Sea to Sky

We rose early. We were flying out on Timmins on the first flight of the day. You’d think I’d have grown used to early mornings by then, steady days for the past four years, but alas, 4 am is early by any reckoning. We were treated to a preview of west coast weather, wet if not actually an outright deluge. We arrived with only ten minutes to spare before being herded into the security lock-up. We need not have rushed. All fights were backed up, even then, delayed, if not grounded by the wall of thunder and lightning passing over the province.

B.C. was better: sunny, 28 degrees, a welcome contrast to Ontario’s gloom. We checked into the Fairmont Vancouver, a grand old CPR hotel much like the Royal York. But it would be, wouldn’t it? The CPR hotels were designed to be the same. Palaces at measured distances across the country, a showcase of urban and rural opulence. Granite walls, graven façade, copper roof, it radiates style and opulence unlike the architecture of today.

We had the afternoon to ourselves, with nothing planned. Late lunch, with no need to eat again for the rest of the day, we made our way to Gastown, browsing Water Street’s cobbled way. It’s wonderfully attired, as well kept as one would expect of any tourist magnet. Clusters of globes top ironwork streetlights, limestone and slate and red brick buildings tell a tale of the 18th century. Low slung chains mark the space between street and sidewalk. I loved the steam clock, gathering with the other tourists in time for its whistle chiming. The rest of Water Street was a disappointment, the shops either selling the same kitschy souvenirs or high end jewelry, or those things neither needed nor portable, like camping and hiking and mountaineering gear, or woven rugs and walled canvases too large and far too expensive for the meagre floor and wall space we had in abundance in our little abode. Had we planned our day through, we would have eaten there instead, the restaurants seemingly more to our taste and budget than the Fairmont had been. Pubs and coffee shops broke up the stream of souvenir shops, their windows tall and wide, their tables spilling out into terraces shaded by tall elms. Better for people watching. Better ambiance.

We found our way to Canada Place, pleasantly pleased to see that the Port Authority building looked very much like the cruise ships moored alongside it. We took in the Olympic Torch, The Drop, and Douglas Copeland’s Lego Orca.

We walked too far to Stanley Park. Maps are deceiving, aren’t they? We ought to be able to judge distance by them but we seldom do. We watched as a few buses passed us on their way to where we too were headed. We arrived too late and too tired from too much sun to spend too much time in the park. It’s too large anyways, taking up the tip of the Peninsula in its entirety. We did walk around some of the Lost Lagoon’s perimeter before heading back to the hotel by transit. $2.50 was a small price to pay after such a foot-sore trek.

We found a great little restaurant up the street from the hotel for breakfast the next day. The Bellagio, no relation to the casino in Las Vegas, terrace on the street, wrought iron tables and barrier, plush leather chairs. We watched the city wake up and get busy as we lingered over coffee.

Then it was time to take the Sea to Sky highway to Whistler, considered one of the most scenic drives in the world, according to our coach driver. I can understand why. It’s beautiful. It’s also steep. We gained a great deal of altitude in the three hours it took us to reach the world famous resort town and the Fairmont we were staying at in the Upper Village. It was a departure for Fairmont, not old, not steeped in the ages, but as fine in its own way. It was designed to be the chalet lodge it was, and not a European castle like the Frontenac or Royal York were. The room was not spectacular. It was like any other room in any other hotel. But we did have a spectacular view of the Blackcomb.

We toured the village, threading through the shops and ultimately eating at Earl’s, just inside the village, at the top of the dizzying height of stairs descending into it.

Whistler is a selection of distinct areas, Creekside (the lower village), Whistler Village (at the foot of its namesake mountain), and Upper Village (at the foot of the Blackcomb). The actual town was south of these on the shores of Green Lake, Alta Lake, Nika Lake, and Alpha Lake. That’s a lot of lakes for such a small town.

Dinner in the Wine Room, one of the restaurants inside the Fairmont. Jazz flowed through its dimmed expanse, the ceiling as high as one would expect from a chalet. A sommelier attended us, pairing wines with each of our courses, extolling the virtues of each and why they mated so well. The food was excellent; so was the wine; but as to the perfection of pairing…I must say that a full glass of wine with each course does not do a head good.

I needed to walk off the meal afterwards. Too much food, too much wine. Fresh air was what the doctor ordered. I found the walk claustrophobic. The mountains boxed me in. I could not see the sky except for the narrow strip of it directly overhead. Below that, there was an indistinct black wall, the trees blurring my perception, making depth impossible to ascertain. I retreated back indoors where I had a nightcap in the Mallard Room to a soulful blues guitar.

Our stay in Whistler was short. It wasn’t the main attraction, after all, just an add-on before the main event. I was bent on making the most of it, I’d signed up for a horseback excursion. I’d never been on a horse before, so, why not climb a mountain on one, that sounds a reasonable first step. Smokey was patient with me, better at walking the trails than I’d have been on foot. Going up was easier than down, when I felt like I’d flip headlong over his neck with each rolling step. I clamped my legs around his torso and leaned far back in the saddle on the return, further than I thought comfortable, but perception is not particularly true when descending down such a slope. I had to haul back on the reins too, our pace a little quick for someone of my questionable skill. I survived, more than survived; I wanted to ride more. But I didn’t have the time. I dismounted, pet him, and scratched him behind the ears as I thanked him for the gentle ride he gave me.

There was only one more thing to do. I wanted to stand on top the mountain. I hopped on the chair lift and swung up into the air. The height freaked me out at first. I’d forgotten to set the safety bar in place. But once it was down, I was alright. I was not good, I’d never been good with heights, but I was not pressed so far into my seat as to leave an impression of my spine in it anymore. Two lifts later, I was on top of the world. Ice was present if not aplenty. There were one or two skiers in attendance, but more mountain bikers and hikers. I did neither. The afternoon was getting on and I had no desire to find myself racing the sunset on my way back down. I took the gondola over to Whistler Mountain from Blackcomb before descending. Descending was worse than going up. The ground dropped off so quickly, I caught my breath. I was too panicked to close my eyes, though. I breathed deeply. Once, twice, and the fear receded some, and after a while I enjoyed the ride, loving the view, keeping an eye out for the black bears that once or twice stepped out to watch me pass on by.

But before I descended, I walked around a little, revelling in that chill mountain air. Much like atop Table Mountain, I felt the heat of the sun in my face while my back felt the onrush of winter. I faced it full on and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of those disparate temperatures taking hold of my body.

It felt wonderful.