2 months ago
16
December 24, 2025 — 5:00am
It is nothing short of a Christmas miracle. After a snow season that began with all the enthusiasm of a half-deflated snowman, we wake up on Christmas morning to find more than a metre of snow has fallen overnight. Peering out the window from the bunk bed in my apartment at Whistler Blackcomb, the surrounding Douglas firs are blanketed in white, with large flakes continuing to drift down. Outside, jubilant Australians are turning the staff car park into an impromptu winter playground, flinging snowballs in every direction.
I am in Canada for a year on a working holiday visa, serving soggy muffins and charred cookies to unsuspecting skiers and snowboarders at an on-mountain cafe. The biggest perk of the job is that it is ski-in, ski-out, so on mornings when there is fresh snow, we are among the first to carve our tracks down the slope, straight after the lift operators and ski patrollers.
After such an almighty dump we crowd the chairlift like kids let loose in a sweet shop – squealing, whooping and clacking our ski poles together. It’s hard to explain the feeling of skiing powder to anyone who hasn’t sunk into a fresh stash. It is pure, unfiltered joy; like gliding on silk or floating through clouds – the same kind of rush that hooks surfers and keeps them chasing the next perfect wave.
But for a bunch unaccustomed to snow this deep, the euphoria doesn’t take long to unravel into carnage. We can’t see where the groomed run ends, and the moment any of us stray beyond it, we immediately come a cropper. One girl does exactly that, losing both skis in a powdery explosion so complete it takes five of us digging for 10 minutes to find them. After that incident, I buy pink ribbons to attach to my skis to avoid the same fate in future.
That day, one of my housemates buys roast chickens so we can enjoy a “proper” Christmas dinner. But first we decide to stop for a quick post-work drink at the Longhorn Saloon at the base of the lifts in Whistler Village, which is twinkling with fairy lights and looking suitably magical. But our collective mood is so buoyant that one drink soon becomes several jugs of beer, and serves of nachos. I’m not sure where they come from, but my photos from that night show my friends smiling wildly, with red and green gift bows stuck to their heads, while I don a Santa hat.
As we wait at the bus stop for the run to staff housing, another of my housemates runs into two familiar faces from home, who have arrived in Whistler on Christmas night with no pre-booked accommodation. He offers our couch for the night, and our group swells to eight. We step out into the staff car park, carrying our skis over our shoulders, to find it lined with vehicles still covered with snow.
By the time we finally make it home, we practically tear into the chooks straight from the bag, before squeezing into the lounge room beside our makeshift Christmas tree – a fir branch sticking out of a snowboard boot with a single string of lights – to exchange gifts.
It isn’t exactly the Christmas that we plan, but the present we receive from Mother Nature is far more extraordinary than anything Santa could ever deliver.
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