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MOUNTAIN OUT OF A MOLEHILL (p. 3 of 3)

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"Quite frankly, I like what’s happened here," Jarvis, an elegant woman, says at her busy village office. No doubt. Still, she echoes the complaints of old-time ski bums, accusing some landlords and restaurateurs of greediness. "The tourism here is good as it is," Jarvis adds, "but I think the Olympics will bring that many more tourists."

So far, Aspenization hasn’t killed the magic that enthralled her husband 30 years ago. "Sometimes after a great snowstorm," she says, "you’re walking around and you look up and you think, ‘This is unbelievable.’ It’s like euphoria."

By day, Village Stroll is a slightly sterile retail wanderland. You can buy a glass-bead curtain, an Australian cowboy hat or a bargain sweater from the Gap. The clerks are laid-back but never rude; even the scruffiest browser could be packing Amex Platinum. Nothing like a window display every few metres to make you wish you did.

The same kind of materialistic nudging happens at Bearfoot Bistro. Although there’s a good three-course dinner on for $30, the wine cellar comes with its own phone book. By-the-glass offerings come from a bucket at the bar – and still cost $15. At one table in the tony low-slung restaurant, a woman is lecturing some Japanese tourists on the marriage of chocolate and icewine. "We drink them after work," manager John Baldwin says of the magnums of red on display. "There’s après-ski, and then there’s après-Bearfoot Bistro."

Actually, that would be Garfinkel’s, another of the village’s subterranean hot spots. The snowboard-toting crowd is early-to-mid-20s and likely counts its change. "Saturday night at Garfinkel’s. This is how we do it," jaws the DJ. "Keep on shakin’ ya ass, and you’re gonna get a party." On Garf’s king-size bed of a stage, a collision of Girls Gone Wild and S Club 7 unfolds to hip hop hits of yesteryear. Is everyone on speed?

Sunday morning. Snow falling on cedar shingles. Time for Blackcomb.

We share a blizzard-whipped open chairlift with a gay couple from Winnipeg, watching skiers silently carve the runs below. The summit howls. In the cavernous Rendezvous restaurant, red-cheeked ’boarders spoon chili out of bread bowls. A friendly Club Intrawest salesperson floats among the tables offering spots at this afternoon’s time-share info session. No pressure: All you need is an income that lets you afford weekly shiatsu. Maybe later. Then it’s back down the mountain to the camera-ready village and our boutique hotel through the icy wind and the Olympic-grade snow. [ ]

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