The Shutdown Season

SHUTDOWN SEASON

COVID Winter ’21: With Ontario’s resorts closed and most travel plans postponed, we tapped our nearcountry, with memorable results. Mountain Lifers share their stories.

Escape to Rossland

There’s no cell service and the U-Haul feels like it’s sliding backward down the icy mountain. At 1,775 metres, the Kootenay Pass is one of the highest highways in Canada; when we finally reach the peak and begin the descent, my mouth goes dry every time the car slips out from the slightest brake or turn of the wheel.

If the brakes go completely, it’s reassuring to know there’s a runaway lane in case I need to ram the car into the mountainside to stop it from flying off.

We’re on the last leg of our five-day journey from Toronto to Rossland, B.C., our final destination and new home.

On the last climb up to Rossland, my ears pop twice; at 1,000 metres, it’s one of Canada’s highest towns. Finally cruising down the main street, I see two fat bikes souped up with industrialsize panniers hauling groceries, with dogs trailing behind, unleashed. Amongst the western saloon-type facades, I also notice sculptures that reveal the soul of the place—first, a life-size statue of Olaus Jeldness, a Norwegian skier and miner who brought skiing to the town in 1894. Then another sculpture, just as integral to understanding this place: two giant steel bears, playing.

But it’s the two-storey sphere made of bike wheels that gets me excited: This town is made for cyclists, even in the winter.

When we first take fat bikes out on the trails—something that always felt like riding a bloated tank on my previous attempts—it was like stepping onto a bike for the first time. Not because I had to learn a new technique, but because it was exhilarating and new. Climbing into the dark and quiet forest, tires crunching, weaving through the trees, snow dusting my face, it felt as smooth and grippy as any dirt track. That’s because the local trail association bought a groomer and pays trail builders to maintain the winding winter singletrack.

When my fingers go white and numb, it’s time for après. Circling back to the ski hill, parking the bikes alongside others on the rack (none of them locked) we check out The Josie, a newly renovated restaurant and hotel, where most of the patrons wear outdoor gear— “Patagucci” as locals like to call it.

Toronto was in lockdown before we left, and it’s been at least a year since we ate inside a restaurant. Seeing people’s faces and talking to our server—a former ski pro—while music blissfully plays, it feels like COVID isn’t real.

I send a friend in Ontario a picture of us, smiling and clinking glasses. She sends back a sarcastic, envious reply. We don’t stay long. Guilt or discomfort? Maybe both.

Immediately after my partner returns from work most days, we don our headlamps and XC gear and ski across the street to the Black Jack Ski Club. Here the trails are crowded with high school kids in training (a few of them Olympic hopefuls). But once we slide past the lamps into the darkness, the thick fluffy snow dampens the sounds, leaving a dark wonderland.

Returning home on a bit of a downslope, the town’s lights twinkle far below. It doesn’t feel like a soul has ever been here. And right now, this is the vibe I’ve been craving. –Melanie Chambers

When we first take fat bikes out on the trails—something that always felt like riding a bloated tank on my previous attempts—it was like stepping onto a bike for the first time.

DAVE HEATH/TOURISM ROSSLAND

Ticket to Ride

It was a pretty standard day of skiing in the winter of 2021. I ended up with a mishmash of a crew: my nephew and niece, my sister, my buddy, his son, my son and me. A combination of people I never in my life would have imagined skiing together. The dog’s breakfast of ski gear was even more outlandish: snowboards with broken bindings, old Dynastar alpine gear, bamboo poles, Tuck-taped boots and a 15-year-old set of skins. We parked the cars below a “no parking” sign then hopped over the fence. I helped my leashless dog wriggle through the fence, then we headed up.

The quality of my ski days last winter was pretty high. Sure the Ontario government kept flip-flopping on whether the hills should be open or not, but it was the first winter in decades with no significant thawing event. Which meant there was a good base in the woods.

With skis strapped to her backpack, my sister trudged through the snow in ski boots, her kids carrying snowboards while post-holing in snowboard boots. Yes there were complaints: It’s so steep, it’s too far, my feet hurt, I’m hungry. We all broke a sweat, talked, laughed and fantasized about the run to come. The sun was out and when the kids weren’t complaining they were laughing.

In a way, I’d spent years preparing for a COVID winter. Something about earning turns makes me happy; I’d almost rather go ski touring than heli-skiing. Almost.

So when all the Ontario resorts closed in December of 2020 I scrambled to get touring gear for my son. Before I knew it we had more friends than usual. Everyone wanted to go ski touring. Even my sister was keen to earn turns. They wanted to know where to go, when to go and how to get there. No one was letting the resort closures stop them from skiing. Ad hoc rope tows

So when all the Ontario resorts closed in December of 2020 I scrambled to get touring gear for my son. Before I knew it we had more friends than usual. Everyone wanted to go ski touring.

popped up, ATVs with snow tracks and trailers shuttled kids up and down, which in turn led to some amazing days. I had one of my deepest days ever with Kyle Easby and Taylor Rowlands. I watched Drew McIvor dropping a knee in a secret powder bowl. I nearly fell in the Beaver River, not once but twice.

Skiing became a community event. I didn’t get the usual number of days on snow, nor cover the vertical, but every day out there was unique. For lack of a better word, every day on snow was special.

Finally reaching the top of the hill, the adults cracked a celebratory beer, while the kids chugged away at a bubly. We pulled off our skins, put on our helmets and got ready for the main event. The descent.

How good was it? That was dependent on skill level. It was a tracked out, lumpy, bumpy mess by the time we skied it, but I had a killer run. The kids were all over the place; some were falling every other turn, some charged right along with the dads. My sister snowplowed the entire way down, mostly terrified. On the final approach to the cars it was a nice mellow pitch that everyone loved. We whooped with joy, sliding to a stop beside our vehicles.

Then we saw the by-law officer. She was busy putting tickets on all our cars.

“Whose dog is this?! It should be on a leash,” she yelled angrily. “You know you’re trespassing, right? If you’re not out of here in five minutes I’m calling the police.”

I grabbed my dog as the ragtag crew of skiers and snowboarders hopped in different vehicles. I apologized and worriedly asked how much the ticket was.

“Thirty bucks,” she said.

I grabbed the ticket from under my windshield wiper and got in the car.

“Thirty bucks?!” I laughed. “Not only is that the best money I’ve ever spent, it’s also the cheapest day of skiing ever!” –Colin Field

LEFT PAGE Kyle Easby getting the goods. BELOW L-R Ad hoc rope tow; earning turns. COLIN FIELD

THE GOLD STANDARD IN WARMTH

Skin Up, Laugh Down

Last night it dumped. At least 25 cm fell on the escarpment, blanketing our favourite hill. There’s no snow report to check, but we know this storm blew in right where it needed to go. We load up the truck: skis, skins, snacks, beer. Run inside for more snacks, more beer, a change of mitts. Dogs.

This season has been a confounding one. Ontario resorts closed, leaving people scrambling for access to the unbelievable snow that just keeps falling, day after day, week after week. Locals have managed to sniff out the goods—a closed road here, an abandoned orchard there. Our family’s ticket to the backcountry has been generous friends. Friends whose backyard is the perfect slope for quick laps and whose back forty makes for the sweetest, deepest tree skiing around.

Parking at the top, we unload our gear while dogs leap from open doors, wrestling a reunion with their farm-living counterparts before chasing each other into the woods. Other friends have beaten us here, back from the stash with a report: Oh yes, it’s good. Very good.

Last night’s light, lake-effect snow covered the deadfall, filled the nooks and crannies, settled in the shoulders of towering maples. We make whooping laps and take epic falls, dogs trailing us through the trees. Skin up, laugh down. Repeat.

The bonfire is hot on glowing faces, beers are cold from their snowbank cooler. Sunset brings a fiery red sky, followed by headlamp laps on the backyard hill. Kids switch to sleds, hitting the kicker for cheering parents.

Everyone clicks in and skins up for a final lap, but when I reach the top I stay on the ridge. Sneaking away in the dark, I head toward the truck, then pass it—down the lane and onto the road, headed home. The white fields are too bright, the stars too many, to let it all end now.

I trek over the snow-packed gravel for the better part of an hour before jumping in with my passing family—cold but warm, giddy but reflective, elated with the realness of it all. It’s a crystalclear sensation of happy, repeated countless times over four decades: last call at the après bar, last car in the lot, a final whoop before heading home.

Tomorrow my husband will shake his head and grumble at the damage to my bases, but for now this is heaven. Who needs a ski resort when you have friends in the country? –Kristin Schnelten

ALLISON KENNEDY DAVIES

People who had hunkered down inside for generations of winters did something they’d never done: They bundled up and tried it.

Ontario winters are up and down at the best of times. Snow comes and snow melts, it rains and then it dumps. We are used to dealing with uncertainty and adjusting accordingly. But the winter of 2021 took that flux next-level. As a family who spends a ton of time on the slopes, even relying on that industry for a career, we had to pivot about a million times—and yes, I hate that word as much as you do. We definitely enjoyed some great days at the hill (in the end more than I had expected) but the best side effect of the shutdowns and restrictions was that we spent way more time outdoors exploring our local trails and wild spots together.

Over the summer we adopted a pandemic puppy, Kona, who it turns out loves the snow. He reaped the rewards of the long days not spent at the ski hill. He chased us on XC skis (naturally not on track-set trails) and bombed after us on backcountry snowboard missions.

When we left him at home, we hit the trails in the Kimberley Forest—which my husband groomed while the resort was on pause. We logged plenty of kilometres, ate lots of trailside snacks, enjoyed many frosty local brews and an endless stream of hot chocolate.

We invested in super-insulated Thermoses for Christmas, knowing our car would be basecamp both at the ski hill and on roadside adventures. We bought a propane fire pit, extending our post-activity outdoor time. The fire pit proved to be a game changer, as folks could pop by for an outdoor bevy around a fire that was ready in seconds.

With gathering rules still in place, some of our extended Christmas celebrations moved outdoors—complete with outdoor trees and presents on waterproof tarps. Opening gifts around the campfire is a tradition I’d love to keep.

Honestly, for folks who always prefer being outside, 2021 just meant more people joined us in our happy place. I was thankful for our garage-sale XC skis—as those sold out as quickly on Kijiji as litters of puppies. People who had hunkered down inside for generations of winters did something they’d never done: They bundled up and tried it. And for some, the biggest surprise of all was that they actually liked it.

We’re all hoping for a safe and stable ski season in 2022. But I’m also hoping that those who discovered winter will continue to join us in the magical snowy world we’re lucky to have just outside our door. –Allison Kennedy Davies

Those

November gales kept delivering wave trains along Lake Huron well into

February.

SCOTT PARENT

This Ain’t Costa Rica

Throwback to winter 2020. I have a ticket to fly to Costa Rica in May. I’ll be participating in the second annual XPT Waterman Experience surf workshop, getting my ass kicked by Gabby Reece and Laird Hamilton. Three solid days of pool workouts, beach training, breath work and surfing capped with sauna sessions and ice baths in the carless beach town of Las Catalinas. For me this was a total dream experience, earning a shot at learning from the man himself, Laird.

Only it doesn’t happen. Instead, by mid-March, the world locked down and travel bans came into effect, leaving the earth spinning off-kilter ever since.

That winter, Lake Huron experienced more unusual warm fronts and an overall withdrawal in ice coverage—peak ice maxed out at a meagre 19.5 per cent coverage over the Great Lakes. As a result, our usual ice pursuits stayed hung up. I spent most of the season watching the MODIS reports of snow and ice coverage while SUP surfing as often as possible, waiting on the ice to take shape. But the ice never formed. And those November gales kept delivering wave trains along Lake Huron well into February.

Living on a homestead on the Saugeen (Bruce) Peninsula in winter doesn’t provide for extended periods away from home, with animals to care for and snow to manage when winter storms dump on us. As a result, most of our winter outdoor family adventures are close to home. In a usual year, the kids go to school while my wife Tatiana and I manage our work and home life, which affords more balance to squeeze some time away at some point in the winter. But during the lockdown, with three kids in a cabin, learning online and juggling constant work disruptions, a free day quickly became a catch-up day. Squeezing in an hour of SUP surfing kept me focused.

These waves aren’t warm. And most days are far from bluebird. The wind can be violent, as high as 36 knots on really windy days. It takes everything just to paddle out and hold position. The best windows often arrive just before sunset or sunrise, leaving you little option but to catch waves in the dark. This ain’t Costa Rica. But it is everything XPT. Intense adaptive training and a brutal exercise in breath control.

Trying to keep up with the news cycle, where we could or could not go, what we could or could not do, was dizzying but had one easy fix: Stay home and go SUP surfing as much as possible. A pretty safe pandemic protocol to stick to if there ever was one.

I tried to stay focused on what mattered most: being at home on standby for three homeschoolers, a wife working the front lines and our donkey, Hera.

The opportunity to train with Laird Hamilton and Gabby Reece in Costa Rica, even if it didn’t happen, was a high that motivated me to keep focused on what initially guided me to that experience: getting out on the water and embracing all her expressions.

We may not get big-wave surf on the Great Lakes, but the heart of Lake Huron is ocean-big in my mind. And that’s good medicine. –Scott Parent

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