The following story is true, but the names were changed to protect the innocent.

Yep, it had to happen sooner or later. After easily one of the best season's in memory, Blackcomb Mountain closed it's doors for the season yesterday, April 23, 2006. Hard to see it end, with so much snow still up there to be shredded. But we weren't going to let it off easy. So the 'Silly Web Magazine from Whistler that rhymes with hogpotion' and a not-so-random pack of 60 some odd Whistler locals set out to close the season in style - on Blackcomb Peak of all places.

As early lift closures threatened our plans, everyone diverted in different directions, frantically trying to find a way up to the peak. The whiter one-piece with the BBQ was sighted going one way, while the weiners and Wildcats awaited the Horstman T-Bar, and the buns were nowhere in sight.

But nobody in this posse was going to let lift closures or gravity stand in the way of plans. And sure enough, as the clocked turned 4, a steady procession of shady characters starting marching across the Blackcomb glacier and up towards Blackcomb peak. It's not often you look up the glacier and see 3 dozen people in a row, let alone the bizarre assortment of one-piece outfits, backpacks full of beer, a guy with his pants down, some white trash and even a fluffy yellow tiger.

As soon as the chain-gang started summiting the peak, music was playing, the BBQ was flaming, and beer was flowing - while the 2 dozen more stragglers contiued to stumble in for another 2 hours. Not satisfied with just a BBQ, out came the golf club for some high altitude driving practice - and yes - Tiger Woods himself was among the particpants.

And just as the sun started setting and people starting descending their various lines, the eager crew of late-stayers embarked on a mission to build the first-known booter on Blackcomb Peak. Sure it had a landing flatter than Mantioba, but that didn't stop everyone from busting daffies, frogs, and 360 spreaders until the landing ditch got too deep to bear. So without further ado, reluctantly, everyone strapped on their skis and shredded the half-refrozen schmoo snow in every which direction from the peak to Merlins.

At 9 something oclock, we'd strectched out our last day on Blackcomb as long as we could. Sure it'll be back next year, but that was the last thought on everyone's mind. While we sat daydreaming about the season passed, I suspect everyone was simultaneously hit with one of those surfer-dude movie voice-over guys tapping into our mind telling us... "Hey, it's over man. It's over. Just let it go man, just let it go. Can I borrow a dollar?"

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