I am not naturally tempermentally inclined toward downhill skiing. I adore the mountains - give me miles and miles of trail, a water bottle, and a good pair of runners and I'm in heaven, but this business of falling down a steep hill in semi-controlled fashion runs absolutely counter to my nature. Nevertheless, one can't live in Whistler without skiing, so I have persisted (or rather, Rob has persisted in shoving me out the door.) I am therefore happy to report that for the first time this season, I felt a sense of genuine joy and anticipation on the ride up that almost entirely obliterated the customary anxiety.
It would be difficult not to be happy up here - the temperatures are mild, thanks to an inversion, the sweet smell of pine is in the air, snow conditions are marvelous, and the sun is blessedly brilliant.
Perhaps this is what all the fuss is about.
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