Two years ago, I spent a winter living in Revelstoke. Read more starting here.
Revelstoke, B.C. December 20, 2017
It is 9:36 in the morning and we are moving slowly. The parking lot at Revelstoke Mountain Resort is crunchy and cold, and our hungover limbs fumble with ski equipment.
“Got a couple hoots” says Steven, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He sways a little, looking pretty green. Last night is replaying in our collective memory, and it’s off to a hot start.
“Got a couple hoots,” Steven clarifies, from a car of half-dressed skiers who watched him wander to the edge of the lot, lean, and spew onto the snowbank.
This whole time, a beautiful light has been melting over the tops of Mt. Begbie and Mt. Revelstoke, and shining like a beacon off Copeland, beyond the far end of town. The tall straight trees on the mountainsides look blue in the cold.
We make it up the hill and spin a first lap underneath the Stoke chair. Within seconds, we are out of breath, no one is managing any edge control and our thighs are screaming bloody murder. 18cm fresh and I have decided to bring my park skis.
Through the day we lose a couple friends to extended lunch breaks, and so on. Steven is down for the count, Scotty goes home early. We get first tracks top to bottom on Separate, which is just about the most classic, most perfect thing to do. We hike gracias right to the end, we sample Pat Monteith’s latest Revy Parks rendition.
It’s a gorgeous, mid week pow day at Revy with no lines and inexhaustible pockets of snow. Carly says the snow feels silky today and it’s true. Soft, choppy, enough to choke you in cold smoke when you lay into a big ol dive turn. A great day for a photo op, for a shred, for hay. Like a good old day.
Though like any good memory, not unaffected by time. We are older, with different angles, new divisions, missing pieces. Scotty made so much money working in Saskatchewan he bought a Corolla as a burner car. Blake and Carly have a new dog, Nich's gotten hooked on intersectional feminism, Kev isn't here. The highway home is full of detours.
Still, we rally for one last separate lap and shralp our way through the remains of this good long day. And at the bottom, on our way home nicely divided into carpool-sized groups, we pass a scruffy black raven proudly devouring the remainders of Steven’s thrown-up breakfast. Perfect.