47. Canada - Skiing in the Rockies

Chapter 47: Rockies or Bust: Powder Dreams and Political Headwinds

Surrey to Fernie, then Kicking Horse, Kimberley, and back to Surrey—a fifteen-hour pilgrimage, launched under a sky that wept rain. We didn't care. Rain in Surrey meant powder in the Rockies, a gambler's bet we were ready to cash in. And boy, did we hit the jackpot.

Imagine this: one side of a mountain pass, spring's gentle green, the other, a blizzard's white fury. Fernie, the self-proclaimed "Powder Highway," lived up to its name, churning out snow like a celestial factory. It was a damn miracle, a perfect storm of our desires.

While carving fresh tracks, we were also hustling, playing real estate agents for our trusty Pleasure Way. Online ads, library bulletins, even supermarket flyers—desperate measures for a sweet ride. We had a hook, a Swiss couple craving the Canadian dream. Fingers crossed, eh?

But the air wasn't just filled with snow. A weird political undercurrent ran through everything. Trump's "51st state" jab, the liquor tax beef—it was everywhere. Even a hockey game, supposed to be a sacred space of pucks and cheers, turned into a political mudslinging match. Boos and jeers, not for the opposing team's skill, but their… well, their nationality. It left a sour taste.

We embraced the ski bum life, living and breathing the slopes. Van life, ski podcasts, and chasing that perfect line became our religion. Those podcasts, man, they were gold. "Athletic stance," "pressure on the outside ski," "dynamic movement"—we soaked it all in. The "penny pincher" analogy, perfect for both our budget and our shin pressure. "Where your hands are, is your body," they’d say, a mantra as we visualized our descent.

Fernie, Kicking Horse, Kimberley—these places were a masterclass in raw talent. In Fernie, we wrestled our van down a ridiculously steep, snow-choked slope—a comedy of errors. Kicking Horse, with its broken gondola (thanks, two-week breakdown), forced us to skin up, earning our turns. And everywhere, kids, kids, were ripping it up, throwing 360s like it was nothing. It felt like every kid in BC was born with skis strapped to their feet, a testament to the mountain's magnetic pull.

Our final BC ski odyssey was a chaotic symphony—perfect powder, treacherous ice, slushy runs, and icicles that shimmered like diamonds. It was a glorious, messy, perfect farewell to a year of wild adventures.

But the skis aren’t going into storage just yet. Europe beckons, maybe. And then, spring. The warmth, the blossoming flowers, the birdsong—the siren call of the climbing season. We're ready for the next chapter.

But the air wasn't just filled with snow. A weird political undercurrent ran through everything. Trump's "51st state" jab, the liquor tax beef—it was everywhere. Even a hockey game, supposed to be a sacred space of pucks and cheers, turned into a political mudslinging match. Boos and jeers, not for the opposing team's skill, but their… well, their nationality. It left a sour taste.

We embraced the ski bum life, living and breathing the slopes. Van life, ski podcasts, and chasing that perfect line became our religion. Those podcasts, man, they were gold. "Athletic stance," "pressure on the outside ski," "dynamic movement"—we soaked it all in. The "penny pincher" analogy, perfect for both our budget and our shin pressure. "Where your hands are, is your body," they’d say, a mantra as we visualized our descent.

Fernie, Kicking Horse, Kimberley—these places were a masterclass in raw talent. In Fernie, we wrestled our van down a ridiculously steep, snow-choked slope—a comedy of errors. Kicking Horse, with its broken gondola (thanks, two-week breakdown), forced us to skin up, earning our turns. And everywhere, kids, kids, were ripping it up, throwing 360s like it was nothing. It felt like every kid in BC was born with skis strapped to their feet, a testament to the mountain's magnetic pull.

Our final BC ski odyssey was a chaotic symphony—perfect powder, treacherous ice, slushy runs, and icicles that shimmered like diamonds. It was a glorious, messy, perfect farewell to a year of wild adventures.

But the skis aren’t going into storage just yet. Europe beckons, maybe. And then, spring. The warmth, the blossoming flowers, the birdsong—the siren call of the climbing season. We're ready for the next chapter.Read more