In which I live to tell the tale

The proverbial 'they' say that it's not the fall off of a tall building that's so bad, it's the landing that'll get you. In a similar vein, it's not the sleeping in a snow cave that's cold, it's getting out of bed in the morning.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's back up.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about going on a sleigh ride with some foreign exchange students. I mentioned something along the lines of the fact that they might possibly qualify as being more Canadian than I am, because they'd slept outside overnight, in a hole in the snow. Shortly after that, Dan from the Bulkley Valley Search And Rescue crew came in and kindly offered me a shovel and promised he'd tell me where to shove it.

It seems that the BVSAR was planning an excursion for members to take part in a winter survival exercise, part of the many exercises that members need to complete as part of their training. A handful of members would be doing their first solo overnight trip, building a shelter and a fire, and presumably not needing the professional services of their colleagues in the process. Dan invited me to join the crew, and promised to show me what I needed to know to survive a night rolled up in a sleeping bag in the snow. 

We met a few days beforehand to go over what I would need, and what could be loaned. Had the conditions been colder, my stove probably wouldn't have worked, and I would have needed to get my hands on a liquid fuel stove; I also didn't have a portable shovel, or my own snowshoes. It turns out that most of what I needed, though, I already have, thanks to a decade and a half of camping in Ontario. I just needed more layers of all of it, to keep myself from turning into a Jonsicle. 

And that's how, two weekends ago, I found myself slogging down a path at Dennis Lake in borrowed snowshoes, trying to keep up with a 6'2” German and a 6'3” Dutch teenager, carrying far too much gear on my back (and maybe a bit too much Plan B on my front) and wishing I'd actually picked up those collapsable ski poles I've been meaning to buy for a few months.

When we arrived at the end of the trail, a fire was already roaring, so introductions were made, and then I set out to dig myself a suitable trench that could be overlaid with dead branches and a tarp, then partially covered in snow. Of course, the problem encountered with any outdoor activity in winter is that when you start to exercise, you start to sweat; and when you stop, your sweat helps you freeze your butt off. The added enjoyment of outdoor sleeping is that you then get to sleep in your sweat, in the hole that you just dug that caused all that sweat to begin with. I'm not sure my brain is fully equipped to handle this level of irony and causality. 

By the time I was ready to unroll my sleeping bag and two Thermarests (Yes, two. I brought my better half's as well as my own – what, you think I wanted to risk any part of me coming into direct contact with the snow?), Dan had built his snow cave, moved in, supervised my construction, and dug a pretty big fire pit down to the ground through about a metre of snow. Just because I'm willing doesn't mean I have to be instantly able, does it?

From there, we joined a few others by the fire to cook supper, then traded tales of the wilds into the night – okay, it was mostly listening to tales on my part – before reaching the inevitable point where I would be required to actually get into a sleeping bag, and fall asleep in my cave. 

To my surprise, it was actually quite easy to get to sleep. In fact, I woke up a bit late, and incredibly refreshed. And I only used one pocket hand warmer in my sleeping bag, at my feet.

Then came the unavoidable truth – I was awake, and it was time to get out of bed. Thankfully, Dan had mentioned a quick tip the previous day: start up some hand warmers, drop them in your boots and cover them with a sock (so air can get in, but the heat doesn't all get out) and your footwear should be waiting for you, nice and toasty, upon your arrival in the waking world in the a.m. Genius, simple, and a most welcome piece of advice.

The fact is, though, this tip would have been much more helpful had my warmers actually activated and kept my boots warm. Unfortunately, they did not activate until later on during the drive back to town, while in my coat pocket.

Aside from that one insignificant little hiccup, though, the entire process was entirely painless, relatively uneventful, definitely anticlimactic and – despite the fact this opinion may label me as a bit unbalanced – quite enjoyable. In fact, I will probably try this again some time. And with a little luck, BVSAR won't have to be involved, either as host or rescuer.

So take that, European high school girls; now I'm almost as Canadian as you are.

Time lapse video of building a shelter

In which I post a quick note (so readers know whether to go look for a body)

Thanks to Dan from the Bulkley Valley Search and Rescue, who came in to offer to take me out winter camping. No, seriously, I actually appreciate the offer, which I fully plan to take advantage of.

Apparently Smithers is the sort of town where if you mention that you're jealous of high school girls sleeping in an ice cave, someone will offer to show you where and how to dig your own (ice cave, that is). I appreciate the opportunity as much as I appreciate learning that I need to be careful what I write in the future, since it's becoming clear that if I talk the talk, I will be asked to walk the walk.

The obvious plus, of course, is that if I screw up or get myself into trouble, I'll already be camping with the crew who volunteer to find people like me when we get in over our heads (sometimes literally). I see this as the equivalent to learning to juggle chainsaws in the hospital parking lot.

Short story shorter, if you see a frostbitten guy with ice in his beard, a camera around his neck and a dazed look in his eyes wandering around Hudson Bay Mountain next weekend, just point me to the nearest public house with a ready supply of Jameson.

In which I have strange meats (and eat them, too)

Try as I might, I can't get the word “innappropriate” out of my head. Normally, I hate the word “innappropriate” - I'm a bit of a believer in that things are either wrong, or they're not wrong. Sometimes, though, there's just no other word that properly describes a particular conundrum. 

In this case, I'm up against the wall, so to speak. As a writer that enjoys my own version of humour - and yes, I realize I'm often the only one that gets the joke - and the occasional pun and double entendre, I enjoy wordplay; as an employee of a newspaper in what seems to generally be a politically liberal but morally conservative town, I need to remember my audience, and keep my humour in check.

So, what to do when your subject is a dinner which included cougar, beaver and bear on the menu? Because I've been biting my tongue so hard you could just about add it to the menu of "food Jon has eaten for the first time in the last 2 weeks."

I guess it would probably just be best if I gave up on (probably offensive to the easily offended) jokes and moved on to the subject at hand – that being the fish and wild game banquet held at the Bulkley Valley Rod and Gun Club late last month. 

Anyone reading this site knows that I've been on a mission to experience as many distinctly northern activities as I can. What better way to do that than to check out a dinner featuring all sorts of tasty meat dishes, made up of the moving parts of the nature I moved here to enjoy?

I think the latest internet-spawned term for my regular diet classifies me as an opportunitarian – I'll eat what's available (and all those cougar and beaver jokes struggle to break free...). At home, that means mostly veggies and fish, and a few things as equally foreign to hunters as lynx was to me, like tofu, tvp and tempeh. During barbeque season, add sausage and subtract the soy products. At restaurants, I'll usually have something involving beef or pork, and I've been known to inflict serious damage on a serving of bacon. 

So if I'm going to a game dinner, of course I'm going to try it all. Plus seconds.

Generally I consider the origin and ingredients of my food to be the two most important factors of what I'm eating. Anything with chemicals I can't pronounce, I'll tend to avoid. I love to cook, so I'm more of a basic ingredient shopper anyway. Which is a roundabout way of saying, I don't have any dietary issues with wild game; in fact, I think it's probably quite a bit better for me than the occasional steak or pork chop that I'll eat when I'm at a restaurant. 

Besides, I've long been of the opinion - both before and after half a dozen years of vegetarianism - that if you can't face up to the reality of an animal being killed in order for you to eat, you probably shouldn't be eating that animal. Dining on caribou served to me by the dude that shot, cleaned and cooked it is only one small step away from doing the dirty work myself. Which is a roundabout way of saying, I think wild game is probably a more ethically sound food choice than, say, the average commercially raised side of beef, or farmed salmon.

But on to the pressing question - what does the tofu-eating guy think of dishes like venison lasagna, cougar with gravy, moose stew or a big slab of caribou? Without a doubt, moose, deer and caribou all make very tasty dishes, especially under the watchful eye of Larry Hartwell and his crew in the kitchen. As for the lynx, cougar and beaver, they were all a bit dry, even with the sauce. (My tongue is bleeding profusely from all the biting - I'll be lucky if I can say my name aloud, never mind recite a lewd joke by this time tomorrow).

Anyway, as it turns out, I enjoy eating wild animals. So maybe I will do okay with northern life, after all.

Who knows, in a few years, maybe I'll actually head out in the fall and fill up my freezer. All I have to do first is get a gun. And a license for it. And take a firearms safety course. And learn how to shoot a gun. And get a few weeks off work. And learn how to hunt. And where to hunt. Then there's that whole field dressing process...

Okay, on second thought, maybe I'll just keep going to the game dinner every year. 

In which I realize that experience is all relative, and s'mores are pretty great

Allow me to take a few paragraphs to ponder, yet again, on the differences between my previous home and my current one. I’m not sure if everyone cares for my views, but the more time I spend away from southern Ontario, the more I tend to chuckle about it.

For three days last week, the media in Toronto, my home for the last decade, could talk of nothing but impending doom. Visitors and tourists must have thought the end times were upon them, such was the noise the 24 hour news stations made about the approaching chaos.

The name of that chaos? Snow.

Or, more specifically, since clever news writers there insist on puns that would make an Interior News editor proud, Snowtorious B.I.G. Or Snowpocalypse ‘11. Actually, I’m not sure what the final verdict was on the official name for ‘the big storm’; since I don’t live there any more, I only really pay attention to what my family and friends post on Facebook. Whatever the final name was, the storm of the century (of 2011 – there seems to be a storm of the century on a yearly basis) spat out roughly 15 cm of snow. And that was Snowmageddon, apparently.

Today in Smithers, roughly 15 cm of snow fell over a 12 hour period. Half that amount again fell overnight. At the top of the mountain it was in the range of 35 cm or more.

We called it Sunday.

Of course, the problem with feeling superior is that everything is relative. A few weeks ago, I had the chance to take my first horse-drawn sleigh ride. The trip was arranged for a group of foreign exchange students from Smithers Secondary School, who were out for the purpose of having a truly Canadian experience. Sure, I’ve been on a few hay rides in the past, with aging nags dragging dilapidated frankentrailers, but this was the real deal – B & T Sleigh Rides have some gorgeous animals, pulling some painstakingly handcrafted sleighs. When the sleighs arrived at the fire pit, everybody started roasting hot dogs and making s’mores, and soaking up the general Canuck vibe. An unintended consequence of that trip was putting my inflated opinion of my own winter skills into perspective.

I started asking the exchange students, who came from several European countries as well as China, about their experiences in Canada so far. It’s almost like I’ve been racing to try all the same activities they’ve been taking part in.

Downhill skiing or snowboarding? Check.

Snowshoeing and cross-country skiing? Check.

Ice skating on a frozen lake? Check.

Camping out overnight in a frozen ice cave that you dug out yourself? Wait — pardon? Winter camping? In an ice cave?

There’s no reality check quite like discovering that a group of high school girls from other countries are more experienced in the bush than I am. Apparently I’ve still got quite a bit of work ahead of me if I’m going to make the transition from ex-city boy to northerner.

At least I can say I’ve made some killer s’mores in my time. That’s got to count for something, doesn’t it?

In which I discover that fresh powder is fun no matter what you're doing in it

I feel just a little bit guilty.

Technically speaking, I haven't done anything wrong; by most standards, I'm pretty sure I still end up on the 'actually cares about the planet' side of the scale. But after having gone on a snowmobile tour earlier this month – and loving pretty much every single moment of it – I have to admit that I'm feeling a bit conflicted.

For two years before moving here, I didn't own a car, and neither did my wife. We also rarely used public transit; instead, we rode our bikes almost everywhere we needed to go. Of course, we're realists; we knew there was no way we'd be able to live here without a car, at least if we hoped to enjoy all these mountains surrounding the town.

Still, we're fairly conscientious about our life making as little impact as possible. The majority of our food comes from inside the province; we both walk to work whenever possible; I even turn the water off in the shower while soaping up, despite the Town's assurances that we're never going to run out of good water here. So it goes without saying that I've always assumed (yes, making you know what out of u and me) that snowmobilers are all redneck types that don't care what sort of damage their machines are doing to the environment, or to the experience of that environment by other non-motorized users.

Before you start preparing your letter-to-the-editor diatribe, read on.

A few weeks ago, Dustin Harvey offered to take me out on a half-day snowmobile tour. Dustin moved to Smithers a while ago, with the intention of starting up a snowmobile tour company, which is exactly what he's done. He worked as a snowmobile guide for a few years, and wanted to move somewhere he could start up his own operation. A friend pointed him towards Smithers, and about two months ago, Harvey Mountain Tours officially started offering sled tours and rentals. Although tourism is not as huge as it could be in the Bulkley Valley, Dustin said he's looking forward to the future.

“I think we've definitely got a lot of potential. It's going to be good in the next few years,” he said. “I can do trips right into June on good snow.”

Dustin carving powder near Pine Creek.

 Since I've always been sort of against sleds (without really having researched anything for myself) I figured I might as well go along on a tour to see what it was like, and get a better idea what serious snowmobilers are all about. I asked Dustin what motivated him to make such an expensive pastime into his living. It strikes me as a business that's not likely to make anyone rich. Turns out, he likes hanging out in the wilderness too, he just gets there faster.

“I just like getting out into the backcountry, and the machines are really fun once you learn how to ride them,” he said.

Some of the areas he travels to are so remote they would take days or even weeks to reach by snowshoe or touring skis, which would actually be great if Canada adopted a European attitude about the number of paid vacation days; until we have a minimum of four weeks paid vacation, though, sometimes you have to take the fastest way up.

Although after our short conversation I was starting to suspect Dustin was actually a responsible adult, I still half hoped that the veneer would crack, and I'd be able to justify a few of my long-held stereotypes about sleds and the riders that love them. I sort of figured we might do a few shots of rye, then go chase down some moose in the backwoods before tearing up the side of a mountain, high-marking and causing an avalanche rescue. However, when we pulled over to radio up the forest service road to inform logging trucks we were on the road, the first crack appeared in my previous image of outlaw 'slednecks'.

Then we pulled off into a parking lot and I was instructed on the basics of how to use an avalanche beacon and probe. We both wore beacons and carried probes and shovels, along with the requisite helmets. Dustin also brought along a satellite phone, despite the relatively low avalanche warning for the area (and the fact that we wouldn't be going anywhere near the type of terrain where avalanches occur). Following that was a quick lesson on the machine – how to start it up, how to stop, the emergency kill switch, and of course, turn and stop signals.

“The industry is becoming more and more safety oriented,” Dustin mentioned partway through the saftey orientation.

Dustin showing proper carving technique.

Just when I feared we were being entirely too responsible, it was time to hit the trail. Here's where another stereotype I'd held was knocked back to reality – we would be riding on established snowmobile trails, the vast majority of which are actually forestry and mining service roads. So I guess sledders don't go running around in the bush wherever they feel like it during the summer clearcutting their own trails after all. And speaking of clearcutting, when it came time to play around in the powder, Dustin said he can find some in clearcut areas, avoiding open mountain meadows.

“I can still find some powder in some of the unplanted cut blocks, so we can still have some fun in the deep powder,” he said.

So, away we went, along an out of service forestry road near Pine Creek. I switched on the hand warmers, hit the gas, and...holy crap, this thing can go!

After almost tossing myself off the back, I eased back into it. After a few minutes I sort of had the hang of driving in a relatively straight line. This was way harder than I thought it was going to be. Not only did it require a bit of skill, it was also hard work. Who knew? (I mean aside from a pretty large portion of the Interior News reading audience, that is).

View from the driver's seat. I took about two dozen of these photos to get one in focus.

 

Dustin stopped every few hundred metres to wait for me to catch up. I asked him at one point if he got tired of waiting for me to catch up. He assured me I was actually doing really well for a first-timer, although I suspect he may have been humouring me. He said he really does enjoy showing new people the ropes, which is probably a good thing considering that's been most of his market so far. His first full tour was a group of four beginners.

“They had a great time. I was trying to teach them how to carve in the powder, and one of them was starting to get the hang of it,” he said.

Unlike yours truly. At the first real bit of 'terrain' – what seemed in the deep snow like a creek crossing – I got my machine stuck pointing 45° into the air, and managed to toss myself off the side of the sled in the process, landing in powder up to my stomach.

But I have to tell you, even after later getting stuck in a ditch for half a kilometre – it took almost a dozen tries to pop over the edge and back onto the main trail – it was still fun.

Which brings me back to the conflicted feeling I mentioned earlier. Because despite claims that sleds are up to 90% quieter than they were a quarter century ago, they still make a lot of noise in the backcountry, particularly if you're not the person driving one. The mostly two stroke engines still spew out more pollution than they could. And despite the growing number of safe, responsible riders, there are still a few idiots out there getting drunk and crashing into things at high speed.

But – and this is a big, capital 'B' But – they're so...much...fun.

I'm not about to run out a buy a 2011 machine, a trailer, a helmet and a gas can. But once or twice a year, riding a machine for an afternoon isn't going to make things much worse than they already are. The very existence of 7.5 billion humans is a threat to the planet, so in the name of a good time, I think I might just have to make an occasional exception. I think snowmobiles might just have to be one of those 'everything in moderation' things for me.

Me managing to turn a corner at relatively low speed. Photo by Dustin Harvey.