Words: Jann Eberharter 2017-10-30 17:20:09
Not far from the madness of Whistler Village lives one of the most primitive and serene scenes of which any snow-slider could dream. Surrounded by 8,000-foot peaks in the middle of a meadow of rolling knolls sits a singular tipi. At first, this aboriginal-inspired dwelling seems out of place, but on second glance, there’s nowhere more fitting.
This simple shanty has served as a second home—with the lowest cost and best view in the valley—for Whistler-based photographer Mason Mashon for most of the season. Accessible via snowmobile and with a plethora of lines and peaks just a throttle twist away, it has become an office, a research-and-development facility, and, most importantly, an escape.
The tipi idea came to Mashon in a late-night epiphany. Despite its origins in the plains, the simple conical design of a traditional tipi is also suited to mountain living as it sheds snow and withstands high winds—plus it embodies Mashon’s Cree heritage. He’s a quarter Cree, one of Canada’s largest First Nations groups, so it seemed fitting to embrace the same structure that had provided shelter for his migratory ancestors.
“The tipi been able to facilitate me living in nature and really reconnecting with my culture and heritage,” Mashon says, “as well as just to be out there and truly enjoy the surroundings.”
At the various locales where he’s set up the tipi, Mashon sometimes opts to stash the poles and carry out the canvas. By leaving half of the mass of the structure behind, he’s setting himself up for an easy return to his home-away-from-home. This past winter, he set the tipi up in one of his go-to backcountry zones near Whistler. Fifteen feet in diameter and equally tall, the structure can fit three to four people comfortably, although the season’s record was six. (This doesn’t take into account the guest igloo they built a few yards away.)
“I spent more time riding than I’ve ever really done in years previous,” Mashon says of this past season, “really reconnecting and truly enjoying the winter.”
Part of the connection came sans bindings. Sheldon Steckman, a friend of his in Whistler who hand-presses parabolic skis as Garywayne Shapes, had also dabbled with pow-surfers. After a collaborative effort, Mashon had his own homemade pow-surfer—which was lost eventually, and is now probably at the bottom of a lake.
A few years later, the duo’s experiments have become as much of an art project as they are a snowboarding phenomenon. He and Steckman have since made boards with spruce cores, inlaid with carbon and fiberglass, with maple veneers on top. They even made a few with seashells or amethyst crystals for grip. The tipi sessions, with access to plenty of untracked powder, seemed a natural fit for the pow-surfers.
“At the end of the day, it’s fun to make them and it’s fun to ride them,” Mashon says. “They’re not the easiest things, but it’s the closest thing to actually surfing and in a lot of ways it’s equally as gratifying.”
Mashon has established a collaborative pow-surfer factory down the street from his house and his own experimentation facility a short sled ride away at the tipi. It’s one of the homiest movements in the bustling Whistler valley. However, the freedom the tipi provides isn’t limited to Mashon’s backyard.
“The dream was to take it up to Alaska, and I’ve done that,” Mashon says. “Go up to Haines, shred, and live out of the tipi. That’s one of the beauties of it, you can spend more time in those areas, and less time commuting—you’re already there.”
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