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I stare at the harness, and the harness stares back at me. The little chest contraption, a jumble of leathery straps and metal studs, sits neatly on my bed. As I pace nervously back and forth across my hotel room, chewing a fingernail and considering whether or not or even how to put the thing on, I think back to what my friend Eric told me a few weeks prior. “Harnesses are the ‘little black dress’ of the gay community,” he said. “They work for all occasions.”
Eric has been a regular at various gay ski weeks for years now, so when I was getting ready to attend this year’s Whistler Pride & Ski Festival, my first gay ski week, I had a million questions for him. What is it like? What do I do? What do I wear?
That’s how I ended up with a harness—he proposed it. A proper leather one can easily cost hundreds of dollars, but as a timid newcomer unsure if I was ready to invest, I had found one for twenty bucks on Amazon instead. My first gay ski week, my first harness. It was all happening so quickly.
I try the harness on, but I’m not sure I like the way it fits. I’m running late for that evening’s party, and decide to leave the harness behind. It just doesn’t feel like me, I think. Maybe tomorrow.
For those who may not be aware, gay ski weeks are annual gatherings of LGBT+ people, put together by a number of different organizations—some by volunteer-led non-profits, others by for-profit party promoters—and held at various ski resorts around the world. Each is a little different, but the overarching formula is generally the same: meet friends with whom you can ski all day; take part in a relaxed après-ski in the afternoon; and, each night, join the crowd that culminates at the official party.
At Whistler Pride, for instance, the organizers made it a breeze to find guided ski groups sorted by ability—that way, you’re experiencing one of North America’s largest resorts through the eyes of a knowledgable expert, and there is zero pressure to tackle terrain outside your comfort zone. Nearly all trails at Whistler end at the base in the main village area, so everyone reunites after an action-packed day for a convivial après. There are a few hours free for relaxing or grabbing dinner, and the evening activities range from a comedy night with popular drag queen Bianca del Rio, to a full buyout of Whistler’s Vallea Lumina immersive multimedia night walk, to full-on thump-thump nightclub-style raves. The week wraps up in a parade of rainbow-clad, come-as-you-are skiers of all shapes and sizes skiing down the mountain into town.
I’m a lifelong skier, and lifelong homosexual, but until this year, I’ve always shied away from “gay travel” things. The thought of standing shirtless—in a harness, no less—in a crowd of better bodies gyrating to electronic music has only ever sparked dread for me. The emphasis on drinking, the prevalence of party drugs, and the undercurrents of sexual competition have never been things to which I relate. For me, being gay and loving skiing always felt mutually exclusive.
Yet something changed after the pandemic. I decided to take the plunge and attend Whistler Pride for the same reason I’ve been deciding to do most things lately: life is short, and it feels like the right time to push my own boundaries. It’s no longer thrilling for me to simply bomb headfirst down resort trails. I have reached a phase of my adulthood, and my ski career, where I am looking for new ways to experience the contours of the sport.
I figured that group skiing would be a harmless place to start. If worse came to worst, I could always bail. On the second day, the morning after the harness conundrum, I planned on joining one of Whistler Pride’s official guided groups. But before I could even sign up, a group of guys, having found me through Instagram, invited me to join their ski group for the day. They already knew each other, and had collectively made the choice to welcome me.
“I’m Alex,” said the first.
“And I’m Michael,” said the second.
Hamish. Malcolm. Paolo. Chaddy. From Seattle, London, Houston, Sydney, and beyond.
They were kind to welcome me into their fold—but in my linear brain, I was having a hard time computing how they all knew each other.
“We met here last year,” one said, not giving it a second thought or much of an explanation. A few of them were tenuously connected by working for different offices of the same multinational firm, but otherwise, they were all Whistler Pride friends—who met up once a year for gay ski week, perhaps saw each other in passing throughout the year and perhaps did not, but otherwise planned on meeting up annually just to enjoy a week of snow and camaraderie.
It astonished me how quickly I felt like a part of the group. We keeled over with laughter, chased each other down the mountain, hurled snowballs, and did all sorts of gay stuff like talk about Real Housewives, share our coming out stories, or talk about the times we've had our hearts broken. It was a childlike sense of play I hadn’t experienced since, well, childhood.
I couldn’t stop making friends, it seemed—in the lift lines, in the guided ski groups, in the hotel elevator, at the bar. Whistler Pride was a safe space where, yes, most everyone was gay, but more importantly, we shared the common interest of loving winter sports. Having that foundation made saying hi to a stranger even easier.
Ultimately, I felt like I made more friends at a single gay ski week than I have in years. The freedom I experienced, and the bonds I created, reminded me of all the times in my skiing life when I modulated who I am to fit in with heteronormative communities: lowering my voice, slowing my cadence, pretending I watch Ted Lasso, or being sure to talk about that one time when Bode Miller once called me “an amazing skier.” Inflating my skiing ability to seem more macho, and simultaneously making myself smaller. I’ve been out of the closet for over a decade; but the fear of rejection for being gay is something that clearly has taken me a lot longer to shake. Over the course of that week, I took my baggage—about my body, about not fitting in, about being too gay or somehow not gay enough—and chucked it off the chairlift.
That’s why gay ski weeks are so important: Something magical blooms when you get a group of LGBT+ people together. With my new group of friends, I didn’t feel like I needed to alter who I was. The opposite happened. I felt parts of myself opening up that I didn’t know were there, like a house with rooms I had never explored. That week, the sheer joy we shared while skiing was not about the doing, but about the being—being together, being in the moment, and just being ourselves.
I spent the plane ride home flipping through my phone’s pictures from that week, reliving the highlights: belly-laughing with Michael over sushi; skiing full-speed behind Alex, who wore a rainbow flag as a cape; a smiling Hamish, outlined in sunshine, tossing a snowball at me; riding beside Malcolm on the chairlift. My heart was the fullest it has felt in a long time.
I didn’t end up wearing the harness that week—but I guess that wasn't the point. Maybe next year.
Where to stay
The official hotel partner for this year’s Whistler Pride was the Aava Whistler Hotel, a straightforward option which shares a parking lot with the seafood-driven Wild Blue, one of town’s newer and more excellent restaurants. The Aava is a short walk from the ski lifts, and is ideal for visitors who want to take advantage of everything that Whistler’s lively village has to offer.
For a splurge, consider either the Fairmont Chateau Whistler or the Four Seasons Resort Whistler, both located in the much quieter “Upper Village,” a quick stroll from the main part of town. The Fairmont offers unbeatable proximity to the Blackcomb Gondola, as well as a “Gold Floor” upgrade that includes an all-day lounge with snacks and honor bar. The Four Seasons just completed a massive multi-year renovation of all rooms, common spaces, and food and beverage outlets—if you’re looking for luxe accommodations to rest tired legs (and nurse the occasional Pride-related hangover), there’s nowhere better.
