Grays On Trays

There are many ways of enjoying the snow–snowboarding (of course), cross-country skiing, downhill skiing, snowshoeing, dog-mushing and riding in one-horse open sleighs, tubing, engaging in a snowball fight or two, and … dancing on skis.

In March of 2007, I spent a few days at the Mount Washington Resort, in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire. The adjacent ski area grooms the snow a lot and the terrain is fairly mellow, making it suitable for ski dancing, which vaguely resembles figure skating. During at least one (and perhaps several) days there, I saw four or five couples ski dancing. The video gives you an idea of what I saw.

Yesterday I mentioned attending a meeting of ski clubs and learning about nordic walking. If that seems too tame, consider something else I learned about: snowkiting. Think of wakeboarding, but powered by the wind rather than a boat motor.

What a contrast! Nordic walking versus snowkiting. “Anyone can do that” versus “Ooh, that looks dangerous.” Something that maximizes the control that you have over your movement versus an activity that depends on something as unpredictable as the wind. Something that guarantees you’ll always have one foot on the ground versus an activity in which some people can purposely jump into the air and float for a while, suspended by a kite. (Snowboarding contains but is more than throwing yourself off a jump or spinning in a halfpipfe. Snowkiting contains but is more than jumping into the air.)

There was no presentation at the meeting on snowkiting. I learned about it when I across one of the younger people in the room (I’m guessing he was no younger than 42) who was talking with someone else about it.

I’ve long wondered how you pass the winter in the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Kansas. Though snowkiters (who use snowboards or skis) can and do take to the mountains, I’m guessing that adding a kite works pretty well for flatlands, giving you the chance to slide on the snow without having either lifts to ride up terrain or drops to ride down.

The following sites look like good introductions to the subject:

Lakawa — a Minnesota-based community of people who go kitesurfing in the summer and snowkiting in the winter. (Why not “surfkiting” and “snowkiting?” I don’t know; I’m just following their usage.)

Snowkiting is beginning to take off, Boston Globe. “Although snowkiters can achieve speeds of more than 60 miles per hour and heights above 40 feet, the sport does not necessarily have to be pushed to extreme level.” The article mentions also some cultural issues facing a rapidly growing yet still new sport, and important differences between using kites on open water and on frozen water or land. (There are more than the obvious differences.)

Mackiteboarding says that “Flow or other easy entry bindings are a plus, but don’t feel that you need to invest a fortune in new gear.”

Bestkiteboarding points out the versatility of snowkiting: You can do it “in the mountains, uphill or downhill, even on flat snow packed land or frozen lakes.”

From what I’ve read on the subject, it’s useful to know how to ski or snowboard before you start snowkiting. The most challenging part of learning, however, isn’t dealing with skis or a board, but in handling the kite.

If you plan to go cross-country skiing but leave your skis behind, does that mean that you’re nordic walking?

Last night I went to a beginning-of-the-season meeting of the Midwest Sport/Ski Council, a collection of ski clubs. The purpose of the meeting seemed to be to introduce members and prospective club members of upcoming group trips, and give people the chance to socialize.

The biggest block of time was given over to a fellow (I’ve forgotten his name, so I’ll call him Sven) who gave us an introduction to “nordic walking.”

To recount a few items Sven mentioned, which I shared from my Twitter account,

• Nordic walking started in Europe, and is extremely popular there;
• It’s a whole-body workout, using 90 percent of your muscle groups;
• Digging the poles in the ground as you walk provides some upper-body workout;
• Nordic walking can be enjoyed on snow, dry pavement, and even ice;
• It’s best done with poles uniquely designed for the task; downhill poles are too heavy, and trekking poles aren’t as good, either. For some reason which I forget, cross-country skis aren’t good either.
• Unless you’re going downhill, you don’t put the poles in front of you as you walk; you put them behind you. With the pole strap keeping the pole attached to your body, you can release the pole as you reach back further than you could were you to put a death grip on the pole. This in turn promotes a greater extension and a greater workout.
• It’s great for people with orthopedic problems; the military is using nordic walking in the physical rehab of wounded soldiers.

I have to admit that I was skeptical when Sven talked about his great experiences having a nordic walking coach. A coach? For walking? What’s next–a coach for sitting down for dinner?

As I think of it now, there’s more to the biomechanics of it all than I understand, and I suppose it’s possible that there really are ways to make your movements more efficient that take some time to pick up.

But at the end of the evening, I still thought “What does this do that cross-country skiing doesn’t?”

Here are some possibilities I came up with: It might open up some terrain that might not be suitable for skiing. Sven says he lives in downtown Minneapolis. He can walk the city sidewalks with his poles, but he can’t take out XC skis there. And unlike XC skis, you can use nordic poles during the summer as well as the winter. Just use a different set of interchangeable tips.

For some people, nordic walking is good because skis are just too slippery. With nordic skiing, you can get a good trip with the right pair of shoes. Sven swears also by Yak Traks, which are like tire studs for your shoes, for walking on ice. (I know from experience that snowboard boots don’t always provide a sure footing on ice!)

Finally, nordic walking can provide good training for cross-country skiing, but for some people, it becomes the primary winter activity.

There’s more to the subject than I know at this point, but if it interests you as an activity, one place to get more information is SkiWalking.com. It’s not Sven’s site (in fact, it touts a different brand than the one he backs), but it appears to be a useful site on the subject.

(This is one of several posts about my non-snowboarding activities while at the NASJA national convention in Lutsen, Minnesota, held in 2009.)

In the afternoon after my morning on a dog sled, I took a more modern form of transportation, the snowmobile.

It wasn’t my first time on a snowmobile, but it was my first time in decades. I had wondered if things had changed a lot since then. They had, and they hadn’t.

Six convention-goers, arriving in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere, were greeted by representatives of various snowmobile companies, who had arranged for us to sample rides from the major manufacturers, two of which have their main facilities in the state.

The reps also had boxes of riding gear on hand, in particular, gloves and helmets. My gloves were thick enough for the temperature. But I wondered if I needed some sort of special snowmobiling gloves to dampen the vibration. (I’m used to wearing special gloves when riding what are popularly known as “jet skis.” They help dampen the vibration that my hands feel from holding onto the throttle.)

The rep said no, my regular gloves were just fine. But he did look through a pile of cardboard boxes to find a suitable helmet. I asked for the largest size available, but it ended up being not quite big enough. During our ride, the helmet pressed on my forehead so strongly as to leave an indentation that lasted for a couple days. I didn’t feel any pain, except when we came to a stop, at which point I squeezed on both sides of the helmet to try to relieve the pressure. (Taking off the helmet entirely was out of the question; it had taken quite a bit of work to get it over my head.)

This being 21st-century America, one of the first orders of business was to sign several liability waivers. I don’t know the number of people who die or are injured on snowmobiles each year, but mishaps (many self-inflicted due to excessive speed or consumption of alcohol) do occur.

Once everyone was equipped, we got a briefing on proper use of hand signals, the features of the various sleds, and other topics. I was impressed that the machines have brakes (I’m so used to driving personal watercraft, which don’t). Some have built-in hand and seat warmers, the better to provide a comfortable riding experience–and presumably, encourage repeat sales.

I rode a Polaris, and held the third position in our convoy. My goal, simply, was to keep up with the sled in front of me and not slow everyone down. The ride was a bit rough. The snow was hard, which caused some side-to-side chatter (yaw) during my ride.

I’m still playing around with statistics related to snowmobile ownership. Here’s another stat:

States with the least room for snowmobiles
1. New Hampshire
2. Michigan
3. Wisconsin
4. Vermont
5. Minnesota

According to this ranking, snowmobiling is more “dense” in New Hampshire than in any other state. That is, it puts a large number of snowmobiles in a relatively small space.

If you adjust for population density, the most “intense” snowmobile states are:
1. Massachusetts
2. New York
3. Michigan
4. New Hampshire
5. Wisconsin

I’m not sure if this last ranking makes any sense, but there you are. It’s fair to say that there’s a very strong interest in snowmobiling in New Hampshire and Michigan, with a few other states lagging behind.

More Comparisons
Comparing specific states can lead to some interesting questions. In the following comparisons, the first number for a state is its population; the second is the number of snowmobiles registered with the state.

Minnesota; 5.2 million, 240,000
Wisconsin: 5.6 million, 220,000
Colorado: 4.9 million, 34,042

These states have roughly the same number of people, but Colorado lags far behind in snowmobile ownership. Why?

The obvious answer is: The skiing is so much better there than in the flat Midwest! Everyone’s going skiing in Colorado.

But then let’s do another comparison.

Colorado: 4.9 million, 34,042
Utah: 2.8 million, 30,781

Idaho: 1.5 million, 48,413
Montana: 0.9 million, 36,757

Snowmobiling is much more popular in Idaho and Montana than in Colorado and Utah.

Why?

My first thought was “well, you have great skiing in Colorado and Utah.” Why would you go on a snowmobile when you can ski or snowboard?” But Idaho is no slouch in the ski area business; neither is Montana.

Perhaps skiing and snowboarding are less attractive in Montana and Idaho because it’s colder there? The cold would affect snowmobiling as well.

I’ve already written about my morning on the second day of the NASJA convention, when I tried my hand at mushing a dog sled team. (For the record, I didn’t say “mush!”)

In the afternoon I opted for an activity that was more familiar, and which required less effort on my part: snowmobiling.

I will have some comments on the short expedition lately, but for now, here are some interesting facts about snowmobiling in the U.S.

Which state has the most number of registered snowmobiles?
No, it’s not Alaska, though that’s not a bad guess. It’s Michigan, with 350,000 sleds registered for use. I’m guessing that’s due in part to the motorized culture of the state, its large population, and its status as a relatively wealthy state. The presence of lake effect snow helps out a lot, too.

Other states surpassing the 100,000 mark are Minnesota (240,000), Wisconsin (220,000) and New York (128,000).

In which states is the snowmobile culture more common?
A good way to measure that is to compare the number of registered snowmobiles to the size of the population. And that’s where Alaska comes out on top. There is one snowmobile for every 12 people. That’s not surprising. The state has a small population, is rural and sparsely populated (making the snowmobile a form of transportation, not just recreation), and it’s covered with snow for a good part of the year.

The next four states are Maine, Vermont, Minnesota, and New Hampshire. Michigan, while holding the top spot for number of snowmobiles, is only ninth in per-capital ownership. I was surprised that Wisconsin ranks a bit lower (6th) than Minnesota (4th).

I’m not sure how important Manchester is to the New Hampshire population, but I suspect that Minnesota is the top “urban” state in the country. Roughly 60 percent of the state’s population lives in the seven-county metropolitan area anchored by the cities of Saint Paul and Minneapolis.

(Source of statistics: U.S. Census Bureau and Snowmobile.org)

During my previous two trips to the NASJA national convention, I skipped the optional, off-the-mountain activities. I expected that I wouldn’t be returning to the particular venues (Crested Butte and three New Hampshire resorts) anytime soon, and I preferred to experience as much of the mountain as possible.

But when the group of ski/snowboard writers and photographers decided to hold this year’s meeting in Lutsen, Minnesota, I knew that I had to try some of the optional activities. After all, I’ve been snowboarding at Lutsen Mountains already, so I’m familiar with the four mountains and what they offer. I can also return, rather easily, to the area, for snowboarding.

But how likely is it that I will take in ice climbing, skiing down a river, or commanding my own team of sled dogs? Not very likely. I’d prefer some hand-holding to do those things–get someone else to handle the details. The convention was a good opportunity to get that help. All I would have to do is show up at the bus at the right time.

So I visited a dog-mushing operation. The funny thing is, I’m not a dog person. Not at all. (For one thing, I’m allergic to some breeds. It’s in the hair.) But dog mushing is a winter sport that takes place in the snow, and the organization is called North American SNOWSPORTS Journalists Association, so I thought it was worth a try.

IT’S NOT ABOUT ME …
Six of us (three journalists, three PR officials) visited Arleigh Jorgenson, whose web site, appropriately enough, is DogMushing.com. We were there to talk about dog mushing, and perhaps drive some sleds.

At first, I wasn’t sure whether I would be the captain or the cargo in a sled. Jorgenson and his crew were ready to take three sleds of journalists on a loop, with crew members driving additional sleds. Three of the convention-goers ended up driving their own sleds, a fourth rode as a passenger with a guide, snapping hundreds of photos, and two stayed behind at the camp, talking with Jorgenson about the world of mushing.

But before we took off on our 45-minute trip, we stood in the dog compound, talking about some preliminaries. It was obvious that Jorgenson loves his dogs and what he does. “It’s not about me,” he told us. He focused our attention on the dogs. You could see them, and their kennels, for quite a distance.

Each of us had our own instructor. Mine introduced me to both the sled and the dogs. The sleds are about 8 foot long and about 3 feet wide. They have a bar, about waist high, that you hold onto. There are also two stubby platforms, about the width of ski, on the left and right side of the sled, just behind the bar. These platforms raise you a few inches off the ground, and they’re what you stand on, unless you’re standing on the brake.

(You can seen an idealized version of a sled, from behind, here.)

There are two brakes on the sled. One is a small piece of rubber matting. Put a foot (or two) on it, and you slow down the sled. The other brake is a spring-loaded metal bar, with spikes that stick into the ground. Step on that bar and you’ll bring the dogs to a stop in no time.

… IT’S ABOUT THE DOGS
After learning about the sled, my instructor retrieved the dogs for my team, introducing them to me one dog at a time. I had two lead dogs and three trailing ones. The leaders were tethered together, side by side. The rest were tethered, end-to-end, until one last line ran to the front of the sled.

The instructor, a woman who has probably guided many customers on extended trips into the wilderness, showed me how each dog is harnessed. Part of the harness goes over the dog’s head, and other portions go over each of the dog’s front legs. She then invited me to place the harness on the lead dog. I was a bit leery, since remembering how to fold the harness over itself requires some spatial reasoning, which is not my strong suit.

But there was one part of the exercise that was familiar. “This feels like dressing a toddler,” I said.

“It is a lot like dressing a child,” she said.

To emphasize that point, she harnessed up another dog, telling the dog “foot” before lifting up its left front paw. She then harnessed up the rest of the dogs. Other employees were doing the same for the other two journalists.

Here is, by the way, a dog from my sled, waiting for the rest of his team.

One thing that surprises many people about mushing is that the dogs are fairly small, roughly 35 pounds. But to borrow a cliche from boxing, they are pound for pound, among the strongest dogs out there.

They’re also pretty loud, though I found the noise wasn’t as loud as I was led to believe. The short video clip below gives you an idea.

Before we started, one of the guides told us the commands for turning left and right as well as for stopping. He also demonstrated the typical starting command. When he did, all the dogs within hearing distance started barking. They were ready to run!

I never did use any of the commands. I knew that I would get the commands for left and right confused, and I relied on the professionals in the convoy to get us all going.

AND THEY’RE OFF

Soon enough, we were ready to ride. I had been told to ride the brake for two to three minutes until we left the staging area. I rode it for ten, I would guess.

My primary concern, throughout most of the ride, was to HOLD ON! I was driven by three fears: one, that I would look foolish if I lost control; two, that the dogs would somehow end up in South Dakota if I let go; and three, that I would get hurt by being propelled into a tree.

I had brought my helmet in the van with me, thinking I might use it later in the day for a different expedition. I opted to leave it in the van. “After all,” I thought, “who wears a helmet for a dogsled ride?”

It didn’t take long before I wished that I had it with me. Though we were going no faster than 8 miles an hour, the hardpacked snow and the fairly close trees (within 10 feet of our path) made it feel more like 20.

The trees came into view most often when we made turns, of which there were many. It took me a while to learn how to deal with them. At first I tried braking, but sometimes I would mistime it, causing the sled to brush a tree at slow speed.

Then I had a more dramatic encounter with a tree. It felt as if the sled — and more importantly I — was destined to crash into a tree on the right side of the trail. My fear of the dogs heading to South Dakota notwithstanding, I let go of the sled and tumbled a few feet toward the tree.

“Great,” I thought. “I’ve snowboarded on double black diamonds in Colorado and I’m going to die of head injuries from a dogsled ride.”

OK, I didn’t think it through that much, but it was definitely an “Oh Sh*t!” moment. I came out of it fine, thoug
h perhaps chagrined that I had not handled the situation better. The dogs stopped soon enough, and waited for me to get back on the sled.

It was my most spectacular crash of the morning, though not my only one. Another time I hit a bump and was thrown off the back of the sled. The guide behind me offered some tips, and (after a third incident) seemed slightly annoyed that I wasn’t doing better. “Go get your dogs!,” he implored after they and I had separated.

Throughout the trip I dodged branches from the close-in trees. Thankfully they were small branches. Still, it would have been nice to have a helmet with me–perhaps one with a full face mask.

In time, I got better at driving the dogs, or as a guide might say, being part of the team. For example, I started using my weight (shifting it around) as much as the brakes to control the sled as it went around turns. I even let the dogs run full-throttle at times, though sometimes I had to help them out by pushing off one foot as we went up small hills. That’s no knock on the dogs, mind you. After one crash the guide said “Do you think you have too much power?” I told him yes, and he took away one of my dogs and put it with his team. I’ll admit it: Five dogs was too many for me. I finished the loop with only four dogs, which Jorgenson’s site says is what is typically suitable for … children. Oh well. We’re all children when we learn something the first time.

WHAT A WORKOUT
One thing that surprised me about the outing was how much a workout it was. My hands were sweating so much (and not only from fear) that I ended up ditching my gloves and putting them inside the passenger compartment of the sled. At various points in the trip I thought “I’m not going to be able to finish this,” but I kept on.

If I had to pick an analogy between what I experienced mushing and another sport, I’d compare it to water skiing. A powerful force pulls you forward, you want to hang on, and you need to know how to handle the turns properly. And you should be prepared to have sore arms for three days afterward.

There is also some similarity with skiing and to a lesser extent, snowboarding. Keeping your knees flexed is important: Ride with your legs ramrod straight, and any little bump will throw you off.

There’s also (or at least there was in my case) constant shifting of your weight from one foot to the other, with one foot higher off the ground than the other. In skiing, it’s the changing terrain that causes this; in mushing, it’s the braking.

If you’re on downhill skis and your legs aren’t in great condition, you may find yourself starting turns simply to relieve the cramps in the downhill leg. It felt something like that on the dogsled, as I kept rebalancing my weight: Left foot on the brake. Right foot on the brake. Both feet on the brake. No feet on the brake.

As with skiing or snowboarding, the quality of the snow makes a difference. I suspect that having fluffy snow underfoot during my ride would have made me feel more in control. It would also have meant not dealing with frozen, rutted snow along the side of the dog trail. The ruts were almost as unnerving as the trees.

THE VERDICT
I’m glad that I tried it. I don’t know that I will try again. Perhaps. Mushing isn’t, like snowboarding, a mass market sport. Buy boots, boards, and bindings, and the casual snowboarder will be set for at least two seasons. Put the equipment in the car, drive to the hill, ride, go back home and put it away.

Dogs, on the other hand, require constant maintenance.

It’s hard to compare expenses, but consider that a half-day experience of driving your own team will set you back $220, which gets your halfway or more towards a season pass at some ski areas. To be fair, you have to factor in the cost of snowboarding gear, so the comparison is inexact. Still, the price of mushing can add up.

Still, if you’re an outdoors enthusiast, and especially a winter sports enthusiast, you should take a team of dogs out, with a guide, if you have the opportunity. It will give you a chance to test your endurance, work on your balancing skills, look at winter in a new way, and appreciate the energy of dogs who were born to run.

How much overlap is there between surfing and snowboarding?

Not much, if you believe an unsigned article in the Delaware Coast Press:

Surfers hone wave-riding skills in sidewalk surfing
May 3, 2006

I sometimes hear novices or beginners say that they want to learn to surf and they relate their skateboard and snowboard experience as somehow being relevant to a quick learning experience. Well, let me tell you something. It’s not. Snowboarding and skateboarding are similar, but they aren’t really similar to surfing.

Take for instance, the turn. Seeing a snowboarder do a big carve or a skateboarder bomb a hill, you may see turns that are reminiscent of surfing. But really, they are accomplishing completely different things. Snowboarding and downhill skateboarding turns are designed to control your speed. You’re actually trying to slow down and carving is the most fun way of doing it. In surfing, however, turning is the means of generating speed, especially if you’re riding a three finned board. But even riding single fins you are turning to return to the source of power. If you take off and head straight off on a board you will quickly run out of speed and fall off. Not so on a snowboard or skateboard. So it is imperative that you are constantly turning to stay in the curl to keep up your speed.

During the summer I’m going to revisit the world of snowboarding–at least on this blog–on an occasional basis. So let’s kick things off by mentioning a summertime activity, sailing.

The comparison came to me when I was cruising on my board at Vail. I was on a trail with the friendly snow: not powder, not groomed, not ice, but a nicely firm surface that was suitable for simply playing around. Mixing it up. Going fast. Going slow.

I glided almost effortlessly from one side of the trail to the other. Sometimes I stayed in the middle to spin in a circle as I continued the descent. At other times I “bombed it” for a short distance. But mostly, I took what the terrain gave me, gently riding up and down the small undulations of the trail.

The experience reminded me of sailing at its best. Both are best enjoyed on a sunny day. Both are best enjoyed when both are at shade that invigorates but is hard to describe. In both snowboarding and sailing, the blue is contrasted with white: the snow on the mountain, and the wake on the sea.

In both situations, the sportsman uses his skill and knowledge, an engineered product, the laws of physics, water, and an ever-changing natural environment to bring about physical, emotional, and even spiritual pleasure. In both situations, human will, shaped by “givens” of nature, whether they are wind and wave conditions, or snow conditions and the shape of the terrain.

Now, it may be that I’m overstating the comparison, but I’m not sure. While I have been a passenger on some sailboats, I’ve never been the captain. I’ve watched, and done as told. One day’s effort at windsurfing left me exhausted, and the opportunity for a repeat has never presented itself.

Speaking of variations of sailing, I have also gone parasailing. Twice. One trip took me 250 feet over the Gulf coast, near Tampa. A second took me 500 feet over Green Bay, off the Door County peninsula. Both events involved some of the elements I have mentioned above: blue skies, water, being shaped by the natural elements.

Yet there was one missing element: lack of control. Stand up on the boat, let the parachute fill with air, and go along for the ride. In snowboarding or in sailing, I had the choice of how to change my direction. On the parasail, I hung on for life and dared not make any changes. It was more of a passive experience. So I would give extra praise for snowboarding.

Over a Christmas visit with family, I went ice skating. It gave me a better appreciation for snowboarding.

I haven’t been on ice skates in roughly 30 years, though I was on roller skates about 25 years ago. So it was a difficult, and scary event to head out on the ice. After all, sometimes when I am on skis or a snowboard, I come across some ice mixed with the snow. But by definition, a skating rink is nothing but ice.

And you thought that falling on hardpacked snow was painful.

Actually, I didn’t fall on the ice rink. Not once. Since I was not wearing my impact shorts, falling was not an option. As a result of my fear-based way of doing things, I probably didn’t skate with the greatest form. But I did manage to cover the rink both clockwise and counter-clockwise. I even managed to pull off some foot-over-foot turns. It wasn’t the slickest of moves, but it happened.

While snow sports are almost always defined by the weather, the best skating occurs in climate-controlled facilities. So maybe I’ve found a cold-related sport to practice balancing and edging on, even when the temperatures start to melt the snow.