CHAMPAGNE POWDER AND CANMORE
We are driving to Canmore, a picturesque village, nestled in the Canadian Rockies, home to the famous Nordic Cross-Country Skiing Centre and Snowy Owl dog sledding tours. It is has been a mild winter across the Canadian prairies and although it is the coldest we have ever been we are constantly reassured by the locals that ‘It’s beautiful weather, eh!’ I look at the temperature gauge in our car and it is -9°C. Lovely! Relatively warm for this time of year.
As we approach the Rocky Mountains, the amount of ice on the road steadily increases and then, for some reason, our satellite navigation system (AKA: The bitch in the box) directs us off the highway and down some back road. Our speed drops to 80km, to 60km and then 50km an hour.
Mary has a map in her lap, she looks at me. Her eyes hold a mildly offended expression that says, ‘Why do you need another navigator?’ But she smiles encouragingly as our speed drops to 30km. Spruce trees march out of the night and line the roads.
I mutter and begin to curse. Mary checks her phone. She smiles again but her eyes are accusing, ‘Even when you have a satellite, directions provided 250metres in advance and a computer that definitely knows which hand is left, you still manage to get lost. Maybe the fault is not with your navigator.’ Her silence is deafening.
Angrily I shout at the sat nav. ‘Alright, alright, alright you have already told me to turn left. Four freakin’ times!’ I reach up to turn off the sound and veer into the left lane. I straighten and fishtail across a narrow wooden bridge. Now the bitch (in the box) is trying to kill us!
The near death experience causes Matilda and Josie to look up briefly from their Ipods. ‘Where are we?’
Unflustered, Mary says, ‘Not far now.’ She checks her phone. ‘That big factory we just passed is for processing gypsum.’ Her smile wouldn’t melt butter.
We arrive in Canmore safely and I am only a little less sane. Our hotel room is adequate. Nothing flash, a three star rating at the very most despite the major constellations displayed at the entrance and on the internet. The heating system roars to life intermittently through the night like a squadron passing over head. When I wake I have a strange feeling that in a past life I really was Biggles. It takes two cups of coffee before I stop calling Mary, Algy.
Algy opens the curtains and we are all stunned. The vista is amazing. The Rockies are truly gorgeous. We clump, a spontaneous family hug of anticipation but the morning halitosis just about knocks us all out and we quickly find we need to do something else. In the kitchenette I cook a Canadian staple; pancakes and crispy bacon.
We hire ski gear. The last time we all skied together I found the slopes at Kinosoo a bit tame. So I order skis 180cm long. The lady has to go out the back and retrieve them. She hands them over with one eyebrow raised. My eyes are deadpan. I weigh 80kg and not all of it is flab. I need long skis.
The last time I had fast skis was twenty years ago but that shouldn’t matter. We are about to hit the slopes of one of the premium ski destinations in the world. I feel fit. I feel strong. I am Biggles. I laugh in the face of danger.
We steer the girls past all the pretty things in the ski hire shop. We pay the $19.60 entry fee into Banff National Park. It is so beautiful. Mary wants to stop and pixilate each moment but the battle of Britain was won by men of daring do. I yell at Algy, ‘Come on!’
We discover that Banff is an Alpine village surrounded by ski destinations. The bitch in the box directs us back towards Lake Louise. We turn off to Sunshine. Despite the fact it is a long weekend we discover champagne powder, no waiting times at lifts and everywhere the famous Canadian hospitality.
The café and shops at the base gondola, (that’s right - there is more than one gondola) is full of Australians, cleaning, selling stuff and cooking in the kitchen.
In fact, the Dollar Shop in Banff has a shelf devoted to Australian paraphernalia, flags, magnets, stickers, iron on patches, beer socks and those ugly hats that carry two cans of beer on the head with a tube down to the mouth and plastered with the logo, ‘Aussie Drinking Team.’ Is our international reputation so appalling? Yes! Previously I discovered, quite by accident, that beer socks are not for keeping your beer cold in Canada. They’re actually to stop your fingers freezing to the can.
When we reach the top we see a blue sky held aloft by craggy mountain tops. Despite the sunshine it is snowing. What do you call that? A sun fall? A sun sleet? There are no words. It is just magic. Real magic. Santa Clause magic.
We warm up on some gentle runs and I am delighted with my skis. They are like Biggle’s old Sopwith Camel and seem to have a mind of their own. The girls stop for a break. I take the chance to ski Goat’s Eye Mountain. There is a warning sign, ‘There are no green runs from this chairlift.’ I laugh.
At the top you can go left or you can go right. No one turns to the right, except Biggles. I fly to the edge and then push back. My stomach does a back flip. It is near vertical. Going down there would be a like throwing myself out of a burning bi-plane and hoping to miss the ground. I look tentatively back over the edge to see if there are any broken bodies and decide to follow the crowd. Lots of traffic has turned the first two hundred metres of moguls into an ice park. My scarf flaps in the wind, ice fogs up my flying goggles. I rediscover that one mistake compounds into many and many mistakes result in complete loss of control. I hit the ice hard. Stars burst like flak behind my eyes. When the blue stops spiraling, I suck in a few deep breaths and gather my skis, determined to take it easy. Eventually I ski out of the ice and into perfection: moguls, fresh powder and a beautiful vista. It is glorious! I ski to the utmost of my ability. On the home run I find myself spiraling out of control and plummeting head first, on my back down the slopes, my skis, like broken wings, land a good fifteen metres further down the hill and continue to slide. Adrenaline sings through my veins. I have never skied anything like this!
I meet the girls at the bottom for lunch. I describe the path I have just taken. They can hear the swagger in my understatement. I show them the map. For a moment, I can’t quite believe it. There are many runs but there is only one blue diamond run down Goats Eye. It’s rated medium difficulty. The line traces my exact route. Mary rests her hand on my shoulder. ‘I think the rating depends on the mountain.’ I smile with gratitude and suddenly I don’t feel so old. Biggles is back!
After lunch we catch anther gondola up to Sunshine village. There are more people here and there are more Australians working in the shops. We ski Mount Standish and we ski Lookout Mountain. We don’t ride every chair lift, there are too many. We ski to the point of exhaustion and we are last off the mountain. The gondola base mess hall serves us beer and fizzy drink. A lovely girl puts down her broom and takes a family photo. I am too tired to notice that she hasn’t got an accent, until she’s gone. Mary just nods and tells me she’s from the Southern Slopes, NSW. How do women do that? We load up the car and Mary drives back to our hotel. She doesn’t use the bitch in the box. We are almost at Lake Louise before we realize we are going the wrong way. I try for reassurance, ‘At least it was a nice drive.’ Algy looks at me and the temperature feels just like it looks outside.
We eat pizza for supper and fall into an exhausted sleep. Tomorrow we go dog sledding.
As we approach the Rocky Mountains, the amount of ice on the road steadily increases and then, for some reason, our satellite navigation system (AKA: The bitch in the box) directs us off the highway and down some back road. Our speed drops to 80km, to 60km and then 50km an hour.
Mary has a map in her lap, she looks at me. Her eyes hold a mildly offended expression that says, ‘Why do you need another navigator?’ But she smiles encouragingly as our speed drops to 30km. Spruce trees march out of the night and line the roads.
I mutter and begin to curse. Mary checks her phone. She smiles again but her eyes are accusing, ‘Even when you have a satellite, directions provided 250metres in advance and a computer that definitely knows which hand is left, you still manage to get lost. Maybe the fault is not with your navigator.’ Her silence is deafening.
Angrily I shout at the sat nav. ‘Alright, alright, alright you have already told me to turn left. Four freakin’ times!’ I reach up to turn off the sound and veer into the left lane. I straighten and fishtail across a narrow wooden bridge. Now the bitch (in the box) is trying to kill us!
The near death experience causes Matilda and Josie to look up briefly from their Ipods. ‘Where are we?’
Unflustered, Mary says, ‘Not far now.’ She checks her phone. ‘That big factory we just passed is for processing gypsum.’ Her smile wouldn’t melt butter.
We arrive in Canmore safely and I am only a little less sane. Our hotel room is adequate. Nothing flash, a three star rating at the very most despite the major constellations displayed at the entrance and on the internet. The heating system roars to life intermittently through the night like a squadron passing over head. When I wake I have a strange feeling that in a past life I really was Biggles. It takes two cups of coffee before I stop calling Mary, Algy.
Algy opens the curtains and we are all stunned. The vista is amazing. The Rockies are truly gorgeous. We clump, a spontaneous family hug of anticipation but the morning halitosis just about knocks us all out and we quickly find we need to do something else. In the kitchenette I cook a Canadian staple; pancakes and crispy bacon.
We hire ski gear. The last time we all skied together I found the slopes at Kinosoo a bit tame. So I order skis 180cm long. The lady has to go out the back and retrieve them. She hands them over with one eyebrow raised. My eyes are deadpan. I weigh 80kg and not all of it is flab. I need long skis.
The last time I had fast skis was twenty years ago but that shouldn’t matter. We are about to hit the slopes of one of the premium ski destinations in the world. I feel fit. I feel strong. I am Biggles. I laugh in the face of danger.
We steer the girls past all the pretty things in the ski hire shop. We pay the $19.60 entry fee into Banff National Park. It is so beautiful. Mary wants to stop and pixilate each moment but the battle of Britain was won by men of daring do. I yell at Algy, ‘Come on!’
We discover that Banff is an Alpine village surrounded by ski destinations. The bitch in the box directs us back towards Lake Louise. We turn off to Sunshine. Despite the fact it is a long weekend we discover champagne powder, no waiting times at lifts and everywhere the famous Canadian hospitality.
The café and shops at the base gondola, (that’s right - there is more than one gondola) is full of Australians, cleaning, selling stuff and cooking in the kitchen.
In fact, the Dollar Shop in Banff has a shelf devoted to Australian paraphernalia, flags, magnets, stickers, iron on patches, beer socks and those ugly hats that carry two cans of beer on the head with a tube down to the mouth and plastered with the logo, ‘Aussie Drinking Team.’ Is our international reputation so appalling? Yes! Previously I discovered, quite by accident, that beer socks are not for keeping your beer cold in Canada. They’re actually to stop your fingers freezing to the can.
When we reach the top we see a blue sky held aloft by craggy mountain tops. Despite the sunshine it is snowing. What do you call that? A sun fall? A sun sleet? There are no words. It is just magic. Real magic. Santa Clause magic.
We warm up on some gentle runs and I am delighted with my skis. They are like Biggle’s old Sopwith Camel and seem to have a mind of their own. The girls stop for a break. I take the chance to ski Goat’s Eye Mountain. There is a warning sign, ‘There are no green runs from this chairlift.’ I laugh.
At the top you can go left or you can go right. No one turns to the right, except Biggles. I fly to the edge and then push back. My stomach does a back flip. It is near vertical. Going down there would be a like throwing myself out of a burning bi-plane and hoping to miss the ground. I look tentatively back over the edge to see if there are any broken bodies and decide to follow the crowd. Lots of traffic has turned the first two hundred metres of moguls into an ice park. My scarf flaps in the wind, ice fogs up my flying goggles. I rediscover that one mistake compounds into many and many mistakes result in complete loss of control. I hit the ice hard. Stars burst like flak behind my eyes. When the blue stops spiraling, I suck in a few deep breaths and gather my skis, determined to take it easy. Eventually I ski out of the ice and into perfection: moguls, fresh powder and a beautiful vista. It is glorious! I ski to the utmost of my ability. On the home run I find myself spiraling out of control and plummeting head first, on my back down the slopes, my skis, like broken wings, land a good fifteen metres further down the hill and continue to slide. Adrenaline sings through my veins. I have never skied anything like this!
I meet the girls at the bottom for lunch. I describe the path I have just taken. They can hear the swagger in my understatement. I show them the map. For a moment, I can’t quite believe it. There are many runs but there is only one blue diamond run down Goats Eye. It’s rated medium difficulty. The line traces my exact route. Mary rests her hand on my shoulder. ‘I think the rating depends on the mountain.’ I smile with gratitude and suddenly I don’t feel so old. Biggles is back!
After lunch we catch anther gondola up to Sunshine village. There are more people here and there are more Australians working in the shops. We ski Mount Standish and we ski Lookout Mountain. We don’t ride every chair lift, there are too many. We ski to the point of exhaustion and we are last off the mountain. The gondola base mess hall serves us beer and fizzy drink. A lovely girl puts down her broom and takes a family photo. I am too tired to notice that she hasn’t got an accent, until she’s gone. Mary just nods and tells me she’s from the Southern Slopes, NSW. How do women do that? We load up the car and Mary drives back to our hotel. She doesn’t use the bitch in the box. We are almost at Lake Louise before we realize we are going the wrong way. I try for reassurance, ‘At least it was a nice drive.’ Algy looks at me and the temperature feels just like it looks outside.
We eat pizza for supper and fall into an exhausted sleep. Tomorrow we go dog sledding.
DOG SLEDDING
The central heating aerial raids continue through the night and Mary cracks a window for some fresh air. In the morning we eat more pancakes and arrive at the Snowy Owl shop front. We are bundled, with other Australian teachers also on exchange, into three small buses. Our driver is French and drives with one hand on the wheel like he is trying to qualify for NASCAR finals. Snow falls. Spruce trees crowd the road. We wind up the mountain until the trees fall away and reveal a lake. My heart thumps. ‘Please no!’ I like the idea of dog sledding but not on top of a thin sheet of ice. Then I thank God as we continue on over the dam wall. We stop. My heart begins thumping again. Outside the bus we hear the dogs. There is something like pure joy in their enthusiasm.
We alight to a cacophony of barking. The head honcho and son of the operators gives us a safety speech. In a past life he was probably a movie star, tall, rugged, fit, handsome. I hate that.
We are assigned sleds and dogs. The dogs are definitely not movie stars. Most of them are a motley lot. Gorgeous, individual, fit, happy dogs. The one thing they all have in common, and makes them a sled dog, is their desire to run. We are told to never let go of the sled or the dogs will take off without you, just for fun. We are also told to take careful notice that when the dogs need to crap or pee that we must pull up the sled and allow them to do their business. We are told the command for stop is, ‘Whoa,’ and the command for go is not, ‘Mush,’ but, ‘Hike!’
Our instructors talk to each team member in a conversational tone. The dog’s talk back with their whole bodies and it is clear they fully understand. The path leads along the edge of the lake and I am relieved that terra firma will be under foot and sled at all times. Suddenly I feel like a musher. Matilda takes control. I am zipped into her sled. I am Amundsen. I am Mawson. She yells, ‘Hike!’
I am thrust back as the sled launches along the track. The dogs strain, the harness snaps. It is thrilling.
We are the last team. Dog crap litters the path. The stink of it is strangely subdued by the cold. But there is no mistaking what it is. We pull up several times. There is nothing like a morning run for the constitution. Someone has to clean this up! The price of the tour suddenly seems cheap.
On the run and at rest the dogs plunge their faces into the snow, taking huge bites to cool themselves down. It is -12°C and the dogs are hot. They have ancient blood lines that date back to mankind’s first migration across frozen wastelands. They have been bred for the snow and the cold. Only wolves would be as warm and they share blood lines with them too.
The track winds along the edge of the mystic Goat Pond. Spruce borders the trail to my left. Inside the sled I sometimes become airborne. The half way mark is the middle of the pond. We turn and glide out onto the vast, flat expanse. I hold my breath. The snow falls. The mountains rear up into the clouds. The ice cracks. I realize I am panting a mantra, ‘We won’t drown. We won’t drown.’ A small voice whispers back, ‘We’ll freeze first.’
The ice, apparently, is several feet thick. We could drive a truck on it. After a short break, Matilda and I swap places. We have a team of eight dogs. Enzo, the last on the left, has tired and jogs along, not pulling his weight. Our instructor, calls to him ‘Are you a bit tired Enzo? That’s alright. You did a good job on the way here. When you feel better you can pull again.’ Enzo glances back at her. It is a look of pure devotion. In front of him a husky / border collie cross called Tess rolls her eyes. Tess was adopted into the sled team because she had become too much trouble for her elderly owner. She still has the eerie idiosyncrasies developed by intelligent working dogs with too little to do but now she radiates joy. She takes on Enzo’s load without further comment. ‘Good girl, Tess!’
We hit a rise as we leave the lake and have to jump off and help the dogs by pushing the sled. I stumble and nearly fall. When I jump back on, my foot slips and hits the brake. Portia, who is harnessed next to Enzo gives me a foul look. I think I could translate what she said into English, my brother says similar things to me when we are working in the sheep yards.
We arrive back safely at the dam wall. As we unharness, Enzo gives Tess a kiss. She wriggles her whole body in ecstasy. We retire to the camp fire to drink hot apple cider and eat chocolate chip cookies. Our French driver then herds us into the bus like he’s chasing a flock of geese. Mary refuses to be harried and waits for a thumb drive with photos of our adventure. She stares him down, on her face is a tight smile but her eyes are as cold as the barrels of a twin Vickers. He goes off muttering something foul in French. I think I could translate what he said into English, it was the same as what Portia said.
If I thought up hill was fast, going back down is worse. A French radio station blares bad classical music. One of the Aussies mutters, ‘It’s probably the crappy music making him grumpy.’ There are chuckles all round. Despite the rough ride, our girls fall asleep.
Lots of the Aussies go cross country skiing but we are too tired. We journey back up to Banff to soak in the thermal springs. It costs $7.00 a head. We have to shower first and then wade out into the pool. The water is warm, the view is lovely. Snow falls and ice lines the footpath. There is standing room only. The pool looks like it has been filled with a selection from every culture on earth. There is a strict no splashing rule. Within five minutes Josie’s laughter peels out across the valley. The pool police send us baleful looks. Within ten minutes, the girls have almost set off a small riot. We don’t wait to be asked to leave.
That night we meet up with all the other Aussie teachers for pizza and a few drinks. We find we have lots in common. Someone starts a chant, ‘ Ozi, Ozi, Ozi!’ It’s time to leave.
We alight to a cacophony of barking. The head honcho and son of the operators gives us a safety speech. In a past life he was probably a movie star, tall, rugged, fit, handsome. I hate that.
We are assigned sleds and dogs. The dogs are definitely not movie stars. Most of them are a motley lot. Gorgeous, individual, fit, happy dogs. The one thing they all have in common, and makes them a sled dog, is their desire to run. We are told to never let go of the sled or the dogs will take off without you, just for fun. We are also told to take careful notice that when the dogs need to crap or pee that we must pull up the sled and allow them to do their business. We are told the command for stop is, ‘Whoa,’ and the command for go is not, ‘Mush,’ but, ‘Hike!’
Our instructors talk to each team member in a conversational tone. The dog’s talk back with their whole bodies and it is clear they fully understand. The path leads along the edge of the lake and I am relieved that terra firma will be under foot and sled at all times. Suddenly I feel like a musher. Matilda takes control. I am zipped into her sled. I am Amundsen. I am Mawson. She yells, ‘Hike!’
I am thrust back as the sled launches along the track. The dogs strain, the harness snaps. It is thrilling.
We are the last team. Dog crap litters the path. The stink of it is strangely subdued by the cold. But there is no mistaking what it is. We pull up several times. There is nothing like a morning run for the constitution. Someone has to clean this up! The price of the tour suddenly seems cheap.
On the run and at rest the dogs plunge their faces into the snow, taking huge bites to cool themselves down. It is -12°C and the dogs are hot. They have ancient blood lines that date back to mankind’s first migration across frozen wastelands. They have been bred for the snow and the cold. Only wolves would be as warm and they share blood lines with them too.
The track winds along the edge of the mystic Goat Pond. Spruce borders the trail to my left. Inside the sled I sometimes become airborne. The half way mark is the middle of the pond. We turn and glide out onto the vast, flat expanse. I hold my breath. The snow falls. The mountains rear up into the clouds. The ice cracks. I realize I am panting a mantra, ‘We won’t drown. We won’t drown.’ A small voice whispers back, ‘We’ll freeze first.’
The ice, apparently, is several feet thick. We could drive a truck on it. After a short break, Matilda and I swap places. We have a team of eight dogs. Enzo, the last on the left, has tired and jogs along, not pulling his weight. Our instructor, calls to him ‘Are you a bit tired Enzo? That’s alright. You did a good job on the way here. When you feel better you can pull again.’ Enzo glances back at her. It is a look of pure devotion. In front of him a husky / border collie cross called Tess rolls her eyes. Tess was adopted into the sled team because she had become too much trouble for her elderly owner. She still has the eerie idiosyncrasies developed by intelligent working dogs with too little to do but now she radiates joy. She takes on Enzo’s load without further comment. ‘Good girl, Tess!’
We hit a rise as we leave the lake and have to jump off and help the dogs by pushing the sled. I stumble and nearly fall. When I jump back on, my foot slips and hits the brake. Portia, who is harnessed next to Enzo gives me a foul look. I think I could translate what she said into English, my brother says similar things to me when we are working in the sheep yards.
We arrive back safely at the dam wall. As we unharness, Enzo gives Tess a kiss. She wriggles her whole body in ecstasy. We retire to the camp fire to drink hot apple cider and eat chocolate chip cookies. Our French driver then herds us into the bus like he’s chasing a flock of geese. Mary refuses to be harried and waits for a thumb drive with photos of our adventure. She stares him down, on her face is a tight smile but her eyes are as cold as the barrels of a twin Vickers. He goes off muttering something foul in French. I think I could translate what he said into English, it was the same as what Portia said.
If I thought up hill was fast, going back down is worse. A French radio station blares bad classical music. One of the Aussies mutters, ‘It’s probably the crappy music making him grumpy.’ There are chuckles all round. Despite the rough ride, our girls fall asleep.
Lots of the Aussies go cross country skiing but we are too tired. We journey back up to Banff to soak in the thermal springs. It costs $7.00 a head. We have to shower first and then wade out into the pool. The water is warm, the view is lovely. Snow falls and ice lines the footpath. There is standing room only. The pool looks like it has been filled with a selection from every culture on earth. There is a strict no splashing rule. Within five minutes Josie’s laughter peels out across the valley. The pool police send us baleful looks. Within ten minutes, the girls have almost set off a small riot. We don’t wait to be asked to leave.
That night we meet up with all the other Aussie teachers for pizza and a few drinks. We find we have lots in common. Someone starts a chant, ‘ Ozi, Ozi, Ozi!’ It’s time to leave.
Cross Country Skiing
The following morning we type, 1988 Olympic Way, the address of the Nordic Cross Country Skiing Centre, into the bitch in the box. Apparently there is no such place. Mary types in Olympic Way. The bitch in the box throws up a spinning hour glass and then after a few minutes deliberation responds with, no such place. Mary types in Canmore Nordic. A petulant hour glass spins again and then reluctantly the bitch in the box reveals a map, with all the details: Canmore Nordic Centre, 1988 Olympic Way. Somewhere, some computer boffin is laughing fit to bust. I mutter something recently learned in French. Without further mishap we arrive for our lesson. Our instructor is a guy called Dan. He has missed his calling. Obviously, someone this positive, this kind and this informative should be a kindergarten teacher. He is awesome! Before we know it, we are ready. We sojourn to the cafeteria or concession or whatever the Canadians call their kiosks, for hot chocolate and sustenance. We remain unintimidated by photos of Olympians and news articles about champions adorning the walls.
We set off. Push slide. Push slide. Before long we have travelled at least 2 kilometers. The views are breathtaking, whenever we can see them through the falling snow and ubiquitous spruce. A five year old skates past me and I am overwhelmed by a sudden urge to whack him with my stocks. Thankfully, he is too fast. My spiteful lunge lands me in the snow. Til and Jose ride past, smiling in easy triumph. They have taken to cross country skiing like they were born to it.
When our Josie pulls up sore, with a blister because the inner sole of her boot is not set right, a volunteer park host, who is at least seventy, skates off to find a band aid. It seems everyone in the park is slim, fit, clear eyed and destined to live forever. There are more old people belting around here than at a Seekers revival rally. Maybe it’s the fresh air and exercise. Perhaps Britain didn’t drop nuclear bombs all over Canada. We wait ten minutes and our friendly park host comes back. There is something beautiful in the effortless way he glides across the snow. I smile gratefully and do not try and hit him with my stocks. With our injured child repaired, we set off again.
Eventually we return to the ski lodge and eat a late lunch. We bask by a fire and enjoy a strange sense of triumph. Some part of my soul yearns to learn how to do this properly. Lunch is soup and poutine. If you haven’t tried poutine, it is worth the trip to Canada on its own. Originating in Quebec, poutine is simply French fries, with melted cheese and gravy. For some reason it is strangely compelling and before we know it, we have wolfed the lot.
A sauna and a hot tub back at our hotel completes the day. In the hot tub we are surrounded by a group of rough neck builders talking about the sweet delights of the ‘saunas’ in Los Vegas. It just goes to show, you never can tell. My eldest offspring’s eyes are still a little wide later that night when we eat supper in a restaurant, called Sage Bistro and Wine Lounge. Mary orders trout and it is so good that any celebrity chef worth their salt would sell their soul for the recipe. I tried, but apparently mine wasn’t valuable enough.
Afterwards, we fall into oblivion. As we sleep, Biggles, Algy and Ginger roar across the sky performing victory rolls. Or the temperature has plummeted and the heating system is working over time. In the morning all the cars are covered deep in snow. Brushing powder off our car is not a chore. It is pure joy.
Cleansed, renewed, invigorated, and incredibly sore we make the drive back home. We detour into Calgary and visit Lammle’s Western Wear in 8th Avenue SW– which according to the bitch in the box doesn’t exist (it’s right alongside Diagon Alley). Inside, the shopkeepers, Michelle and Miss Patty, scale ladders stolen from Hogwarts. Each ladder reaches so high that I can’t help but think they should have a harness or at least a broomstick for safety. They descend with countless pairs of cowboy boots. Like magic the boots seem to choose us. While we try various combinations the ladies bombard us with celebrity names that have also shopped at their store. They are effusive, enthusiastic and efficient. Before long we have spent just over a cool $1000. But hey, we all get a brand new pair of you beaut Cuban heeled, boot scooters and Mary has this impossibly soft, deer skin coat. It makes her look just like Pocahontas. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get back home, back to the hunting grounds of the Blackfoot (the Niitsitapi). Back out on the prairies, where I can hear coyotes howl, and find out just how much a man can bare.
We set off. Push slide. Push slide. Before long we have travelled at least 2 kilometers. The views are breathtaking, whenever we can see them through the falling snow and ubiquitous spruce. A five year old skates past me and I am overwhelmed by a sudden urge to whack him with my stocks. Thankfully, he is too fast. My spiteful lunge lands me in the snow. Til and Jose ride past, smiling in easy triumph. They have taken to cross country skiing like they were born to it.
When our Josie pulls up sore, with a blister because the inner sole of her boot is not set right, a volunteer park host, who is at least seventy, skates off to find a band aid. It seems everyone in the park is slim, fit, clear eyed and destined to live forever. There are more old people belting around here than at a Seekers revival rally. Maybe it’s the fresh air and exercise. Perhaps Britain didn’t drop nuclear bombs all over Canada. We wait ten minutes and our friendly park host comes back. There is something beautiful in the effortless way he glides across the snow. I smile gratefully and do not try and hit him with my stocks. With our injured child repaired, we set off again.
Eventually we return to the ski lodge and eat a late lunch. We bask by a fire and enjoy a strange sense of triumph. Some part of my soul yearns to learn how to do this properly. Lunch is soup and poutine. If you haven’t tried poutine, it is worth the trip to Canada on its own. Originating in Quebec, poutine is simply French fries, with melted cheese and gravy. For some reason it is strangely compelling and before we know it, we have wolfed the lot.
A sauna and a hot tub back at our hotel completes the day. In the hot tub we are surrounded by a group of rough neck builders talking about the sweet delights of the ‘saunas’ in Los Vegas. It just goes to show, you never can tell. My eldest offspring’s eyes are still a little wide later that night when we eat supper in a restaurant, called Sage Bistro and Wine Lounge. Mary orders trout and it is so good that any celebrity chef worth their salt would sell their soul for the recipe. I tried, but apparently mine wasn’t valuable enough.
Afterwards, we fall into oblivion. As we sleep, Biggles, Algy and Ginger roar across the sky performing victory rolls. Or the temperature has plummeted and the heating system is working over time. In the morning all the cars are covered deep in snow. Brushing powder off our car is not a chore. It is pure joy.
Cleansed, renewed, invigorated, and incredibly sore we make the drive back home. We detour into Calgary and visit Lammle’s Western Wear in 8th Avenue SW– which according to the bitch in the box doesn’t exist (it’s right alongside Diagon Alley). Inside, the shopkeepers, Michelle and Miss Patty, scale ladders stolen from Hogwarts. Each ladder reaches so high that I can’t help but think they should have a harness or at least a broomstick for safety. They descend with countless pairs of cowboy boots. Like magic the boots seem to choose us. While we try various combinations the ladies bombard us with celebrity names that have also shopped at their store. They are effusive, enthusiastic and efficient. Before long we have spent just over a cool $1000. But hey, we all get a brand new pair of you beaut Cuban heeled, boot scooters and Mary has this impossibly soft, deer skin coat. It makes her look just like Pocahontas. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get back home, back to the hunting grounds of the Blackfoot (the Niitsitapi). Back out on the prairies, where I can hear coyotes howl, and find out just how much a man can bare.