MOUNTAIN LIFE - Blue Mountains | Fall 2020

48 Despite an in&ux of development since my ‘90s-era visit, Golden has managed to retain its funky little centre. It’s rough around the edges, with dusty sidewalks and scattered empty lots—some fenced with planks of bright, discarded skis. Sun-haggard ski bums belly up to bars next to generations-long railroad locals and loud, wealthy tourists. It’s the kind of place where a musician and bona"de character can hand-paint his decaying van in bright, block colours and christen himself Pablo Euphoria. Where you hear whispers of a fabled, kind hippie named In"nity Solstice, and an hour later that same long-haired legend saunters into the bar, dispensing hugs like candy. Saturday dawns, crystal clear and frigid. We meet our instructor for the morning, biologist-turned-patroller Lenka. Wicked smart and patient, she walks us through one scenario after another, bolstering our con"dence in the use of beacon, probe and shovel—and assuring us the chances are very low we’ll put our new skills to use tomorrow. !e sun shines all afternoon, and we pick our favourite lines in the bowl. It’s been days since the last storm cycle, yet we manage to "nd patches of untracked snow at a perfect rock-star pitch. Completely wiped from our second day on the mountain, we make another stop at the brewery—for pints, Red Tomato pizza and a meetup with tomorrow’s backcountry guide. Louis needs to size us up, see what he’s getting into with these vacationing moms. Allison and I need to be talked down from irrational fears. Quick to laugh and contagious with positive con"dence, Louis sets us at ease. Mostly. Twelve hours later, the three of us are riding the chair—Allison and I a bubbling concoction of giddy, pumped and petri"ed. We take a left o$ the ridge, out of bounds, headed for my "rst foray into the backcountry in more than 20 years. I’m wobbly with my heavy pack in the deep, choppy snow, but make it to the bottom of the bowl with minimal expletives. We traverse further out, attach our skins and set out on the track. !e climb to Reudi’s Ridge is gentle and fairly short, extended by frequent stops to clear bindings, catch our breath, laugh at our tortoise pace. When we arrive at the top and take a look around, adrenaline and exhaustion fuel my thoughts. I’m determined to make big-mountain trips happen more often. To stand in this very spot with my children. To return stronger, more "t. To make it back inbounds before dark. Two laps of fresh tracks and bouncing powder turns down the mellow face lead us to a long, &at runout. If that "rst hazy, nauseating day was my time to curse, this is Allison’s moment to let the fucks &y. Forced to choose between butt-wiggling her board forward in Louis’s tracks or post-holing in waist-deep snow a hundred metres through the woods, she is stuck. (And I’m damn grateful I don’t snowboard.) Louis laughs and encourages, he tugs and suggests. Louis gives space for frustration and time for tears. Louis, it turns out, is some sort of guiding god. We make it back to the parking lot, long past last chair, limping and sni'ing, absolutely done. Physically, emotionally. Done. Louis deserves every accolade and tip we can bestow upon him. And Allison and I need a drink. It’s open mic night at !e Wolf’s Den, and our favourite bartender Mellie is next on stage. We cheer her on, laugh with the table of Aussies and their ukulele-playing buddy, follow our new best friends down a dark alley to the next bar. Surprised to "nd Louis there at !e Riverhouse, we dole out a round of Shafts and share the longest, tightest hugs. Stumbling home in the dark, the lyrics to Mellie’s song repeat in my head: Come to this town, you’ll have a good time Catch a snow$ake, and choose your line Meet some people, drink the wine Come to this town, you’ll have a good time. Kicking Horse spun me dizzy and spat me out, drenched and gasping. Beat me to a pulp, left me for dead. But if Kicking Horse wanted nothing more than to see me fail, Golden was my biggest fan. A booze-"lled reminder of my former self and ski-bum dreams, it smacked me on my backside and said, “Go get ‘em, kid. You got this.” I add vertigo to my laundry list of struggles, muttering expletives as I attempt to buy just one solid turn.