Until the 14th day of March, oh great and robustly suspendered Nigel, my 2018 sacrifices to you had gone unanswered. I dined upon everything that pleased you in the past -- nachos, cinnamon buns, poutine -- but you favoured me not with heavy snows upon the slopes of skiing.

With each failed sacrifice I turned to fresh sustenance. Would chicken wings curry favour with you? Apparently not. Would curry curry favour with you? Again, not a single flake fell. Oxtail rotis? Sushi? Oxtail sushi? Sushi rotis? Try as I might, your new culinary predilections remained mysteries to me.

It was with a heavy heart that I dug deep into my freezer for something, anything, that might please your too-tightly-trousered magnificence. It was the Monday of March Break, after all, and my family was about to head to Stowe, Vermont.

That’s when I saw them, sheathed in plastic and bundled together with an elastic band. The wieners were quickly defrosted in boiling water, grilled in a pan, and served “à la Ikea” between two equally freezer-burned buns. It wasn’t much, oh fickle and surprisingly stout Nigel, but it was worth a shot.

Fat flakes fell furiously as we neared the self-proclaimed “Ski Capital of the East,” and I began to joyfully suspect that I had satisfied your latest craving. We all ordered hot dogs from the kids’ menu that evening, and lo and behold, we awoke to more than a foot of fresh powder. When I fist-bumped a complete stranger on the hill that day, oh yellow-mustard-preferring Nigel, it wasn’t only because of the sublime conditions. It was also because I had made my way back into your blessed favour.

Needless to say, before heading to Fernie Alpine Resort in early April, I joined my daughters in sacrificing half a pack of franks to your glorious, duosyllabic and relatively common name. Upon arrival, I witnessed a great omen -- Fernie’s annual Eighties-themed Hot Dog Day -- that foretold of many snowy days to come. It also foretold of some serious hangovers and vintage-store remorse, but that’s another story.

You again unleashed your powers of precipitation that night, compelling me to hike up Snake Ridge and glide down into Cedar Bowl the next morning. If that's what dining upon tube steaks gets me, oh munificent and elastic-waistband-requiring Nigel, I’ll renew my Epic Pass ASAP and see you at Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest in July.

Love,

Adam “Kobayashi” Bisby

As they have done for so many things -- Lego, Christmas, Top 40 radio pop -- my two daughters have renewed my appreciation for schussing under the stars.

Nearly 14 years after my last night-skiing session I found myself in the exact same spot at 5pm: The top of Blue Mountain's Memory Lane run.

The grooming machines had just finished turning the snow into a carpet of corduroy. At the top of the run, dozens of skiers and snowboarders waited for the hill to reopen. It was a surreal time of day: Dazzling floodlights replaced the dwindling daylight, while the sunset painted the sky a pale, wintry yellow. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon the yellow barrier was removed, and my family carved down the hill with nary an ice patch in sight. As we regrouped by the Silver Bullet chairlift for another ride up, I overheard both my girls singing Imagine Dragons' "Thunder." "Now I'm smiling from the stage while / You were clapping in the nose bleeds..."

A little swagger on the slopes? I love it.

Resorts have been lighting runs since the 1920s, and today, scores of hills across Canada offer night skiing. While many base their business on after-work and after-school skiers from nearby cities, a growing number of resorts are revamping their evening appeal by offering much more than schussing under the stars.

READ THE REST OF THE 2004 STORY IN THE GLOBE AND MAIL

I first watched "Larry Enticer Sends It" at about this time last year. As you can see, there’s a lot to like about Larry: The Canadian tuxedo, the mullet, the shades askew, the charming Rick Dog lingo, the consecutive yard sales on his 1979 340 Yamaha Enticer, the list goes on.

What I didn’t fully appreciate at the time, however, was the joy of snowmobiling. But this morning, after a few hours with Nova Guides in the Colorado Rockies, that changed forever.

“Sending it” Enticer-style wasn’t really the point of my “Top of the Rockies Snowmobile Tour.” At Nova’s picturesque lodge at Camp Hale, a former U.S. Army training facility, my group of seven donned the requisite gear -- including sweet one-piece outfits that would make Larry proud -- and joined our personable guide, Malcolm, for a thorough overview of safe sled operation. (Larry, if you’re reading, you might want to look this up.)

Minutes later, we were carving our way up to Machine Gun Ridge, a jaw-dropping 12,000-foot promontory that once served as a training location for army gunners. Here we dismounted our sleds and gaped at the stunning alpine scenery stretching off in all directions. Several snapshots and hero poses later, we continued our high-speed journey across the surrounding mountainsides, valleys and meadows. Then, as we neared Camp Hale, a final flat straightaway let me “send it” by topping 100 km/h. Larry, you're definitely onto something.

Granted, I did not catch any air or slam spectacularly into any snowbanks. Our tour was more about eye candy and gaining confidence (and speed). But I did come to share Larry’s love of sledding, and have also been inspired to wear more denim.

Travel elicits many emotions, from awe to anger and from upgrade ecstasy to gift-shop remorse. But over the course of my Canadian wanderings there’s something more: Pride. That's what this daily series is all about: Sharing my proud perspective on the places and experiences that make my country the greatest on Earth. Some of my selections are world-famous, others are little-known, a few are acquired tastes, and this one is home to some of the cheapest (and best) powder skiing on the planet. 
​
A roll of quarters. A cheap takeout pizza. Two-thirds of a beer at a Leafs home game. These and other $10 items spring to mind atop Grey Mountain, the biggest news of the 2013 ski season.

Why was I pondering the power of the purple bill before schussing down 600 vertical metres of untracked powder? Because that was the price of the snowcat ride to the top of Red Mountain Resort’s third inbounds peak.

Until the B.C. resort ran a chairlift up Grey the following summer, the mountain’s south-facing glades and cruising runs represented the ultimate in what locals call “slackcountry” — backcountry skiing, but without the exertion and risk. The slopes were cleared, graded, and were patrolled and avalanche-controlled, meaning backcountry neophytes could carve their way down without expert guidance. One run was even groomed. Plus, instead of having to hike or ski up as they did in the past, visitors could save their energy for the descent by hitching a 10-minute ride on a 13-passenger snowcat. This was one of the most striking deals in resort skiing, given that a day of cat-skiing usually runs around $400.

My time on Grey was the culmination of a road trip to three out-of-the-way ski resorts — Kimberley, Red Mountain and Whitewater — that dot the southern section of the Kootenay region’s “Powder Highway,” a 1,090-kilometre circuit linking eight downhill resorts and dozens of backcountry, cross-country, heli- and cat-ski operations.

But the journey was about much more than world-class skiing. There was jaw-dropping scenery, innovative cuisine, and welcoming mountain towns where the apres-ski scene eschews noisy Nickelback and Coors Light. Within a matter of hours, my wife Angela and I found ourselves living on “Kootenay Time,” a phenomenon that makes a week feel like a lifetime of “leaving the real world in your rear view,” as one bumper sticker put it.

Read the rest of the story in the Toronto Star.

WHERE TO STAY
Many of Red Mountain’s visitors arrive via Spokane, Wash. -- a three-hour drive to the south -- where the Davenport Lusso combines a prime Arts District location with stylish decor and locally-sourced cuisine and refreshments.

Travel elicits many emotions, from awe to anger and from upgrade ecstasy to gift-shop remorse. But over the course of my Canadian wanderings there’s something more: Pride. That's what this daily series is all about: Sharing my proud perspective on the places and experiences that make my country the greatest on Earth. Some of my selections are world-famous, others are little-known, and a few are acquired tastes. This open letter, meanwhile, is addressed to Nigel, the God of Snow...
 
Dear Nigel,
 
You are known by many names: "Khione" by the ancient Greeks, "Kun Aymara" by Bolivian tribes, and "Ullr" by both Norse cultures and that Rastafarian dude on the chairlift. But you have shown me great favour when I call you "Nigel," so I’ll stick with that, OK?
 
Take my ski trip to Kicking Horse and Revelstoke a couple years back. Over those five days, oh great and powerful Nigel, you blanketed the resorts’ respective slopes in 25 and 47 centimetres of powder.
 
As is my custom upon arriving at Calgary International Airport, I sacrificed a frosty local microbrew in your name – a Last Best Show Pony Ale to be exact – and humbly requested that you focus your benevolent, exuberantly-bearded powers on Kicking Horse, my first stop on the northern section of B.C.'s aptly-named Powder Highway.
 
But in your infinite and fleecily-vested wisdom, you held off. You waited until I had crossed 280 kms of Trans-Canada Highway, and dined upon some mind-blowing poutine at Peaks Grill, before unleashing your powers of precipitation. Indeed, no sooner did the curds caress my lips than fat flakes started falling from the sky. You may not have unleashed your full powers, but your efforts that night, and again two days hence, were joyfully received on the north ridge of the Terminator 2 peak (pictured above). That must have been why the Rastafarian dude never stopped grinning.
 
Your powers were not quite as joyfully received during my white-knuckle drive west across Roger’s Pass, home to the world's largest mobile avalanche control program. On the plus side, the double-edged sword you wield fell heavily upon Revelstoke Mountain Resort that night, turning Greely Bowl into a snowy paradise I'll never forget. It was so sublime, oh portly and fashionably-bespectacled Nigel, that I saw fit to dedicate anywhere from two to five Mt. Begbie microbrews to your glorious, polysyllabic and relatively common name.
 
Which leads me to the thrust of this letter: Would you like nachos next time?
 
Sincerely,
 
Your most humble and achingly-legged servant,
 
Adam
 
WHERE TO STAY
Late-night arrivals to YYC can’t do much better than the Delta Hotels Calgary Airport In-Terminal, which is connected to the terminal buildings via a skywalk and features three eateries, a saltwater pool and a roomy hot tub. Your aching legs will thank you.

The bad news: Angela and I had to turn down our first destination wedding invitation of the winter. It just took place in Tamarindo, Costa Rica, and if you've ever been to that part of the world, or if you've been outside in Toronto today for more than 30 seconds -- the time it takes exposed skin to freeze -- I'm sure you can understand our disappointment.

The good news: Soon after our painful decision to decline -- Damn you pathetic freelance income! Damn you to hell! -- we were invited to another, less financially-challenging destination wedding.

The weird-seeming news: It was in Owen Sound.

I could be wrong, but I doubt there will be an Owen Sound booth at the upcoming Toronto’s Bridal Show. But now I know there should be. Despite being the site of the Great Coffee Cup Collapse of 2015, the Saturday evening (and Sunday morning!) affair at the upscale Cobble Beach Golf Resort was a blast. That came as no surprise.

What was a surprise to this Owen Sound neophyte was just how much the aptly-nicknamed Scenic City has to offer. And it all cost not a single dime.

Our Friday night stay at the nicely appointed and extensively hot-tubbed Best Western Inn On The Bay allowed us to get a relatively early start on exploring the Sound's downtown: The indoor-outdoor Farmer's Market, where we picked up a handmade gift card for the happy couple; the sprawling, 40-member Artists' Co-op boutique (pictured below), where we picked up a handmade ceramic serving tray for the happy couple; and the Tom Thomson Art Gallery, where we picked up the iconic local painter's "The Pine Country” for slightly less than its $2-million appraised value. 

OK, I lied about the wee canvas. But we did pick up a new appreciation for one of Canada's most fascinatingly enigmatic artists (if not people). Thomson’s paintings of the Canadian wilderness (pictured variously below) are notable not just for their beauty, but also for the choices their creator made. An overhanging branch colours a lake-filled landscape. A modest, easily-overlooked island displays its fall colours. Subtlety and drama all at once.

I also appreciated how director and chief curator Virginia Eichhorn seemed to embrace the suspicions of foul play that surround Thomson’s untimely death in Algonquin Park’s Canoe Lake during the summer of 1917.

If nothing else, admiring Thomson’s work inspired us to get outdoors. Luckily, Owen Sound is home to one of Canada’s finest urban green spaces: Harrison Park. Opened in 1912, the 40-plus-hectare haven spreads out from the Sydenham River and provides an appealing conclusion to one of the region’s most popular snowshoe trails. Starting at Inglis Falls Conservation Area’s namesake cascade, the 3-kilometre trail skirts the frozen 18-metre drop (pictured below) and meanders through the rocky, densely forested Niagara Escarpment before reconnecting with the icy river and proceeding to the park.       

We tromped happily along the trail with Owen Sound Tourism’s Paulette Peirol (pictured above), who detailed the near-ridiculous assortment of winter activities in the area: ice fishing, snowmobiling, festival-going, skating, moonwalking, midnight-buffet speed-eating…    

No, wait…those last two apply to the wedding only. I hope.

Dear Nigel,

You are known by many names: "Khione" by the ancient Greeks, "Kun Aymara" by Bolivian tribes, and "Ullr" by both Norse cultures and that Rastafarian dude on the chairlift. But you have shown me great favour when I call you "Nigel," so I’ll just stick with that, OK?

Take my ski trip to B.C. this past week: Over those seven days, oh great and powerful Nigel, you blanketed the respective slopes of Sun Peaks, Kicking Horse and Revelstoke in 26, 25 and 47 (!!!) centimetres of snow.

I may have arrived too early to partake of the recent favours you granted Sun Peaks, but with Canada’s best groomers at work it was no big deal. Besides, your powdery handiwork was still plentiful and pristine in the newly in-bounds and hike-accessible "Gil's" terrain atop Mt. Tod (pictured above).

As is my custom, I "sacrificed" a pair of frosty local microbrews in your name – Okanagan Spring 1516 Lager, to be exact – and humbly requested that you focus your benevolent, exuberantly-bearded powers on Kicking Horse, my next stop.

But in your infinite and fleecilly-vested wisdom, you held off. You waited until I had crossed 360 clicks of Trans-Canada Highway – including Roger’s Pass, home to the world's largest mobile avalanche control program – before unleashing your powers of precipitation. This not only made for a relaxing ride, oh merciful and transcendentally-trousered Nigel, but it allowed me to pause while passing the Enchanted Forest, 3 Valley Gap and the Burner Restaurant (pictured below), as well as the various other roadside attractions that make this stretch of highway the quirkiest in all the land. Also, it gave me both the time and courage to dine upon a very large cinnamon bun (pictured below) at Sprockets Cafe near Salmon Arm.

Very large cinnamon buns, it turns out, are also worthy "sacrifices" to your gloriousness, for no sooner did I partake of the outdoor hot tub at Kicking Horse’s Palliser Lodge than fat flakes started falling from the sky. You may not have unleashed your full powers, but your efforts that night, and again two days hence, were joyfully received on the north ridge of the Terminator 2 peak. (That must have been why the Rastafarian dude never stopped grinning.)

Your powers were not quite as joyfully received as I retraced my route along Highway 1 en route to Revelstoke. But at least you didn’t cause an avalanche closure. On that note, the timing of the Rogers Pass shutdowns –  the day before I arrived at Kicking Horse, and again the day after I departed – did not go unnoticed.

The double-edged sword you wield also fell heavily upon Revelstoke Mountain Resort that day, turning Greely Bowl (pictured below) into a powdery paradise I'll never forget. It was so sublime, oh portly and fashionably-bespectacled Nigel, that I saw fit to "dedicate" anywhere from two to five Mt. Begbie microbrews (pictured below) to your glorious, polysyllabic and relatively common name.

Sincerely,

Your most humble and achingly-legged servant,

Adam

PS: Do you also like nachos? Just wondering…

Snowy vista (pictured) outside my office* window? Check. Sidewalk shoveled? Check. Spray-on disposable child snow-pants deployed? I wish!

It's beginning to look a lot like ski season around these parts, so I’m really starting to crave some Ontario turns. I was up at Blue Mountain Resort last month for a “Soak and a Statuette” (you know, that old chestnut), and it was coming down pretty heavily for mid-freaking-November.

Then I remembered that never-before-skied moment from February last year, when I hit one of Blue’s runs all by myself — as in alone, solo, with no one on the trail except yours truly.

On a typical winter weekend Ontario's largest ski resort is packed. This was certainly the case during my February visit, when most of the lift lines spilled out of their roped-off lanes and every restaurant and bar was hopping.

But one section of the hill (pictured below) was dreamily serene. How did I get away from the madding ski crowd? By heading off-piste, Ontario-style, to "The Orchard" (pictured below), a 64-acre section of cleared and graded Niagara Escarpment that was labelled as "shoeshoe trails" for years. But that changed last season, when Blue completed a $10 million expansion consisting of a high-speed, six-person chairlift and night skiing on three of the Orchard's six new runs, one of which, at 1.6 kilometres, is the longest beginner trail in the province.

My alone-time on the trail only lasted about 15 seconds, as I was soon followed by Collin Matanowitsch, the PR manager at Blue, who gave me the go-ahead to take a test run out of bounds.

The life-long resident of nearby Collingwood seemed quite pleased to be joining me, what with the inch of fresh snow coating the gentle, groomed slope. You just can’t go wrong with fresh tracks right after the demolition derby of Happy Valley.

Even when it lacked a lift, Blue opened the Orchard on select powder days; it took me about five minutes of leisurely cross-country to get there from the Beaver Tails hut near the top of the Southern Comfort chair.

So let it snow, okay? Because without it, there will be no Beaver Tails atop the Niagara Escarpment.

*More like a dining-room table walled off with Lego bricks, kindergarten art creations, Hama-bead kits and a drowsy raccoon.