East of Glen Eden
From the plains of Ontario to Jay Peak, Verbier,
and beyond
By DENIS BERTHOUD

It was difficult to consider ourselves skiers, growing up in southern Ontario. The dimples that pass for ski hills, the flat horizon, the persistent ice—not exactly fodder for obsession over a sport that thrives on gravity and mountains. Our local hill had less than a dozen runs, and each could be skied in one fourth the time the cranky chairlift took to deposit us at the top. The snow was groomed hard and fast and the patrollers were positively Gestapo in their efforts to keep us firmly planted on the ground. The thing we enjoyed most at our hill—jumping—was strictly verboten.

Not that it stopped us. We soaked up every last drop of thrills from that molehill. We skied it fast, we skied it recklessly. We threw snowballs from the chairlift. We skied exactly where we weren't supposed to and we'd get as much air as possible (all the while keeping a watchful eye for the men in red). You madly led the way and I, being the little brother, gladly followed.

Runs with names like Suicide became our proving ground. The lodge became a second home of sorts. The hill became ours simply because we had nowhere else to go.

And it was enough. A seed was planted. We understood the lure of strapping two planks to our feet and hurtling down a snow-covered slope. To further fuel this newfound passion we rented ski movies, and their stars became our idols. Our dreams turned to massive mountains in faraway corners of the globe.

But this also did a cruel thing: our hill began to pale. Soon we viewed with disdain the very landform that opened our eyes to this sport. We wanted Whistler and Chamonix and Verbier. We wanted longer runs, steeper slopes, and better snow. At the very least we wished for Sutton and Tremblant and Jay Peak. But we had Glen Eden, a few hundred vertical feet on the plain.

Funny things, wishes. A business decision by an abstract entity saw our father transferred to Montreal, family in tow. The Laurentians, the Eastern Townships, and Northern Vermont were now within striking distance. Our parents, though unsure of our fanaticism, happily indulged us many a day trip.

To us, this was skiing's heartland, and our skiing improved exponentially. The runs at Tremblant seemed impossibly long. Slopes like Expo were all-new proving grounds. The glades of Sutton revealed a new world where nature still participated in a day of skiing. We found it possible to feel alone on a mountain full of skiers. We began to stray from the beaten path. Even the Ontario-esque hill of Mont Rigaud was exciting—and close enough to warrant our first seasons passes. The novelty of hitting the slopes for a few hours after dinner took a long time to wear off.

And soon we discovered Jay Peak and its many glades and open woods. Jay's abundance of snow and lack of crowds, slow chairs and rusty tram, all these penetrated our souls. This was skiing. This was living. Jay gave us our first taste of powder. We craved the tight, steep chutes through dense trees, and the killer mogul runs under the chair. Jay Peak was—and still is—that rugged old man sitting silently in the corner who has a million stories to tell if you take the time to ask.

Yet we knew that bigger mountains and better resorts existed. We instinctively understood there was far more passion to discover. But school and work now conspired to keep us off the slopes. We skied as often as we could but it never felt like enough.

Then an interesting thing happened: you graduated from university. You stood before an open door in time, engineering diploma in hand, and did something surprising and inspiring. You turned your back on the so-called "real world" and its career expectations. You bolted for Europe and found yourself a night job in a Verbier hotel and skied all winter. Stories of powder and endless mountains found their way home and your pictures made me drool with envy. Our parents may have wondered, but I was smiling insanely for you.

When you came back you fell ass-backwards into the type of job you ran away from. But with good pay and benefits, it was your means to increase your ski quiver, and you played it beautifully. When the suits and politics became too much, you walked away just like the first time. I'm sure it was a contentious decision, trading the reputable, well-paying engineering gig for work at the Whistler Ski School. I, for one, was one hundred percent behind it.

And now you're beginning your second year at the Whistler Ski School. Between seasons you spent your summer skiing in Australia, your personal endless winter. You tell of powder and steeps, hikes and hors piste, beer and Crown Royal and Duct-Tape Man. Some have questioned your career choices, your "adult" logic, but how can anyone deny that you have engineered the perfect way to enjoy your life?

I often reflect on those days on the slopes of Glen Eden, our first ski hill, when our awareness first blossomed. I think of the train of thoughts first set in motion by gravity and Greg Stump movies. I think of the faraway mountains and snow we saw only in our imaginations. And I think, You made it. You're out there doing it.

Hopefully I'm not too far behind.


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