Week of March 6, 2008, Issue #646
SNOW ZONE
Rockin’ the mountains with machines and dogsled teams
Valemount
CHRISTOPHER THRALL / christopher@vueweekly.com
‘You brought boots, right?” Curtis Pawliuk asked uncertainly. I glanced at my ankle-high, brushed leather footwear. My shoes were ideal for navigating icy Edmonton parking lots. However, the amused look from the 28-year-old General Manager of the Valemount Area Recreation Development Association (VARDA—valemount.org/varda/) told me what he thought of them for alpine sledding.
“Your first step off the sled will be into four feet of snow,” he explained. That could be a problem. We were sitting in the Canoe Restaurant in Valemount on the eve of the Family Day long weekend. As I savoured an excellent chicken souvlaki, Pawliuk explained what to expect from mountain snowmobiling. He suggested that I bring clothing, blanket, matches, a first aid kit and food so I could spend the night up there if necessary. I would be strapped to an avalanche beacon which would, in the worst case scenario, enable them to locate my corpse. What the hell was I doing?
I was comforted by the fact that I was going up with two “snow hosts.” Both Curtis and his partner, Duane Smith, are certified by the Canadian Avalanche Association and trained in outdoor recreation at the college in Valemount. They are employed to maintain the trails and cabins in VARDA’s three snowmobiling areas, welcome visitors and come to the rescue of clueless urban guys who rent a machine and head straight up the nearest slope. They also help to protect the mountain caribou habitat around Valemount.
With plans to meet before 8 am the next morning, I finished Canoe’s delightful Monte Cristo coffee mounded with whipped cream. The warm, boozy liquid courage helped me make my way back to the Valemount Best Western. (“Do I have to pay extra for a mountain view?” “Sir, every window in Valemount has a mountain view.”) I spent a little time in the hotel’s fire-lit, two-storey sitting area, ignoring a flat-screen TV as I chatted with a couple of guys from Drayton Valley. I excused myself early and retired to my comfy suite which overlooked the neighbouring, snow-covered marshland.
In the morning, our first stop was to beat the rush to Alpine Country Rentals (alpinecountryrentals.com) for my sled, trailer, helmet and beacon. So dazzling was Jana Skerlak’s smile that I barely blinked when she ran a $2500 pre-authorization on my credit card to cover any damage to the 800cc snowmobile. Less comfortably, I also signed waivers releasing them of any liability whatsoever for anything at all.
Forty-five minutes and a mechanical inspection later, we stopped elsewhere to pick up a $55 pair of insulated rubber boots. Our final stop was at P&V’s Convenience Store, where we loaded up with lunch: a mini pepperoni pizza, water, juice, coffee and a small stack of oatmeal cookies. We were finally ready to hit the mountain!
We unloaded at the trailhead for the Clemina Creek area. The parking lot was crammed with trucks, trailers and noisy two-stroke snowmobiles. I could taste the high-octane fuel and excitement in the air. Pawliuk briefed me on trail etiquette, hand signals and the beacon. I checked my backpack for food, clothes, shovel and probe, then we mounted our sleds. A quick pull on the cord, thumb down on the throttle and my sled’s thick rubber cleats bit into the snow. I was off!
Within the first five minutes, Pawliuk stopped to help someone get their sled out of a snow bank. I slowly got familiar with the snowmobile, and especially the upright stance. You don’t sit on an alpine sled. The sensation of 80 kilometres per hour pressed on every part of my body and I was acutely aware that I was literally hanging on by my fingertips (to the comfortably heated handles, no less).
The 17 km groomed trail was already starting to mogul under the heavy traffic, but we saw few other sledders—the mountain’s area was vast enough to swallow them all. We met a number of people up at the cabin, however, where we stopped to enjoy my tasty P&V pizza, warmed on the woodstove. We met Pawliuk’s partner there, and together they took me up another four km into the Goat Ridge Bowl.
I learned to stand back a little on the running board, loosen my knees over the moguls and goose the engine through turns in order to keep traction. Since the sled always wanted to drift down slope, Pawliuk and Smith taught me to transition from side to side like a trick rider on a horse. It was a challenge to hang my ass off the sled while still working the throttle, but it was exhilarating.
I watched the two of them pull tight donuts, cutting through the deep powder as though they were on Sea-Doos, and then challenge each other to set the highest mark up slopes that you couldn’t have paid me to ski down. Between runs, they reminisced about jumping 40 feet off cornices in their spare time. Maybe it was the altitude, but I was nodding along with their insane stories and wishing I could join them.
We came down much slower than we went up, in deference to my aching fingers and wobbly knees. I found myself unable to hold my standing pose for long and ended up bouncing on my butt over the series of moguls on the groomed trail. I felt exhausted, gloriously happy and completely unprepared for the regret I felt as I watched Pawliuk unload my sled at Alpine Rentals. I had put only 62 km on that black beauty, spent only $25 in fuel at P&V to refill the half-tank I burned, but that sled had become part of me during my five hours up on the mountain.
I bid farewell to Pawliuk and hobbled back into the Best Western. I took the time to sample the roast lamb in an undeniably excellent musaka on the Summit Restaurant’s Mediterranean Buffet, followed by an enormous wedge of light, fluffy cheesecake under a blackberry Sambuca coulis. I knocked back an Apple Spritzer and then took a long, hot bath before I passed out in my room.
I woke up in a world of pain. I packed stiffly, checked out stiffly, and drove the 20 minutes to the Cold Fire Creek Dogsledding (dogsleddinginjasper.com) trailhead. As long as I kept moving, I was fine. Amanda Sinclair was already hooking up her team: I signed another waiver absolving any liability and then I listened to a short lesson on driving a dog sled. The dogs—white, tan, brown, black and red—were getting more and more excited as they sensed it was nearing time to go. Their barking echoed through the trees.
Within minutes, I was strapped into the cocoon of a dogsled, staring at the asses of eight Alaskan Huskies as they pulled the sled in sudden silence. Anyone, of any age or physical ability, could ride along in one of these. It only took slightly more ability to steer the sled.
“Hike!” Sinclair called to start them up, and “Whoa,” with pressure on the metal brake behind the sled intended to stop them. There was also a rubber mat, called a “drag”, which simply slowed down the sled if you found yourself nipping at the team’s heels.
Along with a couple from Britain and another from South Carolina, I was on the Moonshiners of Whiskey Creek tour, a three-hour, 18 km run up the groomed trail and back, through the exquisite stillness of a winter morning in the mountains. Sinclair and I were in the lead sled with eight dogs, followed by two teams of six dogs: the rest of her 83 were back at home.
“My parents should have let me have a dog when I was a kid,” Sinclair said wryly. She has been working with them for 15 years now, starting with sprint teams and moving to dogsled tours 10 years ago. Now she runs at least one tour every day from the end of November to the beginning of April, seeing over 1500 people per year. She spends her summers breeding, training and caring for her dogs.
I was starting to get chilly, sliding over the snow on my butt in the cocoon, so Sinclair shared the sled with me. We stood, side by side on a runner each, and helped the dogs pull uphill with wide, sweeping motions of our legs. She pointed out frozen waterfalls and identified animal tracks as we passed by at a steady 10 km per hour.
We pulled into the fire pit area and the dogs settled down for a rest. I chopped some kindling as the two couples raved about the experience. Our tour included a lunch stop with lean, delicious Mennonite sausage cooked over an open fire, hot apple cider and baked goods from Amanda’s kitchen. The dogs became more and more excited as we finished our break—at the end of the trail was chicken tallow in broth, and they couldn’t wait.
I took a turn steering solo, leaning into the turns and otherwise following the lead of these smart, strong dogs. They knew what they were doing without any intervention from some city boy. The chill breeze blew past my face and I watched the dogs snatch mouthfuls of snow on the run.
I took a deep breath of satisfaction—with dog sledding, with alpine sledding and with Valemount in general. I wasn’t looking forward to stiffening up over the five-hour drive back to Edmonton, let alone the two days of agony in my 100 per cent urban body. However, I will be back to try on my rural side again. Next time, I’ll bring the boots. V
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