Back From Canada.

Back in the olden times, a young man by the name of Johnny Intrawest was hiking in the mountains outside of Vancouver. He stopped for a snack of curds and whey, plopped down on his gingham blanket, and marveled at the vista surrounding him.
"This is the place!" he said, not knowing that particular phrase was already trademarked by Brigham Young Productions, INC.
"I will build a ski resort here, and it will be a global destination, drawing thousands of people from around the world! It will be called Whistler, and later I will merge it with another resort called Blackcomb, or something. I simply need to get rid of all these pesky Indian graves that are in the way."
With that, he started stomping around kicking over all the Indian graves he could see. But there were ever so many, so he brought over hundreds of Chinamen to kick over graves and build the ski resort. Once his vision was completed, Johhny Intrawest laid down in his bed and fell in to a deep sleep. That very night however, he was visited in his dreams by an evil wizard ghost, who protected the indian graves.
"Johnny Intrawest!" it called, "You have desecrated the graves of the Indians who own this land. You must now be punished!"
Johnny Intrawest was terrified. "Oh noes!" he cried, "How can I make this up to you? Are you interested in a free weekend at our resort?"
This just enraged the wizard ghost even more. "What, and sit through your 3 hour timeshare presentation?! Never again!!! Your punishment will be this: Your beautiful terrain will only see the wettest of snow. Ice will fall from the sky and blind those tourists who come here under the premise of a world class skiing. Even if dry snow should fall, it will be immediately rained upon for days! DAYS!!!"
With that, Johnny woke from his dream, drenched in sweat. "Whew, it was only a dream. I will disregard the warnings of that wizard ghost and build my resort anyway, hahahahaha!" And he did. And the ghost wizard's prophecy came true. And oh did poor tourists, like your humble narrator here, weep tears the size of watermelons.