LET IT SNOW!

Winter in Canada; there’s nothing like it. Although it does come around each year with some regularity, it always amazes me that it seems to be an annual surprise to so many. The first snowfall inevitably leads to careening cars and multiple crashes on our roads, as if people are experiencing these conditions for the first time.

Canadians have a history of helping each other out in times of bad weather. We push stranger’s cars out of snowbanks, shovel neighbour’s walkways and offer shelter when the electricity inevitably fails.

I grew up in a small town near Montreal and well remember the Storm Of The Century in March 1971, when we got pounded with 43 cm (17 in) of snow in one day. It was the largest single-day snowfall on record in the Montreal area up to that point; conditions were so bad that for the first time in history the Montreal Canadiens actually cancelled a hockey game!

That winter we went on to receive 380 cm (152 in) of snow and I recall walking along the streets in my hometown, unable to see the houses for the snowbanks. It made for a terrific winter of sledding, and we even spent some time jumping off the roof of our house – which to be fair wasn’t much higher than the snow.

I happened to be back home this past December when we broke that single-day record. Between 45-50 cm fell on December 27th, which made me very happy that I had traveled there on the 25th. Of course as I was leaving the province a few days later I still saw cars driving into ditches and sliding into poles, as if totally oblivious to the poor road conditions.

Coincidentally (and now I’m beginning to suspect I may somehow be to blame) I was also in Quebec for the holidays just before the Great Ice Storm of 1998 walloped that province, Eastern Ontario and New Brunswick. Thankfully I had the great good fortune of leaving town on that fateful morning of January 4th, and missed being stranded there by a mere few hours. That storm eventually required calling in the army, making it the largest deployment of Canadian military personnel since the Korean War.

Yes, that’s right. Toronto is not the only place in Canada, or even the first, that ever called in the army to help out in cases of extreme weather, although one wouldn’t know that by the mockery it has had to endure ever since the storm of 2000.

I must confess that I have lived in Toronto for many years, so I got to enjoy first-hand our very own “Snow-mageddon” when this city was pummeled by 80 cm. Yes, 80 cm of snow...almost twice the amount of Montreal’s largest single-day snowfall in history. Traditionally not a city that has had much experience with such large storms, Toronto had less snow clearing equipment, and budgets a good deal smaller, than some other Canadian locations.

The city came to a standstill. The limited equipment (which had been loaned to Quebec two years earlier when that province needed help) just wasn’t up to the task. Closing down the economic engine of our country for any length of time could have been a financial disaster, so the mayor made a difficult decision.

Granted, that particular mayor was a bit of a buffoon (hmmm – I’m sensing a pattern with Toronto mayors) but as someone who lived through the experience I still believe it was the right thing to do. A paramedic friend of mine told me at the time that if it had not been for the army vehicles helping ambulances move through the clogged streets, several of his patients would have died before reaching a hospital. I imagine those folks, and their relatives, never regretted the mayor’s decision.

Coming from Quebec I understand that many Canadians need to dislike Toronto. In fact before I moved here I had assumed Montreal and Toronto had some sort of bitter, long-standing rivalry. Or so The Montreal Gazette always led me to believe.

Imagine my surprise to find that this rivalry is entirely one-sided. In my 30 years here I have yet to meet one Toronto native who doesn’t speak excitedly about taking a weekend trip to Montreal, visiting Vancouver or traveling our eastern coast.

So to the Quebec driver who, as I was pushing his car from the snowbank into which he had inexplicably driven, asked where I was from. I responded, “Toronto,” and he laughed, “Have you called in the army lately?”

I trust he’s still in that snowbank.

www.randyvancourt.com

THREE MEN AND A CANYON

I find myself standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon at 7:30 AM, sunrise casting unbelievably stunning colors along its surface. I feel like I’ve already accomplished my goal of hiking the Canyon. Well, everything except the hiking part.

My brother Scott, our friend Rob and I drove into Grand Canyon National Park last night under cover of darkness, and I can now see that the road meanders directly along the ledge of the Canyon. Thankfully we made it to our South Rim lodge without realizing we were only two meters away from certain catastrophe.

Staying at one of the Canyon’s lodges allows you this early morning light show. We’ve all just rolled out of bed and come to the edge to gaze into the abyss; this sure beats a cup of coffee for getting the heart pounding.

Rob spent some years working for the National Park Service, and lived at the bottom of the Canyon doing scientific research. He knows the trails well and his continual sense of wonder is contagious. He tells a great story about getting swept up in the Colorado River during a seasonal monsoon and making a daring escape that involved throwing ropes across the rushing water. This is the kind of guy you want by your side as you first step onto the Bright Angel Trail and stare straight down into the 2 km (6,860 ft) expanse. Too be fair, that’s at its deepest point. We’re only about 1.5 km here; I could survive that fall, right?

My sense of adventure quickly turns into stomach-churning panic at the realization that there are no safety barriers of any kind protecting hikers from plunging straight down into the gorge. Granted the path is fairly wide and feels safe enough, other than when tourist-toting mules pass by, at which point hikers are expected to plaster themselves flat against the Canyon wall.

Perhaps climbing Mount Everest is easier; at least you don’t have to spend half your time avoiding the mules’ calling cards. I’m still feeling a little shaky when I notice a group of schoolchildren cheerfully hike right past us, so my trepidation seems a little misplaced. Now I just have to deal with my shame at being shown up by kids.

Hiking here is down to a fine science; posters everywhere advise how many liters of water and what amount of food to carry. Other posters tell the horrible story of hikers who ignored this advice and never made it out alive, including one woman who’d run the Boston Marathon. As I am no marathon runner, we take the advice and carry enough supplies that we probably won’t need to be Air Evac’d out.

We’re here in cooler weather; spring and autumn are wonderful times to visit the Canyon. The average temperature is far lower than during the summer when it can reach 40°C (104°F), therefore hiking is more endurable.

Some of the path is exposed to direct sunlight, and that can become debilitating during the hotter months. However at this time of year there is the double danger of icy patches, plus a sun that sets in what seems like 60 seconds flat.

We’re hiking in fleece sweaters and leather jackets; it’s so cool here than one park employee informs us, “You boys don’t know how to dress for the cold.” We proudly reply that we’re Canadian – this is July weather to us. I consider asking if they have an outdoor pool.

The blazing colors of the Canyon constantly change as the sun passes overhead. I’ve never seen such breathtaking scenery anywhere. We stop every few minutes to take photos and videos, and as we hike deeper my fear subsides...a little. We begin staging funny shots; laughter in the face of imminent peril. Plus we begin to write insulting little songs about the “Mule People.”

Rob is an excellent guide, pointing out various rock formations and buttes along the way. He tells us surreal stories about living in the Canyon and battling scorpions that got into his boots. Whenever I begin to feel tired, I see the schoolchildren in the distance and they inspire me. I realize it’s not a competition…but I’ll be darned if I’m turning back before them.

We have decided to do a day hike of about 30 km (18.5 miles), which allows us to return to our lodge by sundown. As the sun sinks in the sky the temperature plummets, it’s easy to understand why so many hikers get in trouble here. You can experience heat-induced dehydration and hypothermia, all within one day.

The evening is spent exchanging stories with other hikers and a park employee. It’s amazing how quickly every conversation returns to the tale of yet another hiker who had to be rescued. Not surprising, as over 250 people have to be pulled out of the Canyon each year. Since the 1870s there have been over 600 deaths at the Canyon; accidents, suicides, even an airplane collision in 1956.

Then the employee tells us the most fascinating tidbit yet. He claims that during the last Bush administration, park employees were advised not to discuss the age of the Canyon with tourists; suggesting it was any older than 5,000 years was not allowed, so they discouraged any discussion at all. This seems to fly in the face of the accepted 5-6 million year estimate, or the 2008 study that suggested 17 million years.

We turn in early as we have another hike planned for tomorrow. As I lie there in the total darkness and dead quiet, I contemplate this information. I suppose in the long run the Grand Canyon’s true age isn’t really important. It’s still our elder and it’s wise to show it respect. Plus I make a mental note to shake the scorpions out of my boots in the morning.

www.randyvancourt.com