that’s more than 100 years old. “It was traditional at the start, just cheddar, onion and potato,” Musey says. “Then we made cheddar and bacon and evolved from there. We like to change it up and give things a twist—the craft pierogi. Our vegan spicy dill pickle and cashew cheese is very popular. For the holidays, we have a turkey-dinner pierogi. It’s all traditionally made

from scratch, and we have a lot of fun in the kitchen. I know this because our kids want to be pierogi pinchers when they grow up.”

With such a rich and lengthy history as a family favourite, a handed-down recipe seems to be the norm for dough pouch/ dumpling cuisine. Sumire Aoshima and Fumie Kudo relied on a recipe from Fumie’s mom for pork gyoza when they started Pemby Foods, Pemberton’s first and only provider of locally made Japanese gyozas.

“That recipe was simple and tasty— easy,” Aoshima says. “For the veggie gyoza we came up with our own recipe through a lot of trial and error.”

Handmade food is better food. COURTESY OF MICHELLE MUSEY

Making their gyoza by hand in the commercial kitchen at the Pemberton Legion, Aoshima and Kudo both have experience working in Sea to Sky Japanese restaurants and say they can each pinch 120 gyoza in one hour without losing their focus on quality. The community support, Aoshima adds, has been tremendous. “Not everyone enjoys cooking or has the time,” she says. “In Japan, families make their own gyoza. For our community, I don’t want people to have to buy unhealthy, processed food. Gyoza can be cooked in a pan, air fryer or in a soup quickly, and you can keep everyone happy with no additives or preservatives.”

Squamish, once known as the place restaurants go to die, is exploding in population of late and making decent progress on the culinary front. Particularly when it comes to dough pouches—the dumplings on offer at Raincity Distillery are as good as any in the province.

“We wanted to do something different,” says Raincity co-owner Johnny Xu. “There are lots of breweries and cideries in town with great options for bar food, pizza, tacos—you name it. I’m Chinese and my business partner, Alex’s, wife is, too. When we meet up or hang out, we go to dumpling places, so we thought, Let’s try that.”

Aoshima and Kudo both have experience working in Sea to Sky Japanese restaurants and say they can each pinch 120 gyoza in one hour without losing their focus on quality.

Rather than build a complete kitchen inside their distillery, Raincity purchased a powerful steamer then scoured the lower mainland to find the perfect premade Chinese dumplings. “We ate all the dumplings we could find, and in the end we order from a lady in Richmond,” Xu says. “Everything is handmade and that’s important to keep the dumpling skin thin. That’s a big thing in Asian culture; if the skin is too thick it gets chewy or doughy.”

Best known for their locally distilled spirits and high-craft cocktails in the tasting room, Xu says both residents and tourists appreciate the clash of western bar culture and Far East cuisine. “We have three core dumplings on offer and then we rotate two specials throughout the year. The mushroom is definitely a favourite.”

Many sources cite China as the originator of the dumpling, but others claim there is evidence of dumpling fossils from Mesopotamia that could predate, or at least match, the documented tales of Zhang Zhongjing making dumplings more than 2000 years ago during economically tough times, as a way to help warm people during an especially cold and brutal winter.

With our own winter upon us, it doesn’t really matter where dough pouches came from or what they’re made of. What’s important is where they’re going: in our bellies!

Find the excellent dough pouches in this article at www.mammamuseyspierogi.com, www.raincitydistillery.ca and @pembyfoods on Instagram.

Raincity's assorted dumpling deliciousness. COURTESY RAINCITY DISTILLERY

RAY LONGMUIR *PREC, President of REAW

Photo by Andrea Helleman

TO GLEAN WISDOM FROM YOUR ELDERS

words :: Carmen Kuntz

Found in many niche habitats in a mountain town, they are often quiet and inconspicuous, sometimes spry and vocal. Lost among the throngs of youth bringing back the vintage-style ski suits, these folks are often still rocking the originals as they quietly slide the slopes and peaks with a smooth familiarity. They have seen many winters and know many springs. Seniors, septuagenarians, octogenarians or older. Those who have survived change, who have gathered wisdom. Those who see time through different eyes. The elders.

And, more often than not, they’re the storytellers. Over generations, stories allow us to communicate, connect and understand the world. Through them we share knowledge,

preserve history, teach lessons and enjoy humour. Over time, how stories are told has changed. Social media is younger than most people reading this magazine. The printing press is only a couple hundred years old. And yet, for nearly all of human existence, stories were exchanged verbally, not downloaded. So, in these current times of digital obsession, the value of person-to-person storytelling may be more valuable than ever. And the best storytellers we have are often those who’ve earned some wrinkles and seen some stuff.

Connecting with our elders isn’t a lost art, it’s a missed opportunity. Older mountain-lifers hold stories of human life. Rather than regurgitating facts, they spill details of the past that might require a little digging to get out, but that is often where the fun starts. Here’s how to connect with the previous generations and tap into their stories and timeless wisdom.

GO OUT ON A LIMB

The digital era has irreversibly changed social behavior. While young people might label you as a weirdo for striking up a convo with a stranger, this habit used to be normal. You can’t plan these chance encounters. Take what the world gives. Start with the weather, or a common interest. Or hold the door. The milk of human kindness is also a social lubricant. (Also, a chairlift is almost custom-made for facilitating conversations with strangers.)

DON’T DEFINE OLD

Age, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. From a kid’s perspective, turning 40 means the end is near, when really it’s barely halfway. Old people are simply anyone older than you. The guy in the rusted pickup with a snowplow blade on the front might be just over 50, but that dude has likely seen more winter than most of us will in our lives. Or the lady wiggling into beaten touring boots in the Red Heather parking lot: She’s not even retired, but she has stories from the days before Highway 99 had passing lanes and viewpoints. The point is, look for character—even if they don’t seem that old—and connect with them anyway.

BE PATIENT

Like panning for gold, you may need to sift through some sand to get those nuggets of wisdom. Break the ice and be patient, let the conversation warm up. This might include talk of the good old days and some complaining. Take it with a grain of salt and give a bit of leeway or historic license when it comes to dates, memories or terms that are outdated or indelicate today. A story might trickle out that gives you a glimpse into the past: a snapshot of how things used to be when Garibaldi Highlands was inhabited by mountain lions and loggers, or when Whistler Peak was hiking-access only. Keep an ear out for unique idioms, localisms, nicknames or sayings you won’t hear anywhere else. These are often things that will never be written down, and you become the guardian of them.

LISTEN MORE THAN YOU TALK

If the chat extends past the checkout line, let it. Beta for a new route or inspiration for an expedition might be the reward. But there also might be nothing noteworthy from the interaction, other than a few moments engaging face-to-face with someone from another decade. Collecting stories from this demographic of society is part of preserving local history. And making sense of the world. And learning from those before you. And a lot more interesting than skim-scrolling your overexaggerated Instagram feed.

SMILE

A silent nod to their hidden wisdom. An acknowledgement that they aren’t invisible. Old people are the foundation of our community. And one day, if you live right, maybe the new kids will come to you for tales from the good old days.

Reuse, Recycle, Reposition

On the road with a two-bedroom home

words :: Feet Banks

Steps 4 and 5 on the Municipality of Whistler’s adoption of BC’s mandated Climate Big Action Moves Strategy are “build zero-emission buildings” and “make existing buildings better.” But it’s also important to consider the dozens of existing homes, shacks and dirtbag ski chalets built in the 1960s and ‘70s that will undoubtedly be torn down to make room for the larger, fancier megahomes of the new Whistler landscape.

Globally, some researchers estimate that as much as 30 per cent of the total waste generated on earth comes from the construction industry. Closer to home, a study from Metro Vancouver found that in 2021 the city created approximately 372,000 tonnes of construction and demolition (C&D) waste, about one third of their total waste for the year. (Since 2019, Whistler has averaged about 11.6 tonnes of total waste per year, with 15 per cent reportedly coming from local C&D in 2023.)

Twenty-five-year local and Cayoosh Construction founder Seamus Quinn has been building homes in the Sea to Sky since 2010, and says often there are existing structures to be dealt with. “Some Whistler places are moldy, falling apart and need to be torn down,” he says. “But as real estate gets tighter and tighter and the neighbourhoods change, houses that may have never been considered teardowns are being looked at differently now.”

Recycling materials has always been part of Quinn’s process. “We put the word out and people come get stuff. Appliances or cabinets and vanities are easy, but often you will see people grabbing siding or roofing to use on their outbuildings or a cabin on rural property. We often reuse old wood from a teardown to make concrete forms. Windows, doors—we do our best to find a new home for as much material as we can.”

On a recent project in Alpine Meadows, however, Quinn and his clients wanted to give the entire home a new home. “It was a twobedroom, 1200-square-foot cabin, quite nicely built. It would have hurt to tear it down, but the new owners were interested in relocating it to a property they had in Pemberton. At first we didn’t think it was feasible because of the train bridge.”

That bridge, a railway overpass on Highway 99 just south of Pemberton (at the bottom of Suicide Hill) has a sign on it claiming 13 feet, 6 inches (4.75 metres) of clearance; squeezing an entire house on a trailer under it seemed unlikely.

“I decided to take one more look,” Quinn says. “So we went down with some lasers and took some measurements. Turns out there was a bit more room to play with than we thought.”

"It was like that scene in Austin Powers, the 32-point turn. It took almost two hours just to get out of Alpine Meadows and onto the highway. ” – Seamus Quinn COURTESY OF CAYOOSH CONSTRUCTION

Quinn then called the team at Nickel Bros—BC’s experts at moving entire structures—and went over the numbers and strategies with them. “They have a system where the house sits on I-beams that can be lowered almost right to the road,” Quinn says. “And then if we gave the house a bit of a haircut—remove the ridge cap and cut a bit off the roof peak—it seemed like it would go.”

"I had a crew there waiting, middle of the night, with chainsaws and Sawzalls in case we had to quickly cut down more of the roof, but it was perfect. Our estimates were down to an inch and that’s about what we had.” – Seamus Quinn

Quinn’s crew disconnected the water, sewer and electricity services. Nickel Bros came in, lifted the house and built a special trailer right underneath it. They laid a temporary “road” of 6 by 8-inch boards across the crawlspace and drove the house right over its own foundation and onto the road.

“We did it at two in the morning,” Quinn says. “It was wide and long, but the trailer had a hydraulic system to individually control each wheel, so with even just a few feet of room they were able to crabwalk the house around any corner by going back and forth a bunch of times. It was like that scene in Austin Powers, the 32-point turn. It took almost two hours just to get out of Alpine Meadows and onto the highway.”

With a simple system designed to ensure all overhead lines were lifted and directed up and over the cargo, the only remaining crux was the train bridge. “The bridge was funny to watch,” Quinn says. “They lowered everything almost right to road level. The driver got out, took a look, then hopped in and tucked the nose under the bridge. After that he just went for it and didn’t look back. I had a crew there waiting, middle of the night, with chainsaws and Sawzalls in case we had to quickly cut down more of the roof, but it was perfect. Our estimates were down to an inch and that’s about what we had.”

With the old 1970s home safely repositioned in Pemberton,

Quinn and his crew could begin work on their clients’ new Whistler dream home: a modest (by contemporary Whistler standards) 3,000-square-foot home with an emphasis on mountain views and an indoor-outdoor living space.

“What makes it unique is this massive 1,500-square-foot covered deck, so you open the patio doors and the living space is suddenly 50 per cent larger,” Quinn explains. “The roof comes right to the rail of the deck and, to help preserve the views, the design has almost no posts. So we had to cantilever 17 feet of roof, which took some doing.”

To facilitate the numerous structural components in the shape of the roof with that much overhang, Quinn and his team used crosslaminated timber panels cut by a computer numeric control (CNC) machine to perfectly fit together. “We pieced them in like puzzle pieces,” Quinn says, adding that it was his crew’s first experience with this type of roof building. The panels fit perfectly.

“The houses we build now are complex,” he says. “That is the new norm. We need to build homes that withstand those 100-year storms that can happen more frequently now. They need to be net-zero or near net-zero energy efficient and seismically sound for our earthquake risks. So everything is more complicated and we are always learning. Material costs are going up and labour is, too—people need to make enough to raise their families in this area—so we are always conscious of new techniques, materials and efficiencies.”

And repurposing entire older homes will likely play a larger role in the future. “To build that house we moved from scratch would have cost more than it did to move it,” Quinn says. “Whistler has unique challenges for moving houses compared to the lower mainland or the prairies. The terrain here is rarely flat and easy, and it has to be a single-story house if you want to go north because of that train bridge, but it can be done. And I think as it gets to a point where saving and moving a house makes more sense financially, we’ll see more builders with an appetite for this.”

And, perhaps most importantly, it keeps an entire home out of the landfill.

www.cayoosh.ca

Out with the old, in with the new (and the view). RUSSELL DALBY

audainartmuseum.com

Image by Abby Cooper

Ben Poechman

words :: Feet Banks

“My oldest brother was a very talented sketch artist,” Ben Poechman says. “He could pencil sketch in perfect detail. I compared myself to him, thought I sucked and couldn’t do it, and never put the effort in.”

Thankfully, he had snowboarding. But, as one of six kids raised on a farm in rural Ontario, even that was not an easy path. “The nearest ski hill was an hour away—Beaver Valley—but it was private,” says Poechman (pronounced peck-men). “Talisman was also there, but it was closed. So I would just build my own terrain parks in the cow pasture that had a tiny five-degree slope by the barn. I’d pile bales of hay and put old chicken feeder troughs onto plywood to make rails. I’d drive a tractor out after school and leave the lights on and shred my own little park by tractor light. My cousin had a snowmobile, so on weekends we could do tow-ins. Snowboarding was very solitary for me until I was in high school.”

With a crew to have fun with, Poechman became a very talented street and park rider. In his senior year (2009), he won a DIY video contest that landed him at the Camp of Champions summer shred camp on Blackcomb. That fueled a full-time move west, or almost full-time.

Ben Poechman in (one of) his elements. BEN GIRARDI

True artists can't be fenced in. 7th Heaven, Blackcomb. STUART COSTELLO

“For the first few years out here, I’d work landscaping for the off-season, then go back to Ontario for most of the winter to film street segments. My first full winter in Whistler I rode the park every day. I was that guy in a hoodie hiking the park on a pow day. Icy rails were all I knew.”

“It got to a point where I was up at some $20 million mansion cutting grass with a pair of scissors on my hands and knees because it had to be that perfect. I had an epiphany: I think I can do more in this world.”

Back in Ontario because Whistler was having a terrible season, a filmer suddenly disappeared mid-project. “It was late December 2014, and my buddies and I thought we were filming another Trash League street video but no one could get ahold of the filmer, so our crew was falling apart. I had a selfie stick I’d gotten for Christmas as a gag gift and a crappy Sony point-and-shoot camera, so I just went to a closed ski hill and started filming myself, mostly just hiking in the woods and riding pow. I fell in love with powder in Ontario.”

That four-minute, produced-in-solitude movie, Selfie Stick Man, exuded the kind of passion,

determination and soul that core snowboarders are drawn to, and Poechman became an underground hit with a new Instagram handle: soulboarder. His return to Whistler and transition to pow riding kickstarted a new phase of his growing snowboard career (albeit with the requisite summer job to actually make enough money to survive).

But the thing about art is that it finds a way to get out. After seven years of landscaping, Poechman was ready for a change. “It got to a point where I was up at some $20 million mansion cutting grass with a pair of scissors on my hands and knees because it had to be that perfect. I had an epiphany: I think I can do more in this world.”

He started soul searching and landed an apprentice job carving stone inukshuks for the gift shop at Fathom Stone Art Gallery Whistler. After a year of training, gallery owner Jon Fathom offered Poechman space and tools to try his own thing. “It was a sweet deal. Jon would pay me hourly to

We're not in Ontario anymore. STUART COSTELLO

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make inukshuks and in my free time I could carve whatever I wanted and sell it on commission. And I could still snowboard every day.”

Poechman’s first piece was “Chili Tree,” a fourfoot marble rendition of snow-covered trees based on the work of iconic painter Chili Thom, who had recently passed away. “I’d seen Chili’s work around town, and it triggered a lot of emotion in me. The way he painted, I could tell he had spent time out there in nature.”

“Chili Trees” sold right away, providing a boost of confidence (and cash) that helped push Poechman into more carvings and commissions— and eventually paintings. His early canvases reflected the beauty of the natural world he’d encounter out in the forests and mountains: “When I started, I was stuck in the naturalist style, painting something that looks identifiable. And that was how I valued my work. I’d ask myself, How much does this look like a tree or a mountain?”

Honing his skills (and selling work) for the next few years, Poechman was able to rely on his art as the sole income to support his expanding snowboard career. Until a knee surgery created the time and space to recalibrate and experiment.

“I already had been feeling I wanted to do something different. Getting knee surgery and spending six weeks on crutches forced me to take some time out of the studio and rethink my approach and ideology. What is art? What does it mean? I read a lot of art history and started taking inspiration from ancient cultural and primal art.

Probably some of that comes from my time carving stone as that’s one of the first forms of art.”

Following his interest in less-realistic art freed Poechman to create pieces that are “more ideabased or abstract. Stuff where I can shut my brain off and paint from the subconscious, like a kid. Kid art is so sick. And kids can look at a piece and see 100 different things. I don’t always know what’s in there, but they will immediately identify with and find meaning in it.”

At the same time, Poechman says he had never felt like he could try creating more abstract work until he felt he’d firmly established his ability to make something look realistic or accurate. “I felt like I needed to be able to demonstrate that skill before I could step back from it and do more ideabased pieces.”

The next step is to combine his two passions: art and snowboarding. Collaborating with snowboard companies has always been a dream. “I’ve been searching for something that would look good on product and I didn’t feel like my naturalist stuff was the right fit. So now I am having conversations, pitching ideas and learning the ins and outs of applying my abstract art to textile. It’s exciting to learn and to venture into uncharted terrain.”

Exploration, progression, passion. Ben Poechman hasn’t used his selfie stick in a while, but, on a snowboard or in the studio, he’s still carving out his own path.

www.peakplane.com

That Old Rascal

words :: Jon Turk illustration :: Lani Imre

You’ve got a dentist appointment, but you get stuck in traffic. So you’re late.

You’re kayaking around Ellesmere Island in the polar vastness of the Canadian Arctic, but you get stuck in heavy sea ice. So you’re late.

In both situations, you’re chasing—or being chased—by that old rascal Father Time, who runs through the cosmos with a smile on his face and a white beard swaying in the wind. He’s wearing a flowing robe and desert sandals, carrying a long, curved scythe, because despite his mischievous smile, he’s the Grim Reaper.

In a famous scene in Ken Kesey’s novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, as the schizophrenic Chief Bromden is sweeping the floor, he imagines that Big Nurse Ratched is secretly moving the clock hands forward and then backward, to speed up time and then slow it down, just to mess with his head. Similarly, when I am stuck in traffic and late for that dentist appointment, I also have the sensation that there is some malevolent idiot or tyrant holding up

Time. A day. A week. Two weeks. Three. Sitting, watching the ice drift past.

the show, monkeying with the clockworks. In my frustration, I imagine that this person or these people are stealing my precious time, as if I owned time, and as if some malicious whizz kid could hack into my computer and take my time away from me.

The fundamental difference between being held up by traffic or being held up by the Arctic icepack is that it’s almost human nature to get angry at other people, but it’s so obviously futile to get angry at the cosmos. The Old Rascal runs along at his steady pace, with his signature grin. No one moves the clock hands forward or back.

I recall my 2011 expedition through the heavy sea ice around Ellesmere Island. Here the stakes were so much greater than missing a dentist appointment, because if my partner Erik Boomer and I were late, the polar winter would settle in around us. But there was nobody to blame, no conceivable story to drum up in our heads to find some person or people to get angry at. The spin of the earth was driving the currents that propelled the ice relentlessly southward, and the orbiting of the earth carried the planet toward

winter. Under those stark circumstances it became natural to see Father Time as the teacher that he is. We could clearly imagine his sharpened scythe with its glistening steel and simultaneously feel the radiance of his smile and the twinkle in his eye.

If you make friends with Father Time, he’s uplifting to be around. And if you listen before you chase, or stop and chat before you run away, if you laugh with him at the foolishness of it all, enjoy the sunrise and sunset, then there is no race and no chase because all that is left is wondrous awareness.

Boomer and I sat on the beach as ice floes drifted past. Occasionally, football-field-sized floes crashed into the cliffs and showered crystals into the air that danced rainbows against the sun. Instead of anger or frustration, we felt wondrously and happily alive.

Time. A day. A week. Two weeks. Three. Sitting, watching the ice drift past.

Finally, a gentle puff of wind arises from the west, jostling our long unwashed hair and pressing gently against our cheeks. We trade glances and smile. Slowly, metre by metre, the wind pushes the ice pack offshore, leaving an open channel that we could kayak through, southward, toward safety. Thank you, Father Time. Thank you for being the teacher; thank you for both the smile and the menacing scythe. I pick up my paddle, my comforting old friend, and swing my arms with the breeze, to remember the cadence of a stroke. Embrace all of this. Pause for a second and wink at Father Time. He won’t pause, but he will wink back at you as he prances along, because it is all a game, anyway. Isn’t it?

I’m older now, and it’s taken a lifetime for the obvious to sink in. Time doesn’t run away and doesn’t chase you. Time isn’t friendly or malevolent. More than anything, it is never stationary. And once an instant is gone, it’s gone.

This is the November issue and the sun is dipping lower on the horizon every day, rising later and setting earlier, right on schedule—no one is messing with the clockworks. And when the snowflakes start to fall, raise your head, open your mouth and let the cool white crystals land on your tongue. Then go inside and tune up your skis because there is no evil nurse or whizz kid to steal your time, and you are the only one who can squander it. Spring will be here before you know it and every day that you’re not skiing is a day you’re not skiing.

Dr. Jon Turk is a scientist, author and National Geographic award-winning explorer. He spends his winters living in a van, biking and playing in the desert with his partner, Nina.

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Best of nearby fields, pastures and pristine waters.

Ben Poechman, Blackcomb. ANDREW STRAIN

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Spearhead Range. PAT VALADE

Photos by Justa Jeskova

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"When you are measuring life, you are not living it." – Mitch Albom

LIV E I T UP

Connery Lundin. GUY FATTAL