We stand in a queue to get the early morning priority chairlift up the mountain. Getting out of bed on time has not gotten any easier, and we are bleary-eyed and muttering fuck-word after fuck-word. Whistler runs a first track chairlift service so you can beat the crowds to the slopes including an all you can eat breakfast. The unfortunate thing is you have to queue at seven in the morning for this privilege. Today was the day we had chosen; we are going to stock up on various forms of fried animals and carbs before blasting down the mountainside in our kilts.

Gavin and I have a similar sense of humour. Since coming to Canada, we’ve been quoting various comedies taking the mick out of our Canadian cousins to the point we’ve started incorporating “ay”, “buddy” and “guy” into our everyday conversations. We’ve also been singing a daft song from Ren and Stimpy (a cartoon from our childhood) every time we see the Canadian flag, stopping to salute and pay homage to the “Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksman” (to the tune of God save the queen) and the splendid country that is Canada. Today we will test our kilted apparel on the mountain, to honour this ridiculous song.

We made our way to Whistler’s midway station using the slowest cable car in the world. I start to look at the corners of the confined box before asking Gavin, “where is that awful elevator music coming from?”, He grins tightly and shrugs his shoulders. I continue to look around. Just before we disembark from the gondola, I notice the headphone jacks of the older gentlemen sitting directly across from me. A wave of embarrassment hits me as I realise I've been openly ripping into his music choice for the past few minutes. Gav shakes his head at my lack of tact. 

The restaurant at the top of the mountain never looked so busy – we were within the first seven hundred people on the slope, however, that seven hundred were all crammed into the mid station restaurant. Taking quick strides around the circular room, we look for seats to conquer. Eventually, we give up on the impossible task of finding a table to focus our efforts on shovelling breakfast onto our plates. 

There was a long queue for the buffet, we shuffle forward one space at a time, our mouths water as we edge closer to the warm food. Picking up a plate I load up on scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, potato wedges and beans but just as I am about to grab a piece of fried toast, a scallywag in front of me nicks it. I edge down the line, in parallel with my newfound archenemy, the toast pincher, making sure I hadn’t missed out on any other form of sustenance. Once I reach the end, the toast pincher dips a ladle into the large cauldron at the bottom of the buffet table and pours a river of maple syrup over everything from his scrambled eggs to the deliciously fried toast! Blasted Canadians ay?

I burp out a confirmation of a great meal, before washing down the massive amounts of food with apple juice and diluted coffee. I glance at the time on my phone before suggesting that we make a move. We both start to have the nagging feeling that this was a bad idea and become more and more reluctant to go through with the plan. Quite ironically given what was to come, we seem to be getting cold feet. 

We go into the bathroom, and I hand Gavin his kilt from my bag. I enter the toilet cubicle next to him, taking off my salopettes and tightly rolling my thermals up past my knees. They feel tight, squeezing my quads and cutting off my blood circulation. I then circle my kilt around my torso, fixing the straps and threading my kilt pin in place. Rolling up my Salopettes, I stick them in my bag for safekeeping; I have a feeling I’ll need them soon enough. Exiting the cubicle, I start to get a lot of attention from the locals from jeers of support to queries on what I think my sperm count will be after today. I meet up with Gavin in the lobby, who was laughing maniacally. The cognitive dissonance gets to me as well, and I let out an excitable yet nervous laugh as if I had won the lottery but only had 5 minutes to spend it. Through his laughter, Gav asks, “you ready for this?”, I nod, and with several deep breaths, we break through the fire exit into the cold. 

“Eeekk!...I mean ach!” I parody Willy from the Simpson’s. The sudden rush of cold air takes my breath away and burns the inside of my nose. It was fucking freezing; the coldest I had ever felt no doubt about that. It was only a matter of seconds until I couldn’t feel my knees. The mid-station was reporting a temperature of -17oC, and I can tell you, it fucking feels it. I manoeuvre quickly, setting up the GoPros in front of a thrashing Canadian flag. The wind chill was intense causing my exposed fingers to start disobeying orders immediately.

Beep. Beep. I manage to control my clumsy, unresponsive fingers enough to get the cameras rolling before swiftly retreating back to my gloves. I march over towards Gavin placing my hand on his shoulder, and we start singing our Ren and Stimpy version of the Canadian national anthem:

“Our country reeks of trees,

Our Yaks are really large,

And they smell like rotten beef carcasses.” 

We last one verse before Gavin suggests we pay tribute to the flag. We stand tall, chins up and our fists crunched into balls at our chests. Gav hums the number to give us a count to help the filming. Halfway through the first verse, a dude walks clearly into the shot. I giggle, I’m not reshooting this I’m far too fucking cold. I remove my glove during filming and place my fingers on Gavin’s neck to give him a fleg. He doesn’t react one bit; we were both freezing. After Gav is finished humming the first verse, I collect the GoPros and dash my snowboard, shivering as I do up my bindings.

The descent was frantic; we tried to go as quickly as possible, passing the GoPro stick back and forth to get some great footage. As we enter the snowpark, a group on the chairlifts start whistling and howling, “C’mon Scotland!!” The chants bring a massive smile to my face. The boa constrictor thermals wrapped around my quads make it hard to move, and I feel my heartbeat thumping up and down my legs. I dart quickly and directly through the park, over boxes and jumps avoiding any ice patches. 

Stopping outside the snowpark gates, we change hands so I can film Gavin. I burst out laughing a Gav, telling him his entire nose had turned white. I follow him for a while as we enter a smaller gladded trail, this is when I start noticing the numbing and burning of my own snout. Now it Gavs turn to mock my white nose, he tells me “I won’t be long in getting frostbit”. The numbing of our extremities puts the fear in both of us, and we descend as fast as we possibly can, occasionally taking the time to switch the Gopros from hand to hand

Reaching the lower cable car station, we eject from our equipment, bolting into the gents to change into more suitable mountain apparel. Gav comments on how quickly the extremities were sacrificed for the good of the core. My knees are blue and thank me for relieving them from the grasp of the evil thermals. Once back in my winter gear we take a slow pace down the rest of the mountain, trying to warm the body up. However, it takes a good hour for my body to forgive me truly but the laughs, experience and tribute to Ren and Stimpy will be remembered, especially since I have it in a neat little video too.