x Writing: Your Passport to Life

"Well worth traveling 6,000 miles to fly in a Beaver!" quipped my across-the-aisle seat mate from New York City as our floatplane skidded along the placid surface of Green Lake. Mike Quinn, owner and pilot of Whistler Air Services, agreed as he took us upward into the sapphire heavens and announced we were going to get a "beautiful view of God's masterpieces."

On days like this one I'm really grateful I chose travel writing as a profession. I imagine that I could be sitting in an office all day, every day, staring at a carpeted cubical wall. Instead I'm working while I tour Whistler, one of my favorite outdoor destinations for both winter and summer activities.

To get acquainted with the mountainous surroundings--Whistler sits in a large verdant valley crowned by snow-capped peaks in British Columbia--I decided to get aerial on this visit and see the big panoramic picture.

We flew over the Alpine terrain of ice and rock, glacial remnants of the last Ice Age 12,000 years ago. The shadow of our plane followed us, silhouetted on the glaring snow below as we climbed toward the razor sharp shoulders of Mount Garibaldi. Along a ridge top were fresh tracks of a mountain goat. We peered into glass-blue fathomless crevasses as we swooped down low over the face of Warren Glacier. This trip is not for the queasy-stomach people. Our pilot soared and swooped like Sky King.

On land again, I savored a hearty, grounding breakfast at Chef Bernard's Café (which has the best breakfast in town). Now it was time for exercise.

The Mountain Bike Park, right outside the Pan Pacific Lodge where I stayed, has a world cup downhill course. I hired a guide because there are a plethora of trails to choose from and I didn't want to find myself on the equivalent of a black diamond run. Scott suited me up in protective gear (think Michelin Tire Man) and gave me a lesson on weight transference and other handy tips to make sure I didn't fly over the handlebars. Oh, the sacrifices I make for my readers!

There are 25 trails for all different skill levels, a total 200 kilometers of single track. Scott said there are, "lots of trails for high end riders and free riders who like the big jumps." I emphatically told him, "I am not a free rider. No big jumps for me." I was much more interested in seeing a bear on my downhill run than a bump or a stump to jump.

Some 50 bears make their home on Whistler and Blackcomb Mountains. Michael Allen, black bear researcher and guide for Bear Viewing and Mountain Ecology Tours, filled me in on the details of bear life. He and his compatriots have even planted huckleberry bushes up on the mountain so the bears don't come down to the village and stroll around looking for snacks.

Whistler is designed like a small village and the architecture is so perfect and uniform in a Tyrolean way I expected Snow White to rollerblade past, followed by Goofy on a mountain bike. The first paved road to Whistler came in 1975 and cars are not allowed in the village. Before that it was just a fishing camp!

Dusty and slightly achy from my mountain bike foray, I craved a massage and a sauna. I limped over to the Westin Resort and Spa, sweated myself silly, and then had a divine Chinese Tui Na massage from Kendra Starr.

Since, after all, I am a travel writer, I wanted to learn as much as possible while here in British Columbia. And indeed, I learned something new at the Bearfoot Bistro. Did you know that Napoleon would only go into battle if his attempt at opening a bottle of champagne with a saber succeeded without shattering it? News to me.

André Saint-Jacques, the owner and sommelier, told us this. We raptly watched as he demonstrated in his wine cellar. My friends and I followed him down a spiral staircase on the promise of a glass of bubbly. It was dank and dim with dusty bottles from floor to ceiling. André lit a taper and chose a 1929 Clos de Vougeot. He explained Napoleon's method. He simply said, "It's all in the wrist," and ran the saber blade up and down the bottle seam three times and then whack! He thumped the bottle's neck at an angle with the blade and the top fell off cleanly. Not even a pop. It tasted divine.

This spectacle was followed by an exquisite five-course tasting menu featuring ingredients "from our local farms, wilds and waters." Their bar is also unique, with willowy champagne flutes arranged on banks of ice, lit from below. Truly classy! André has an artist's eye that extends from the ice bar to the handsome décor in the dining room. Make your reservations way ahead of time for this delightful dining experience and make sure to ask for a tour of the cellar.  

The next morning, fresh air was in order. After finding a village café open at sunrise, I walked the paths through ancient cedar groves up to Lost Lake. A beaver waddled across the path, and then snuffly bear noises emanated from the huckleberry shrubs. I started power walking. Marmots popped up like jack-in-the-boxes from the granite boulders edging the lake. Fish broke the water's calm. A bald eagle wheeled overhead. Once again, another tough day at the office.