My sister in Vancouver has just sent me pictures of her back
yard blanketed in snow; the picnic table where we celebrated
my birthday is hidden under a huge drift. A friend who lived
in Bali for 25 years emails photos of metre-high drifts around
her house on Saltspring Island and reports having no electricity
for four days. She seems to find this acceptable, even romantic.
Actually it so rarely snows in those parts that the event
is considered quite exotic. I remember when living in Vancouver
that a light dusting of snowflakes was enough to send the
office staff anxiously peering out the window and asking each
other, “Is it sticking?” If by chance an inch
or two should gather, a mass exodus would ensue as everyone
raced lemming-like to the parking garage to drive home before
the drifts could tower to ten centimetres. This behaviour
would be considered unbelievably effete in the rest of Canada,
where newborns are left in snow banks to harden them up and
people clear the snow from their driveways in swimsuits. But
Vancouver is also known as Lotus Land, and the lotus won’t
grow in the snow. Also, a large part of the population there
has migrated from warmer climes, so has no idea how to navigate
a large vehicle over a slippery surface. This makes that homeward
journey particularly fraught.
Winter -- you love it or hate it. Even when it doesn’t
snow for years on end, many Canadians will get into their
cars and travel hundreds of miles to find some. Apart from
the Pacific southwest, winter in much of Canada is just like
the pictures. The white stuff lies deep and the temperature
plunges far below zero. Everyone from toddlers to grannies
are out frolicking in the snowdrifts. A few thin-blooded souls
huddle near the radiator with their hands wrapped firmly around
a mug of hot cocoa. The rest of us have long since fled to
the tropics, where we view these snowy snapshots from the
comfort of our flower-shaded patios. As one of this subspecies,
I have nothing but admiration for the hardy majority of my
country men and women (and increasing numbers of tourists)
who expose themselves the elements armed with an array of
sports equipment bewildering to the uninitiated.
I tried to explain the snow-sport culture to Wayan recently.
She enjoyed looking at the pictures but couldn’t understand
why people would voluntarily expose themselves to the elements
when they could be sitting next to one of those crackling
log fires. I can’t either. It must be my Balinese blood.
The Canadian winter offers a wide selection of outdoor activities.
Most of them involve hurtling down mountains and glaciers
and across frozen ponds at breakneck speed. This offers the
enthusiast an opportunity to show off the latest fashion in
outerwear and sustain spectacular fractures, in no particular
order.
Those who live near the mountains are addicted to the exhilarating
speed of downhill skiing. Not content to share the slopes
with a crowd, the truly adventurous take helicopter tours
to reach the vast alpine snowfields inaccessible by chairlift.
This enables them to trigger dramatic avalanches as they race
down the mountainside.
Much of Canada is flat, but this is no deterrent to the cross-country
skier. Although the sport lacks the thrill of downhill skiing,
it offers a tranquil day in the countryside and the possibility
of becoming irrevocably lost in a remote forest.
In 1937, A Canadian attached a large box to a wide ski, powered
it with an engine and the Snowmobile was born. Snowmobile
racing became a popular sport, giving team members frequent
opportunities to run out of fuel in the wilderness and treat
one another for frostbite and exposure.
In pre-Snowmobiling days, a dogsled was one of the few methods
of getting around in the winter. This involved harnessing
a team of large, half-wild dogs to a sled and urging them
across the barren tundra by shouting, “Mush!”
at intervals. At day’s end, the heads of the ravenous
sled dogs would turn to their master anticipating dinner –
something warm-blooded by preference…
No dogs? Don’t despair, the adventurer can always resort
to snowshoes. These big, flat, webbed platforms theoretically
make it possible to walk on soft snow without sinking into
it. In reality, I have never known a novice who could negotiate
more than a few steps without floundering, and cannot recommend
this form of locomotion to the winter traveler who is being
pursued by a wolf.
Some people carve holes in the deep river ice and squat there
for hours over their fishing lines, risking hemorrhoids, frostbite
or a nasty combination of the two. Others pitch tents in several
feet of snow and camp out, snuggled blissfully into a down
sleeping bag with a smelly dog or two. It never ceases to
amaze me what some people will do for fun.
As you can see, I am a poor sport when the snow flies. Some
of my friends love winter and start polishing their skis long
before the first frost. There is no accounting for taste.
I commend them and wish them well in their perilous seasonal
amusements. In fact, I often think of them when January rolls
around and the Canadian days are short, dark and cold. I think
of them as I prune my fruit trees, pick a few flowers for
the house and turn on the ceiling fan when the morning grows
hot. Winter. They can have it.
