On a good day one should be able to reach Whistler in a little over an hour. But the road was everywhere being widened or repaired in advance of the 2010 winter Olympics. So our progress was slow. At times we came to a dead halt. We lunched in the mid-point town of Squamish, which seems to serve largely as a dormitory town for the area.
Mid-afternoon we pulled into the driveway of the Belle Neige B&B. We were welcomed by Sola, the Swiss Mountain Dog, and conducted by Myrna, the co-owner, to the very comfortable little apartment where we were to stay for the following three nights. There were delightful views over Myrna's garden and the valley below. Sola never barked, we were informed, unless there were black bears in the garden. The latter came for the berries but were not otherwise obtrusive. Happily, Sola never barked and we saw only birds in the garden.
A sign on the wall warned residents not to smoke. Canadians take smoking seriously. All sorts of buildings have signs warning the public not to light up within two metres of the doors. Our hotels informed us that substantial additional charges would be added to our bills if our rooms had to be cleansed of the effects of tobacco smoke. 
The B&B was located in an area known as Alpine Meadows, about 5 kms from the actual resort at Whistler Village. Looking forward to a little exercise, we set out along a series of trails that wind their way through the area. They are used mainly by bikers, who whizzed past us. We needed a little help from passers by at intersections during a walk that took 90 minutes. It was hot, with hardly a cloud in the sky. 
Whistler Village is pedestrianised, full of the usual food, clothing and equipment stores, all at ski resort prices. In fact we found prices generally in British Columbia to be much higher than those we were used to back home. At the top of the village were the gondolas to the twin mountains, Whistler and Blackcomb. 
Skiers and snowboarders were still using the upper runs on Whistler – due to shut at the end of May. Runs on Blackcomb had already been closed for the season. But the few remaining winter sports enthusiasts were vastly outnumbered by mountain bikers, who were riding up in the gondola and speeding down the lower slopes of the mountain. 
The next time we walked into the village, we took a much prettier route through the woods, past the float planes tied to the piers on Green Lake and around the Jack Nicklaus golf course. (A ball bounced off the woodwork of a bridge that we were crossing and splashed into the lake.) I loved watching the floatplanes take off and land. Anglers fished for the trout that populated the lake. Instruction boards informed fishermen that they needed licences, were not permitted to use bait and had to return any catches to the water. Fishing was for sport only.
Each evening we’d stop off at the corner café at the Alpine Meadows turn-off for a coffee or a beer. Around us the youth of the neighbourhood would gather, athletic young men along with their honey-limbed, strapless-top-clad lassies. Few arrived on foot. The preferred modes of transport were bicycle, skateboard and - for those who'd made some progress in life -a grunting V-8 pick-up. One facility not to be found in Whistler is a laundry. The information centre told us that there was one 10 minutes down the road at Creekside.
By sheer luck we filled up at a service station opposite a hostel in which the laundry was based. The bottom floor of the hostel was a diner. It was noisy and busy Waitresses scuttled up and down the tables with huge plates of eggs and fries. On the weekend, they told us, the lines stretched way back from the door. Jones and I shared a blueberry pancake. It was our introduction to this great American institution. 
An hour north of Whistler lies the agricultural town of Pemberton, where Niki Madigan runs the old museum. Visitors are free to stroll around unescorted. I was fascinated by the old machinery in the yard, especially the ancient McCormick tractor. Gold miners had once passed through the town on their way to the fabled riches further north. In one room was a giant carving of a mosquito, an insect that had tormented the miners.
And there were plenty of the little bloodsuckers in the museum, anxious to feed on us.
We visited the Nairn falls, just south of the town, walking the two kilometres along a dusty trail to the river. Indians (now known as the First Nations) and miners had followed the same route, according to the information boards.
The falls themselves were thunderous rather than high. Huge volumes of water tumbled through a narrow gorge, swirling and frothing into the river below. A cloud of spray drifted across the cliffs above the falls.
After three days in Whistler, we drove south again, this time to the large ferry terminal at Horseshoe Bay, just north of Vancouver. Our destination was an hotel in Gibson's Landing, across the bay on a stretch known as Canada's Sunshine Coast. There's no road access from greater Vancouver to this area. To travel north, you have to take a ferry (or two, depending on how far you want to go). 
The terminal was an impressive affair. Two or three ferries could berth simultaneously. The bigger ones, serving Vancouver Island, were boats of several thousand tons, taking hundreds of vehicles into their cavernous maws. Vehicles were loaded (and unloaded) simultaneously from upper and lower decks, cars above and heavier traffic below. 
Our ferry shed its load in ten minutes and reloaded in another ten. The voyage across the bay took 40 minutes. At the opposite terminal, the performance was repeated just as quickly. Most remarkably, the ferries had bridges and prows at either end, so that they never needed to turn around.The Sunshine Coast is a summer playground, an area of beaches, bays, lakes, coves, rivers, trails and forests. The most beautiful houses are semi-hidden in the trees in little villages all along the coast. We spent a day travelling north as far as we could, short of taking another ferry.
One of the sights to behold is the Skookumchuk tidal bore - where narrowing straits force the tidal flows into a riptide wave. It's one of nature's minor wonders but well worth the effort nonetheless.
There's a coffee and bun house, built of wood and run by a Dutch couple at the start of the trail - and well worth a stop. The man of the house told us how he'd built the place with his own hands, a dream come true, as he put it. The coffee was excellent and the muffins even better.
To get to the straits, one has to trek an hour along a forest trail, hoping that the recently-sighted bear in the vicinity has taken itself off. We didn't see any bears, just a few other hikers. The following morning, we were up early to catch the first ferry back to Horseshoe Bay and to return our rental car to the depot in Vancouver. From there we flew to Calgary for the last part of our holiday.
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