There’s gold in them thar hills! Olympic gold, since Whistler’s successful bid for the 2010 games. Canada’s winter sports mecca is a mere two hours from downtown, so we went for the day to check out the mountain magic.

The Skier: “Awesome.” Jason, a snow-loving Aussie from Sydney, admires the Atomic skis he’s chosen for me at Whistler Blackcomb Rentals next to the gondola in Skiers’ Plaza. I watch impatiently as Jason swiftly but meticulously adjusts the bindings. I can’t wait to glide down Upper Whiskey Jack, one of the green-signed runs that make up 20 per cent of the skiable terrain at Whistler Blackcomb, groomed especially for twice-a-year athletes like me. My technique has not improved much in four decades of pointing my ski tips straight down the hill. Jason is encouraging.

“With these,” he says reverently, “your turns will look Olympian. You won’t fall as easily because the edges don’t catch on the snow. Have an awesome day.”

On the gondola, I visualize perfect parallel turns, stemming a thing of the past. Boarders whiz along below, cheeks scarlet with exertion. Conifers, the smaller ones visible only by their tops, give off a scent like honey. From the Roundhouse chalet, where sightseers and skiers get off the gondola, the neighbouring peaks of the Coast Range stretch in unending waves. Where the sun catches the flank of the mountain, plum-coloured shadows stain the snow.

Within half an hour of waving ’bye to Jason, I am poised on my lightweight skis, feeling like queen for a day. While Whistler and Blackcomb rise a luxurious 5,020 and 5,280 feet respectively, their top point is less than 8,000 feet, and the average winter temperature is a balmy minus 5° C (22° F). It’s easy to stay warm as long as I keep moving. Except when my skis somehow cross each other, my progress is fluent and I can stop on a dime. I whiz past a group of novice Japanese snowboarders being urged on by their instructor. Congratulating myself on my independence, I stray onto a blue-signed run and, redefining the term catching air, hurtle headlong over the first mogul.

Only my pride suffers but it’s time for a break, a quick bowl of veggie chilli and juice at the Roundhouse, and a scenic descent to the village down a run named Olympic. I imagine the frenzied crowd, the announcer’s shout of triumph as I slalom into first place.

The Sightseer: Who needs the hills when you’re a valley girl at heart. The twin peaks are pretty, but I’d rather see them from a hot tub than freeze my buns on a black-diamond run.

My day starts with a village stroll along winding walkways edged with stone walls, a design by renowned Vancouver architect Arthur Erickson. I pass the 2010 Information Centre (604-932-2010), an info source for Olympics fans, but no sports talk can keep me from the shops for long. Whistler is one big high-end shopping district, with everything from The Gap to Roots. I narrow things down by visiting only locally based boutiques.

Named for a glacier, Horstman Trading Co. (604-938-7725) offers upscale duds for downtime, including snowflake-patterned sweaters with metal clasps, from Dale of Norway, and trapper-style fur hats. I’m not a fur fan, so I head to The Hat Gallery (604-938-6695) to try on toques, tams, bowlers and cowboy hats in every fabric and colour imaginable. Time to cover the gift list. For my sensitive-skinned brother, I pick out an ultra-soft and surprisingly affordable blue scarf from Mount Cashmere (604-905-7729). A must for Dad, Cuban cigars are wholesale at the Vancouver Cigar Company at Whistler (604-932-6099). My sister’s an avid Nest reader, so I snap up a leaf-shaped, wrought-iron soap dish for her at Skitch (604-938-1781), which carries metal storks with stones for bodies, ingenious helicopters made of pop cans, and other Canadian made craft.

My artist mother would be amazed by the number of Whistler galleries. Carved masks and totem poles offer insight into local tribes, at Black Tusk Gallery (604-905-5540). Tony Curtis and Anthony Quinn can paint! This I discover at Plaza Galleries (604-938-6233), a showcase for celebrity as well as professional artists. At Whistler Art Gallery (604-938-3001), I’m enchanted by Jimmy Wright’s humorous polar-bear paintings. I could spend all day touring Whistler galleries alone.

The Skier: From Whistler Village I take the Excalibur gondola up Blackcomb, then aim higher via speedy quad chairs. Emboldened by the morning’s nifty turns and sleek descents, I haven’t reckoned on the slightly elevated skill level needed for intermediate runs. They look so pretty, studded with fat snow bumps, that I risk disaster on blue-posted Wishbone and Jersey Cream. But the skis deliver and I get down in a series of hops more like Bugs Bunny than Carole Montillet. The peak runs and most of the bowls will have to wait till I’ve had a few lessons, but even a skier of my modest level can descend the long, gentle curves of the Burnt Stew Trail down Whistler, or the Expressway to Sunset Boulevard on Blackcomb (all green runs). It’s possible to travel 11 kilometres (seven miles) down Blackcomb without interruption. Awesome, Jason, awesome.

At three o’clock the runs close, Jason prises the skis from my covetous grip, and I walk stiffly into the village. My calf muscles are protesting and the spot where I hit the hill is beginning to throb. Maybe I should sample the best of both worlds and book a massage. Now that’s an idea worth gold.

The Sightseer: All that walking is enough to give a girl calluses. Luckily, I’ve booked a pedicure at Fairmont Chateau Whistler’s new Vida Wellness Spa (604-938-2086). I’m curious to see what this pamper place will do with my scaly soles and badly cracked toenail.

Under Sonya’s care, my feet begin to soften after a long soak, followed by a firm scrub and massage that make me wish I’d signed up for the full-body Exotic Kona Coffee Sugar Exfoliation. Faced with the largest selection of Opi lacquer I’ve ever seen, I go for a rich claret polish. Sonya lets me read magazines in peace, in a spotless room with a big window and only two other treatment chairs. I’m delighted when I finally look down: the nail crack is imperceptible (Sonya has glued it somehow) and my glistening tootsies are perfect for sauna display.

Off I go for après—minus the ski—at nearby Dubh Linn Gate (604-905-4047), an authentic Irish pub overlooking Blackcomb’s gondola. I hope to gloat as The Skier hobbles in. Meanwhile, I admire the pub’s stained-glass windows, homey dark-wood bar and Old World bric-a-brac, all handcrafted in Ireland and carted here piece by piece. Dubh Linn boasts Whistler’s largest pint (20 ounces) of dark, thick Guinness and 23 other beers on tap, not to mention 50 whiskies and 18 wines by the glass. A guitarist strums as a wave of snowboaders washes into the room.

I’ve beaten them to après-ski, nevertheless, their faces are full of glee while I sit here relaxed to the point of somnolence. Could it be that I’ve missed out? “Nonsense!” says my inner sloth. But next time in Whistler, I might just try zigzagging down the mountains on a harness with Ziptrek Ecotours (604-935-0001) on an 800-metre (half-mile) cable journey. Or perhaps I’ll swallow my pride, sign up with a Whistler Blackcomb instructor and hop on a bunny hill. It looks like the thrills may be worth the spills. (For a day trip or overnight, hop aboard Perimeter’s Whistler Express, 604-266-5386.)

Publication Date: 1/2007