In 1992, Whistler Pride began as a grassroots gathering of a handful of gay skiers. Today, it has grown into a multi-day festival that’s proving what true inclusivity in outdoor mountain culture can look like. These mountains have long been places where communities have gathered, found each other, and carved out space, both literally and socially, on slopes. But 2026 isn’t just another edition. It marks a reset, arriving at a moment when Canadian queer culture feels ascendant, proving that visibility on the mountains (and on the ice) is as hard-won and as vital. 

As Canada’s longest-running gay ski week and one of the world’s largest queer winter festivals, Whistler Pride has framed its reimagining as both a homecoming and a declaration. Under a new partnership between Tourism Whistler and TFD Presents, Festival Director Tommy D took on the challenge of producing the reimagined festival in just seven weeks.

“We had an opportunity to try something bold,” he says. “The first thing that had to change was pricing. Accessibility isn’t just a value, it’s a practice.”

Skiers and snowboarders pour in from every direction. The descent turns wonderfully chaotic: cheers echo across the slopes, rainbow flags trail behind riders, and winter gear clashes beautifully with drag glamour. At the base, the celebration continues into Whistler Village. Now, the parade is led by Venus, the first Indigenous winner of Canada’s Drag Race and Squamish Lil’wat Nation members from the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre. As the parade begins its march through the village, the procession quickly swells beyond its programming. Locals and tourists merge with participants until it’s no longer just a festival event but a village-wide claim on public space. Tourists step away from their meals and shopping. Whistler locals step away from their workday. Everyone lines the route to cheer, film, and bear witness.

For me, this is when the significance registers.

Celebrating queer visibility within the festival’s programming through guided ski groups, après gatherings, and sold-out nightlife creates community among those who came for exactly that. But the village showing up as witnesses and participants, not as vendors or sponsors, reveals something deeper. The permanent rainbow crosswalks beneath our feet, the Pride flags that fly year-round (not just during festival week) — this is what it looks like when belonging isn’t scheduled for one week, but woven into how it operates.

I spent nearly two-thirds of my 36 years grappling with identity, unsure where I fit or whether mountain communities had room for people like me. This kind of embrace doesn’t go unnoticed. 

I left my mountain home of Banff eight years ago, not because I didn’t love it, but because I needed what it couldn’t yet offer: a visible queer community, infrastructure, and space to exist without explanation. I found that in Vancouver — my community, mountains, nature, and not long after the move, my partner — all in the same place. But mountain towns move at their own pace.