Although my trip to Whistler began in Vancouver Airport where I met my cousin Paul, it didn't really begin properly until I was sitting on a bench, looking out towards a very impressive snow capped mountain range trying BC Bud for the first time. The beautiful beautiful scenery and relative quiet of the area was quickly destroyed by my coughing the minute that stuff hit the back of my throat.
The rest of the drive was very relaxed. We listened to music and I looked out the window like it was the first time I had seen a mountain.
We arrived in Whistler where Paul has left me in charge of his dogs while he works up North. Two Jack Russels, Huntster and Minx. Huntster is the super relaxed man of the house and Minxy is the ball of energy, wants-to-lick-everything-and-do-stuff-all -the-time young lady of the manor. I am a sucker for them already. They are, in my defence, just too damn cute.
I wasn't fully prepared for a place like this. Again, I didn't really think it through. I have no walking shoes for one. Immediately I realised that tennis shoes are not the correct thing to be scaling up and down fucking hills and trails and rocks and suchlike. I am also too unfit for a place like this. The first day I was here I was on a bike. I haven't been on a bike since the time I broke my face on a wall in Italy. But here I was, on a bike, in the mountains. Not just any bike either, but a beautifully feminine bike with a basket on the front with a small dog in the basket. I had gone from sitting on the couch to being on a bike, which I then noticed was a girls bike, which my cousin then put a basket on the front so that I could give Minx a lift, all while trying not to think about the amount of peril I had put myself in by agreeing to a simple bike ride.
After what seemed like miles and miles of rocks, trees, mud and danger we were back on a paved trail. We passed through the golf course car park. I heard Paul say something, I couldn't figure out what it was but he was pointing to his left. As I caught up to where he had pointed I came face to face with a bear.
OK. I say face to face, the thing was about 6 feet away. Which is close enough. Closer than I would choose to get to a wild bear.
Thankfully the bear was just chilling out. Clearly it had just been for a swim, and was drying out in the midday sun. Regardless, I still totally shat it. More than that, I was totally affronted. My first encounter with a bear and I am on a girls bike with a basket on the front. Now, when I walk homefrom the pub in the dark, I am fully aware that in any dark patch of my peripherals there could be bears lurking. For all I know they could be conspiring, surrounding me, waiting for the chance to pounce, make reference to the fact I ride a girls bike with a basket before setting about me and kicking my head in.
With that in mind I have been spending a lot of time with the dogs. Forming a bond so that if I get jumped by bears when I am out walking with the dogs, they will step up and have my back. This means learning a few things. Adam, who lives downstairs has taught me a few things. Number 1. Don't talk to them like humans. 2. Don't be condescending. 3. Don't give them a Mexican accent. 4. Show them who is in charge. Easy. I could have my own show like The Dog Whisperer but instead of absolute control of all dogs on the planet, my show will be me thinking I know what I am doing for 5 minutes and the rest of the time is me pleading with them to listen to me, or asking what it is they want from me, or being overly condescending when one of them does something I asked them not to. Or giving them Mexican accents when they sit and stare at me like they want conversation.
When I am not hanging with Huntster and Minx I am in the village drinking. It is 4.5KM away, or the longest fucking walk you could ever imagine because you never learned KM where you come from. There is a bus, but as with almost every country I have ever been to the bus driving jobs seem to be monopolised by assholes. It's a strange phenomenon. "Quick, there is a bus driver job opened up, find me the biggest asshole you know!"
So instead of paying their wages and feeding their kids I have found it is far cheaper, more fun and more interesting if I just hitch hike. People are really friendly round here and seeing as it is off season it is mainly locals, so you have no trouble thumbing a ride around. So far I have not had my head chopped off and I haven't been buried in a shallow, snowy grave.
Whistler is a great place. It is beautiful, the people are very friendly and there is always something to do and someone to do it with. I have heard from various locals that it used to be so cool, and when you look around now you can still see it, if you look in the right places. But as with everything that is at one time cool, as soon as everyone else hears about it, it loses it's cool a bit. Then, eventually, somewhere down the line some horrible bastard in a suit swings by and sees Dollar signs and then Paradise is truly fucked. The prices go up. The quality of people visiting goes down (depending on your point of view) and thanks to the marketing everything is left covered with a subtle, but still noticeable film. This film may not completely ruin your view, but you know it's there. It's the way of the world I guess. The only way to stop it now would be the mass execution of everyone in any kind of marketing or advertising job.
Until then, you're just going to have to squint to see the good stuff.
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