Snowshoes, a stripper pole and reconnection with our Canadian souls

I admit it, we’ve been running from winter the last three years. Denying our essential Canadianness… Canadianity? But snowshoes, a gorgeous sunny day and a stripper pole led us back to our frosty roots.

On an overcast day in Osoyoos, B.C., where we’ve spent this winter and last, we drove up the switchback Anarchist Mountain road and broke through the clouds into a sunny day that led us all the way to Mt. Baldy Ski Resort. We rented snowshoes and poles, picked up a map, and set out to find the resort’s snowshoe trails.

After one false start, we found the right access point and set off, stopping at the first turn to study the map more closely. That’s when we discovered that a stripper pole could be on our route if we so chose. A stripper pole? On the side of a snow-covered mountain? We all know what happens when warm body parts touch freezing metal, and I shuddered to think of tender bits stuck in the cold. Intrigued, we headed in that direction.   

As we dipped down a ravine and then climbed the trail along a ridge into the trees, I contemplated why I was suddenly enjoying myself in the snow, when we’ve tried so hard to avoid the cold stuff. From January to March 2020, we were in Costa Rica, Panama, and Argentina, before Covid sent us home and plunged us back into the cold.

We spent last winter, 2020-to-2021, in Osoyoos since it’s the warmest place in Canada to spend the colder months. We heard of one gentleman who lived in Penticton – an hour north of Osoyoos – but retired here because the weather was so much better. Last year, we cycled through the winter for the first time ever because there was hardly any snow; the town received maybe six inches and it melted right away.

This winter, however, has been awful. Granted, it’s an unusual weather year for poor B.C. We didn’t get on our bikes once in December and January. Snowfall after snowfall dumped upon us and, with cold temperatures, the white stuff has stuck around. We were knocked down a peg or two in our glee to have found the best spot for a Canadian winter.

I would argue that enjoying winter sports is important to being Canadian – a least if you’re going to be a happy Canadian. Most of my life, I’ve downhill skied and loved it. Skating, tobogganing, building snow forts and snowmen helped those cold, dark winter months pass more quickly when I was little and then when our kids were little. But the kids eventually left home and my knees called a halt to moguls and Rideau Canal skating. Soon we were left with shovelling snow; most Canadians would understand that that thrill wore off decades ago.

The trail traversed a steep hillside for the last 200 metres to the stripper pole, taunting us up ahead. By the time we arrived, I was hot and sweaty, so peeled off my mitts and jacket, which was… somehow appropriate.

We laughed as we examined the wooden signpost draped with bras in the D-cup range, some of them rather expensive looking to abandon to their wintry fate. Judging by the trampled snow around it, it’s a popular destination.

We found a spot to sit and eat our apples and energy bars. It struck me that I was having fun in the snow, even in B.C. where we’d come to outrun it. Perhaps an essential element of being Canadian is finally acknowledging you can’t outrun winter, at least within Canada.

Canadian identity is, of course, much more complex than enjoying winter, maple syrup, and hockey (Yay, women’s Olympic gold-medal team!). Beavers, moose, mountains and Mounties, multiculturalism, two Annes (Murray and Green Gables), two Gords (Downie and Lightfoot), tolerance, one of the most-free countries in the world, politeness, poutine, and Indigenous technology such as canoes and snowshoes all have parts to play. But most stereotypes have a kernel of truth at their core, and I think enjoying winter might be one of them.

Since it was my birthday, we ended our snowshoeing jaunt by driving 60 kilometres out of our way to Greenwood for lattes and butter tarts, that sweet Canadian food invention. We aimed for the wonderful Copper Eagle Cappuccino and Bakery, where we’ve sampled the treats before. Sadly, it was closed, but we found butter tarts that were nearly as good at the Deadwood Junction café down the street.

My aha experience near the stripper pole led me to rethink our earlier winter treks in December when we had visited our daughter Rachel in Canmore. If you’re going to give yourself completely to winter, then Canmore and the Bow Valley in Alberta are the places to do it.

The morning after we arrived, we realized we’d returned to the Rachel Davies Boot Camp for Retired Parents. We roused ourselves at 6:30 a.m. to catch a ride with Rachel to the Norquay Ski Resort where she works as the ski patrol dispatcher. We waited in the lodge until the sun had risen and then donned the snowshoes that Rachel had borrowed for us from a friend.

While Rachel worked, we set off through a veritable winter wonderland along the Stoney Lookout Trail. Fresh fluffy snow draped the spruce and fir trees ever so fetchingly, looking like a post card. It was so gorgeous I almost expected a camera crew to emerge from behind a tree to sprinkle more fake snow about. The well-trodden trail was as wide as two modern snowshoes, with scuffs along the edges where poles had helped people along. We added to the signatures.

Rachel had said the mitten-shaped trail was steep at first and then leveled off, but we found that was not the case – it was steep most of the way, giving us a good workout. (It turned out Rachel had hiked only one section of it.) We stopped many times to “admire the view” i.e. catch our breath, and listen to the sounds of silence. The snow muffled most sounds, but not completely. Apart from our ragged breathing, we could hear tree branches rubbing together, our poles squeaking in the snow, the odd bird calling.

We saw bear claw marks on a tree. Several piles of wolf scat sat in the middle of the trail; it had to have been deposited that morning, since no snow covered it and it had snowed overnight. I glanced around into the heavy woods, but no yellow eyes stared back. Old-man’s beard – a long droopy lichen hanging in swaths from branches – swayed gently.

We reached the first lookout, but by then it had started gently snowing and we couldn’t see much of Sulphur Mountain. Same for the second lookout. Cascade Mountain was hazy, with hints of its cliffs, avalanche runs, rock faces and gullies.

Thin trees laden with snow arced gracefully over the trail. I stopped under one, thinking about our daughter Liz’s impending nuptials.

“This looks like a wedding arbour,” I said, whereupon Bill reached up a pole and knocked the snow off onto my head. “Nice.”

A few minutes later, he said: “If you had to do it all over again, would you marry me?” Apparently, I took too long to say “Yes!” but that was just a joke, of course.

After eating our lunch back at the lodge, we declined Rachel’s suggestion of tackling another snowshoe trail. Instead, we hung out in the bar all afternoon, reading and nursing our cider and beer, waiting for Rachel to finish work. I wandered around the near-empty lounge looking at old photos on the walls. Norquay is the oldest of the three ski resorts near Banff, the other two being Sunshine and Lake Louise.

My parents had visited Norquay on their honeymoon in July 1957 and taken the chairlift to the top, just for the view. That’s when my mom discovered my dad was afraid of heights. He had gripped the metal bars on that chairlift as he broke into a cold sweat. Unbelievably, that same chairlift is still in use at Norquay! “The North American or ‘Big Chair’ has been providing riders with views high above the Bow Valley since 1948, making it one of the oldest chairs in North America,” said Norquay’s website.

On another day, when Rachel was off work, we drove the Bow Valley Parkway to Johnston Canyon, named for a fortune-seeking prospector who stumbled upon it in the 1880s. We strapped studded rubber ice cleats onto our hiking boots for a ramble along the stunning canyon.

Waterfalls run down the narrow canyon walls, frozen in dozens of different sizes and configurations of gorgeous icicles. Glacial blue ice shone through. Snow stuck to sheer limestone walls in waves and other patterns carved by wind. Parts of the river were frozen but open water burbled through rapids. Lacy hoarfrost edged the pools.

Much of the trail was along metal walkways attached to the canyon walls like balconies, so our views of the canyon, river and falls were right up close, rather than from a trail along the rim.

It took about half an hour to hike the 1.1 kilometres to Lower Falls, where we waited in a Covid-friendly line to enter a natural tunnel that led to a lookout over the falls. As we waited, Rachel taught me the “snow dance” to keep warm. Standing facing each other, you tap toes and heels, inside and outside feet in a basic pattern that you keep repeating. I did well for a few rounds and then messed up. The little girl in front of us looked on with interest so Rachel taught it to her, and then she and her mother did it. Perhaps that little girl will love winter more because of the snow dance.

Another half hour got us to Upper Falls, where we watched ice climbers making their way up long tentacles of layered icicles. My palms broke into a sweat and my legs quivered just watching them and knowing that Rachel engages in this sport. She rolled her eyes when I made her promise to stay safe.

On the return hike, Rachel took a small tarp from her backpack and we used it to toboggan down some steep sections of the trail. I felt like a kid again, free to enjoy this winter wonderland without thinking about shoveling or driving through it.

We continued along the Bow Valley Parkway (which had been the main highway until the parallel Trans-Canada Highway was built) to a bridge with, Rachel promised, a wonderful vantage point to see the setting sun reflected on Castle Mountain. She was right. The mountain glowed in shades of gold, honey and amber. Frozen bubbles and lacy patterns surrounded the rocks at the Bow River’s edge. How could anyone become blasé about living amongst such beauty? It lifts the spirits and stirs the soul everywhere you look.

We stayed an extra day in Canmore since the snowy weather wasn’t conducive to driving, but it was perfect for cross-country skiing. Along with Rachel’s roommate, Amie, we rented equipment in Banff and headed to the Cascade Trail by Lake Minnewanka. Bill and I had not been cross-country skiing since before our now-32-year-old son Tom was born. Amie had never been before, leaving Rachel as the resident expert since she had been three times.

Rachel gave us a refresher lesson, showing us how to stop by lifting one ski out of the track and into a snowplow position. Approximately one minute into our adventure, I tried it and promptly fell backwards, landing with my tailbone on the edge of my ski. Wow. I almost felt like crying, it hurt so badly. But once the immediate pain subsided, Bill helped me get up and I carried on.

By the end of our two-hour jaunt through the fairy-tale-pretty woods, I was fairly good at the gliding, keeping my weight centred. But when we had to descend any slopes, I reverted to my downhill skiing skills and employed a full-on snowplow position – no more keeping one ski in the track!

However, as soon as I sat in the car, I realized I was more injured than I’d thought. My tushy was oh-so-tender.

The next day, we violated all our “driving in B.C.” principles and took to the road anyhow to get to Tom’s place in Kelowna for Christmas. Falling snow made visibility bad and the roads were coated with slippery chunks of snow. We ended up staying overnight in Golden, B.C. because the Trans-Canada Highway was closed for avalanche blasting. And I was in pain the whole way. I sat on an improvised donut of jackets and fleeces, with a cold pack in the middle against my tailbone. At that point, I disliked winter again.

This winter’s experiences led me to think more about snow, ice, cold and short days and how that relates to my Canadian identity. My conclusion: I have mixed feelings. Scraping windshields, driving through storms, and shovelling the aftermath is just not fun. But on gorgeous sunny days when I’m snowshoeing or hiking, and there are winter wonderlands with stripper poles or frozen waterfalls to see, I embrace my wintry heritage. Either way, I know now that I can’t outrun winter within Canada.

In mid-February, we saw the tender shoots of crocuses and snowdrops poking tentatively through in a south-facing Osoyoos garden. If there were any stands of maple trees here, I’d say it was good weather for the sap to run – up to 10 degrees Celsius in the day, but below zero at night. Like any good Canadian, no matter how much I may like or dislike winter, I’m looking forward to spring.

We went snowshoeing at Mt. Baldy in February 2022 and enjoyed winter sports in Canmore in December 2021. Find out where we are right now by visiting our ‘Where’s Kathryn?’ page.