Finding My Edge: Pushing Boundaries at Whistler Blackcomb’s Elite Ski Academy
What makes a ski run terrifying and irresistible at the same time?
As my ski tips hang over the abyss and I stare down Whistler Blackcomb’s Secret Chute, I briefly ponder this question. The conditions near the entrance are firm and challenging, making the narrow chute look even more intimidating. My hands are sweaty inside my gloves as I grip my poles tighter. That little voice in my head—the one that loves to remind me that I only started skiing in my mid-forties—is getting louder. Growing up on the Prairies and spending two decades in Eastern Canada and Asia hadn’t exactly primed me for mountain life, but once I started writing about skiing and exploring alpine resorts with my powder hound brother, I was hooked.
The frigid alpine air isn’t helping my nerves, either. But our affable Aussie guide, Sam Watson, reassures me that this hidden corner of Blackcomb Mountain holds some of the mountain’s best expert skiing. His confidence is contagious, and I reassure myself that I can tackle Secret Chute as I try to quiet my hammering heart.
When I signed up for Extremely Canadian’s two-day Steeps Clinic, I knew I was in for a challenge. Since 1994, the organization has been teaching recreational skiers how to tackle Whistler Blackcomb’s most intimidating terrain—the kind of runs you usually peer down, shake your head at and ski right on by. With more than a quarter of the resort’s massive acreage classified as expert-only, plenty of serious terrain exists to master. After a decade-plus of working my way up to black diamonds—advanced runs marked by steep pitches, ungroomed conditions and challenging terrain—I figured it was time to see what I was made of.
At least I’m not alone in my jitters. On the chairlift, I chat with Andreas Hambis, a middle-aged painter and decorator from Oxfordshire who’s back for his second round. In his black decal-decorated motorcycle jacket—a reminder of his other passion for racing bikes back in England—he looks more ready for the track than the slopes. “I wanted to get better going down the real steeps,” he tells me, his breath visible in the cold January air. “It’s the entrances into couloirs and stuff that throws me. Because once I’m in, I’m fine. It’s just that first step. Sometimes, I make it very awkward for myself.” I nod so hard my goggles nearly slip off—finally, someone who gets it.
The physical stuff—edge control, weight distribution, turn rhythm—you can practice. But standing at the top of something steep enough to make a mountain goat pause? That’s all mental. My mouth goes cotton-dry as I inch toward the edge, and my ski tips quiver as I adjust my grip on my poles. Below, the run falls away so steeply I can’t even see where my first three turns will go. I force myself to breathe and focus on why I signed up for this in the first place.
It’s all about progression, I remind myself. No endless drills on groomed runs—just two days of expert instruction designed to push my limits. Sure, why not? At least, that’s what I thought when I registered.
Extremely Canadian is methodical about it; I’ll give them that. We start with the “separator run”—a test to see what we’re made of and sort us into groups of similar ability. No one wants to be the slowpoke holding everyone up, but nobody wants to be in over their head either. I ended up with Andreas and another skier about my level, which helps take the pressure off.
We make steady progress despite less-than-ideal conditions. Day One on Whistler Mountain starts with The Saddle, a steep double-black diamond run beneath the Peak Chair, offering wind-packed snow, stunning Coast Range views and an exhilarating descent through towering granite walls. Up here, with Whistler’s jagged peaks poking through the clouds, we focus on dialing in the fundamentals—no pressure, just wide-open spaces to practice the moves we’ll need when things get hairier tomorrow.
And Day Two on Blackcomb? That’s when it gets real. The icy conditions are too treacherous for Spanky’s Ladder—that famous boot-pack climb will have to wait for another day with better snow. Instead, we work our way over to Secret Bowl, eventually finding our way back to Secret Chute—that slice between rocks that looks about as wide as a pizza box. One glance at the scattered rocks and steep rollover makes it clear why most folks stick to the groomed runs far below.
Then it’s my turn. The first few turns are pure survival mode—plant pole, turn, try not to think about what’s below. But somehow, between the heavy breathing and the sound of my edges scratching on the firm snow, I find a rhythm. By the time we regroup at our first safe zone, I’m wearing the kind of grin usually reserved for winning lottery tickets. Something clicks up here. It could be the coaching, it could be the progression or perhaps it’s just the fact that retreat isn’t an option. Whatever it is, I find myself picking lines through terrain I would have skied right past just yesterday.
Célia Cheval, the third member of our steep’s student trio who works at Pan Pacific and is taking the clinic to advise her hotel guests better, nails it during a breather: “It’s definitely not just the regular ski class,” she says, brimming with newfound confidence. “It’s full of excellent advice and practical tips to help me conquer fear and terrain.”
Later, over apres-ski nachos and beer at Merlin’s—a proper finale to our two-day adventure—everyone’s talking a bit louder and sitting taller. With his laid-back charm, our instructor Sam reflects on the types who sign up for these clinics. “Generally, people who are willing to be challenged,” he says, adding with a grin that most discover that “they can ski terrain that they wouldn’t have skied without us.”
Wendy Brookbank, an accomplished veteran instructor who’s been teaching with Extremely Canadian since the beginning, shares some added perspective she’s gained from countless clinics. “Most people are really surprised by what they actually got into and ski,” she tells us before telling a story about once guiding a client down Couloir Extreme, arguably Whistler Blackcomb’s most notorious expert run. “She was in the right frame of mind… It was absolutely perfect. I said to her at the bottom, ‘You know you skied it; you may never ski it again, but you did it.'”
“We build the skills step by step,” Wendy adds. She’s right—the strength of this program is its guides’ intimate knowledge of the mountain. They show us accessible ways to approach intimidating runs and break down each descent into clear steps. Before we drop in, Sam skis it first, demonstrating the timing and line choice. It’s reassuring to see someone piece together the puzzle before you have to solve it yourself. No matter how tense I feel at the top, having this kind of patient mentoring makes the previously impossible feel within reach.
Before heading home to Vancouver that evening, I pause at the base of Whistler to look up at the Peak Chair and the imposing terrain we’d skied. Those cliff bands that seemed so scary two days ago? They’re still frightening, if I’m honest. But now they look possible. I might have started skiing late in life but today proved something important: it’s never too late to push your boundaries. Even if you have to do it one white-knuckled turn at a time.
