Steppin’ up (continued)
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By now, anyone living outside the tropics must know that
Whistler will be part of the 2010 Winter Olympics, a fact that had
posed unexpected problems for me. When curious friends asked
what Canada’s winter playground was like, I never knew what to
say, even though I’ve lived on the West Coast for nearly 15 years.
The truth was, I hadn’t driven farther up the Sea-to-Sky Highway
than Squamish. Whistler is another 60 kilometres north and could
have been on the far side of the moon, for all I knew.
I had reasons to avoid Canada’s most popular alpine resort: I don’t
downhill ski or snowboard. And I intend to be the last English
speaker alive to use "party" as a verb. Most of my recent stereotypes
of the slope-side Sin City had been gleaned from CTV’s
melodrama, "Whistler." I learned that 1) bikinis remain a popular
fashion choice, even in winter; 2) it’s dangerous to be a moody gold-medal
snowboarder, who is not - the show’s lawyers repeat, not
- based on local Olympic hero Ross Rebagliati; and 3) there are
a few mountains nearby. I remained cold to Whistler’s decadent
allure, but I do like snowshoeing. So when Savio and Guillaume
Otis, the Québécois père et fils owners of Coast Mountain Guides,
invited me to explore the real Whistler on foot, how could I say non?
Before I headed into the mountains, however, I needed to get
dipped in Ontario bog mud, layered in Saran Wrap and slowly
braised. Aboriginal cultures around the world undergo purification
rituals before ascending the sacred terrain above the treeline.
The Extreme Muscle Relief Treatment at the Solarice Wellness Spa,
I suppose, is the Whistler equivalent. It was also my last chance
to sample the ski town’s luxe side before roughing it in the bush.
At the Delta Whistler Village Suites near the town’s bustling
hub, I was pampered like a rock star and rubbed down like a
thoroughbred. As a final touch in the hour-long treatment, the
masseuse lacquered my back with Golden Moor Mud. "They say
it’s the best in the world," she assured me. It certainly sounded
exotic - more than, say, Ottawa Valley Swamp Muck, its actual
source. Hot towels and a thin plastic sheet baked the oils, vitamins,
enzymes and natural antibiotics into my skin and helped
the magic mud, apparently, to exchange my ions, regenerate my
cells and restore the balance of my misspent youth. When I stood
up, my body felt positively deboned. I was ready for anything
the mountains dared to throw my way.
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