rssMy friend John and I ski 50 days a year in Banff, and, frankly, it has made us terrible snobs. I guess whisper-light powder and postcard views in every direction will do that. So I was having a little trouble convincing him to accompany me on a late-March ski safari to Peace River country. “Surely, Johnny, you’ve always dreamed about schussing the Clear Hills of northwestern Alberta,” I enticed. “And what about fabled Misery Mountain? Or the great alpine tradition to be discovered in, um, Grande Prairie?”
OK, my enticing needs work. But clearly John was like a lot of Albertans: a snow chauvinist who believes that skiing demands towering mountains to be legitimate. “Don’t forget Jennifer Heil,” I pleaded. “She’s the reigning Olympic champion in freestyle mogul skiing, but she forged those skills at Edmonton Ski Club’s Connors Hill – otherwise known as the natural amphitheatre for the Edmonton Folk Music Festival. Sure, there’s only 60 metres of vertical, but I have it on good authority that those are 60 metres of raw excitement.”
Nothing I said seemed to tempt him. I would have to appeal to the core values of the skier deep within. “What if I buy the gas and beer?”
“Let’s roll,” he said in a heartbeat. And so, the next morning, we threw our boards up on the rack and struck out at dawn as usual. But this time we pointed the ski wagon in an altogether unprecedented direction: due north.
It is a long, disturbingly flat road from Calgary to Peace River. John was understandably worried about whether there would indeed be a there there, but I wasn’t. And as a recovering big-mountain elitist myself, I know exactly when my attitude changed. It was the previous season when a big Canadian ski magazine, SBC Skier, assigned me to write about my inaugural eastern ski experience. I wound up driving from Ottawa to Halifax and back, hitting 11 resorts in 10 days – most of which I’d never heard of before and would ordinarily have turned up my nose at, even if I had heard of them. But, lo and behold, this jaded westerner had a blast. I learned that what small, locals-only resorts lack in raw vertical, they more than make up for in soul.
And if Nova Scotia has decent ski resorts, surely Alberta has plenty more. Where once I had been only dimly aware that family friendly hills are scattered from the Cypress Hills to the Badlands, from Fort McMurray to Red Deer, I was suddenly acutely aware that the province contains alpine facsimiles galore – just begging to be experienced. And what better place to start than Misery Mountain Ski Area, on the left bank of the mighty Peace River in the town of the same name. Mighty indeed: I had no idea Alberta contained rivers this immense. Nor had I realized that by virtue of having a T-bar within town limits – something even Banff can’t boast – Peace River is an honest-to-goodness ski town.
It was late afternoon when we finally pulled into the parking lot, just in time to see a speckling of lights twinkle to life across the not-inconsiderable slopes. To be honest, nothing spoke of misery. It looked like a hundred other club-owned community ski areas across this country, though perhaps with a slightly larger base lodge – probably built by volunteers – in the time-honoured chalet-meets-ranch-house style. Which is to say, it looked fabulous.
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Inside, we met snow school director Jackie Lee, busily unpacking commemorative T-shirts for the Slush Cup two days hence – the local take on that ubiquitous finale to the Canadian ski season in which the courageous and foolhardy fling themselves (or, more often, not quite) across a pit filled with ice water. But we were already familiar with that stuff. What we wanted to know about was the name. “What’s up with the Misery?” I asked. “I don’t want to offend, but maybe you guys need a new PR adviser.”
“No way,” Lee laughed. “Actually, it’s the historic name. In the old days, ranchers called this Misery Mountain because they had such a hard time driving their herds up and over it in the spring. Well, the name stuck.”
Of course. Now it’s merely good old-fashioned irony. I could tell that the minute we hooked onto the world’s one and only Misery T-bar. “This, my friend, is old school,” I told John. “We’re turning back the clock to a simpler time.” Even he had to agree there’s something noble about riding an elderly yet respectable surface tow. Unlike namby-pamby chairlifts, you have to swerve through the lumps and ruts, keeping your legs limber for the run ahead. The air stays fresher, the blood gets pumping. You hit the summit and you’re ready to rock.
And rock is only a slight overstatement. Misery Mountain’s vertical rise is about 160 metres, making it a third as tall as my hometown hill, Canada Olympic Park. It delivered, however, at least double the fun. Having snowed on and off earlier that day, the surface was deliciously carvable. There may be only a short pitch of what you could call a steep slope, but the natural landform makes for a series of humps and hollows where John and I leapfrogged along sinuous pistes, weaving back and forth through aspen glades.
“I’ll give it a ‘B’ for roller-coaster effect,” John announced breathlessly, high praise from him, “and ‘A+’ for crowds.” True; other than 40 or 50 mostly kids roaming the hill in zippy little packs, we had the place to ourselves. And as night deepened, low clouds reflected an orange glow from the town’s sodium-vapour street lamps, lending an eerie beauty to the session. Some misery: we happily skied until last lift.
The next day we were back on the road headed for the tiny hamlet of Worsley, near the B.C. border in the province’s northwest, where the highways peter out and farmland meets boreal forest. The town itself – population 130 – appears to consist largely of ATCO trailers, indicating oil activity in the area. I never knew roughnecks spent their off-time on skis, but we couldn’t think of any other way to explain how this remote place would have such a worthy ski hill.
And Whispering Pines turns out to be one of the coolest little ski areas you’ll ever experience. With slightly less vertical lift than Peace River, it is nevertheless much more of a mountain than Misery’s riverbank. Here, the rounded Clear Hills resemble the less craggy parts of British Columbia. Which is fitting, since in an unusual reversal, Whispering Pines happens to be an Alberta ski facility that draws many of its patrons from B.C., principally the nearby cities of Fort St. John and Dawson Creek.
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Inside, manager Lily Peters was acting as girl Friday, doing everything from arranging rentals – including items like goggles – to selling lift tickets. Talk about old school. Adult daily tickets here are just $20; family season passes $300. In the cafeteria, a hot dog goes for $1.50 and a homemade cinnamon bun with cream cheese for a mere $1.75. “I’ll bet Lily bakes these, too,” said John, wolfing a couple of them down. “We need her up at Sunshine Village.”
The real treat, however, is on the hill itself. We had had the familiar skier’s experience of sensing a light snowfall get heavier as we approached the mountain, yet we weren’t actually climbing in elevation. Whispering Pines, it turns out, is some sort of snow magnet. No artificial snow guns here, just a fresh blanket of 15 centimetres covering a metre-plus snowpack. “Powder morning!” I yelped, and it wasn’t long before we discovered a hidden side run that featured an undulating slope of boot-deep goodness, virtually untouched. “It’s a mini Monashee!” exclaimed John, referencing the legendary mountains in the B.C. snowbelt.
Thus, we spent the entire morning, carving fresh tracks in one of the most unanticipated powder days I’ve ever experienced. Other than a few savvy snowboarders who followed our lead, we had this, too, all to ourselves. Granted, most of the other sliders, many wearing jeans or snowmobile suits, were a tad less than expert. But I couldn’t help crowing. “Guess what, Johnny – we’re the hottest skiers out here. Try going to Whistler and making that claim.”
Back in the lodge, notices on the bulletin board revealed plans for the ski club to buy a used chairlift for the upcoming season, replacing one of the two existing T-bars. Supporters could buy an individual chair and also get their names emblazoned on wooden plaques hung from the lodge ceiling. “Buddy,” I asked John, “what say we buy in? Come back this summer and build a log cabin, make this our home mountain?”
“Oh, it’s tempting,” he replied, clearly getting into the spirit of things. “But at the rate things are going, maybe we should hold off until we check out Grande Prairie.”
The best skier I have ever ridden with is Robin Bauer, a former prodigy on the national race scene who was once scant tenths of a second away from joining the White Circus. When I asked him, years ago, on which mountain he developed those skills, he said, “Nitehawk.” When I failed to register, he continued, “Um, it’s not exactly a mountain. It’s in Grande Prairie.”
I sort of understand why he was humble. But now that I’ve been to Nitehawk Recreation Area, another escarpment-style slope, above the Wapiti River, I also understand why he is such a talented ripper. “I guess we do love our skiing,” said Duane Stevenson, Nitehawk’s manager, as he took us out for a tour. What an understatement.
If, ski-wise, Whispering Pines is Siberia, then Nitehawk is Austria. Its race and freestyle programs are as solid as anyone’s. Indeed, Grande Prairie has no less than two aerialists on the Canadian Freestyle Ski Association national team: Ryan Blais and Cord Spero. “There’s our summer water-ramp jumping facility,” said Stevenson, pointing to our left as we careened down one of Nitehawk’s half-dozen superbly groomed, north-facing runs. “And over there,” he gestured to the right, “is Canada’s top naturbahn, or natural track luge run [see also “No Artificial Additives,” Up Front, page 16]. We had the best sliders in the world here last year. We’ll see if our guy, Johnny Luge, is around somewhere. You can have a go.”
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Fortunately, perhaps, Mr. Luge wasn’t on hand; the skiing offered all the thrills we needed. Once again the snow quality was bizarrely wonderful (and here it was the last day of the season). And Nitehawk was about to host its own Slush Cup that afternoon, though on such a perfect, blue-sky day as this, it seemed a shame to shut things down. There was still no sheet ice anywhere, nor bare patches; just perfectly shreddable rollers on every run. So we spent all morning lapping the Bauer triple chair – named for my pal Robin’s father, Jerry, one of many volunteers who were instrumental in modernizing the club-owned facilities back in the 1980s.
At some point in the day, we noticed a huge jump under the chair and workers putting final touches on it. “Is there going to be a Big-Air competition today?” asked John. “Actually, no,” said Stevenson, “just a slush jump. The big one is for our special guest: Eddie the Eagle. He’s here to kick off the final stretch for Grande Prairie hosting the Arctic Winter Games in 2010.”
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Wow. “See, what did I tell you?” I gloated to John. “Perfect snow! Hot sun! International superstars! That’s what I’m talking about.” What’s more, the locals began showing up in droves. By 12:15 we had our first bikini sighting, then, at one o’clock sharp, 44-year-old Eddie Edwards, the myopic pride of Calgary ’88, barrelled down toward the jump and launched clear over a diesel snowcat, sticking the landing with his characteristic awkward aplomb.
“Give it up for Eddie the Eagle, everyone!” shouted a PA announcer, perched alongside a 12-metre-long trough of freezing brown water and a rapidly accumulating crowd. “Now, who wants to get wet?”
With that the real festivities began. Organizers fired up the barbies and set out the bar with Jell-O shooters. And before long, one rider after another, of all ages and skills, plummeted down Nitehawk’s marquee run and into the freezing pit.
Some bailed. Most flailed. Eddie got into a dry suit for the stunt but wound up skimming across the pond with ease, much to his surprise. But the smoothest had to be the snowboarder dressed as a penguin, holding a drink in one hand, who popped stylishly out the far end and never spilled a drop. Then, three bearded locals, obviously not skiers, jumped into a canoe and pointed at the jump. Miraculously, the trio hit it head-on and managed to actually land upright, though the landing did bend the canoe like a taco.
And so it went all afternoon. People came back for two or three more tries. Some started jumping for height and style, or a spectacular splash. And still, nobody drowned. Johnny was categorical: “I’ve been to a lot of these deals, but I’ve never seen people have this much fun at one.”
The final act involved a sofa with skis bolted to the bottom, piloted by about eight screaming instructors from the Nitehawk ski school. “I’ve got a good feeling about this,” said the PA man dryly as the rickety contraption picked up crazy speed on the in-run. But they too hit the jump square-on and made a dramatic splashdown. These people have skills, obviously.
“See you all next season!” one burly, soaking wet instructor shouted, clambering out of the frozen goo.
“Why not,” John said as we lined up for one more chairlift. “But it’ll be my turn to buy gas.”
Can’t make it to the small slopes this winter, but you’ll be in the Rockies? Check out AMA’s member-only prices on mountain ski tickets. 1-866-667-4777; amatravel.ca/ski
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The Steeps
It’s no secret that Canadians take their skiing seriously, though this can mean mountains overrun with snowbound enthusiasts. Luckily, Alberta boasts several lesser-known yet Alps-worthy ski villages that feature endless hectares of the white stuff — without the congestion.
• Nestled deep within an evergreen fantasyland at Cypress Hills Interprovincial Park, Hidden Valley Ski Resort boasts enough backcountry pursuits to keep the whole family entertained: ski and snowboard trails stretching up to two km, Kids Camps for peewees, snowshoeing and a half-pipe for freestylers. Want more? The nearby town of Elkwater has cross-country skiing, ice fishing and cosy cafés for that hot cocoa fix. http://www.skihiddenvalley.net
• Serious ski enthusiasts are likely already familiar with the self-proclaimed “best non-mountain recreation area in Alberta” — Fort McMurray’s Vista Ridge. Home to the Fort McMurray Ski Club, the 14-hectare winter playground also runs a comprehensive Snow School with lessons that cater to powderhounds of all age groups and skill levels. Après-ski: check out the main lodge’s postcard-worthy views of the Clearwater River Valley. http://www.vistaridge.ab.ca
• Truly a community-oriented ski club, Edmonton’s Snow Valley welcomes adventurers for far more than just a day on the slopes. The not-for-profit organization works closely with fundraising groups, such as Big Brothers/Big Sisters and the Special Olympics Ski Team, to ensure that everyone gets their mountain thrills, which include tubing, snowboarding and alpine, cross-country and telemark skiing. http://www.snowvalley.ab.ca
