After years of bitter disappointment, my daughter Grace finally received a GT Snowracer from Santa this past Christmas. Then, after weeks of bitter disappointment, there was finally enough snow on the ground this weekend to use the sweet steerable sled.

Grace was fired up, but only slightly more fired up than I was. After all, I loved my 1980s Snowracer even more than I adored my Green Machine. The GT has got to be one of the most enduringly popular winter toys of all time. Since its invention in the early 1970s, the Snowracer's manufacturer, Stiga, has gone on to produce SX Pro models with BMX-style handlebars for more extreme sledding. 

The GT model is the classic, however, and as I watched Grace and her buddies hurtle down the short-but-steep slope at Toronto's Rennie Park it occurred to me that I have no idea what "GT" actually stands for. A quick Wikipedia search reveals that the acronym typically means "grand touring" in the automotive industry, with GT models offering higher-performance engines and more comfortable interiors designed for long trips.

But with its hard plastic seat and gravity-based propulsion system, this doesn't really apply to the Snowracer. So, with Stiga ignoring my voice mails, emails and sky writing, I've developed a few theories as to the origin of the Snowracer's initials:

Golden Trousers: Swedish engineer Erland "Golden Trousers" Wikner is credited with having invented the Snowracer.

Guaranteed Terror: What you get when you put a nine-year-old on a Snowracer and send it down a snowy hill teeming with approximately 400 other excited kids.

G&T: What daddy needs after an afternoon of snowracing.

Generous THC: What daddy needs after an afternoon of snowracing.

Gaaah-Thunk​: The sound of two Snowracers colliding (and their warranties being simultaneously voided).

Grace Tolja: Like when Grace said, "I tolja Santa knows how to make fast toys!"

.gt: The Internet country code top-level domain for Guatemala.

Good Thing: As in, "Good thing for the brake, or that sled would be in Scarborough by now."

Giggle at Toronto: What the rest of Canada does whenever it snows enough to actually use a Snowracer here.

Should I have chosen differently?  

The question springs to mind atop Keystone Resort’s Independence Bowl. Sure, it would have been sensible to start the 2017-18 season at a smaller eastern hill. With my new Epic Pass stashed in my left glove’s zip pocket there are several I could have picked. Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

My gelatinous desk-job quads and lack of big-mountain prep make the 250 vertical metres of Colorado powder below me almost as daunting as they are thrilling. Almost, but not quite: Excitement inches ahead of trepidation during the snowcat ride up, then takes full control midway through my first turn.

Five heady descents later I spot the self-proclaimed “World’s Largest Snow Fort” as Keystone Adventure Tours’ cat-ski excursion returns to the top of Dercum Mountain. Suddenly I miss the brood back home, and the feeling lingers as I ski past the H&H Mining Camp, one of six Kids’ Adventure Zones where bridges and tunnels turn the slopes into a snowy playground.

An hour’s drive west of Denver, Keystone bolsters its family-oriented reputation with the annual Kidtopia festival, 3,000-plus condos in five slopeside villages, and wintry superlatives such as the turreted snow fort, a five-acre skating lake billed as the largest in the U.S., and a six-lane tube park that, at 3,548 metres above sea level, is said to be the loftiest on Earth. All signs point to a stellar 2018-19 season, with the resort opening early — on Nov. 7 — for the first time in nearly a decade thanks to nearly four feet of snow since the middle of October.

By the time I arrive at the Keystone Ranch for dinner, I’m pining more for my spouse than for my offspring. Housed in a 1930s log cabin with a soaring stone fireplace, the steakhouse and lounge is about as cosy and romantic as it gets. And on this evening, there isn’t a chicken finger in sight.

As the ski season unfolds, it starts to resemble a “Choose Your Own Adventure” novel in which I am both decision-maker and protagonist. But instead of turning to Page 47 and being transformed into a newt — or some such bizarre fictional outcome — my Epic Pass compels  me to hop planes to Colorado, Vermont and British Columbia, where I am transformed into a snow-clad, grinning blur.

To find out how the rest of my inaugural Epic winter unfolded, check out the story in the Globe and Mail...

With recreational cannabis consumption set to become legal in exactly three weeks, this Mostly Amazing series explores 11 places across the land that are best experienced with a buzz.

As a dad, I rely on magic over the winter holidays.

"How does Santa get down the chimney?" my daughters ask.

"Magic," I reply.

"How does he deliver presents to all the kids around the world?"

"To all the good kids? Magic."

While it has proved indispensable as an explanation (and disciplinary tool), "magic" was starting to feel like a bit of a cop-out before I experienced Lumina Borealis in Kingston.

That's when everything changed. If you want to restore your faith in magic, while proving to your offspring that it is real, visit the dazzling multimedia installation that's slated to return to the Fort Henry National Historic Site this December for its third winter. 

I jumped at the chance to check out Lumina Borealis at the tail end of my family's circuitous holiday road trip around Ontario and Quebec. I was drawn to the stirring outdoor setting I had only experienced in summer – never before has the 181-year-old fort offered anything on this scale in winter – and was intrigued by a comment from the daughter of St. Lawrence Parks Commission CEO Darren Dalgleish, which is said to have inspired the project: "You need to do Frozen meets It's a Wonderful Life."

My inner audiovisual aficionado, meanwhile, wondered what $3-million worth of projection, light and sound equipment looks like.

In short, it looks out of this world. Our walking tour of the lower fort took about 90 minutes, and I could spend at least that long describing the interactive, immersive wonders that unfolded as my family strolled, awestruck, around the yawning dry moat. After wandering through a glowing assembly of stylized icebergs and an evergreen forest clad in iridescent icicles, we reached a towering stone wall blazing with projected colours. Our shadows appeared on the wall as we passed, but not in their usual form. Instead, they somehow morphed into the swirling display, enticing us to twirl, jump and dance.

As one silver-haired visitor giddily remarked, "This takes me back to the sixties."

READ THE REST OF THE STORY IN THE GLOBE AND MAIL

With recreational cannabis consumption set to become legal in exactly five weeks, this Mostly Amazing series explores 11 places across the land that are best experienced with a buzz.

When was the last time you heard exuberant applause in a sauna?

While in Ottawa last Family Day, Angela and I felt no guilt whatsoever in ditching our daughters and driving 15 minutes north to Nordik Spa-Nature in the snowy Gatineau Hills.

We were keen to check out the many features that have been added to the 100,000-square-foot spa complex since our last visit in 2014. And we weren’t disappointed: I covered several of them in a recent Globe and Mail story about Canada's best spa patios. Hot stone massages and craft beer, together at last...

The one new experience I saved for my blog -- the Aufguss Ritual -- was unlike anything I’ve ever done, in a spa or otherwise.

After one glorious circuit of Le Nordik’s various hot and cold pools, saunas and steam rooms, we made our way to the spacious Finlandia sauna 10 minutes before the 1pm Aufguss. (The 15-minute ritual takes place on the hour every other hour.)

Sitting on the topmost of the three wooden tiers surrounding the sauna’s table-sized stove, we had worked up quite a sweat by the time the sounding of a gong signalled the start of the ritual. Within minutes, the place was packed.

While setting down several buckets of water, snow and perfectly formed snowballs, the Aufguss Master explained how the ritual would unfold and encouraged us to “listen to our bodies” and move to lower seating, or leave the sauna altogether, should the heat become uncomfortable.

Dramatic music filled the space as our young guide scooped out three of the snowballs, each infused with essential oils, and dropped them one by one onto the enormous stove’s super-heated rocks. Juniper-scented steam immediately rose into the air, and was enthusiastically dispersed by the Aufguss Master as she skillfully whirled a folded towel around the sauna, her tattooed arms glistening with sweat.

This exhilarating process was repeated two more times with different oils, raising the temperature and humidity to a point where a few members of the audience took their leave. Then, just before the ritual ended with effusive and well-deserved applause, those who remained were cooled off in thrilling fashion when the Aufguss Master used her wooden scoop to douse us repeatedly with icy meltwater. Did I scream? You bet I did. Was it with pleasure or with pain? I’m not entirely sure -- and, as with many aspects of Le Nordik, that was the magic of the experience.

Warning: This video doesn't do the Aufguss justice. Just so you know.

Dear Gary,

You may remember me from the ice storm of 1998, when I transported a rented generator from unaffected Toronto to my parents' place in hard-hit Kingston. I've never been in a war zone, but darkened K-Town sure looked like one as my ancient, tank-like Volvo swerved to avoid innumerable fallen tree branches and power lines.

Based on the forecast that’s been terrifying Ontarians all week, it looks like we will meet again very soon. But I sincerely hope we don’t, mainly because you seem like a total dick.

Why can’t you be more like your brother Nigel, God of Snow? That usually awesome dude just helped me out big-time in Fernie and Whistler. I’m not Nigel’s biggest fan when I’m stuck in an airport or driving at night, but unlike you I think he means well.

Just face it: Nobody likes you! The only exception might be the photographers who capture the icy splendour of your evil powers. But even then you come across like a jerk by forcing them to scrape off their windshields, and then making them slip and fall on their driveways.

So let’s make a deal: We puny mortals will stop taking your name in vain if you agree to unleash your powers on weekdays only. A few ice-storm days would make up for the lack of legitimate snow days this winter, and might even earn you a few worshipers.

So just hold off till Monday, OK? I’ve got a morning meeting I’d love you to freezing-rain on.

Sincerely,

Adam

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.

As I waited for my father-in-law to pull up to the curb at the airport last week, I couldn't help but lament my family's return to chilly Toronto from balmy New Zealand.

But at least we don't live in Oymyakon, one of the coldest inhabited places on Earth. Temperatures in Russia's remote Yakutia region reportedly bottomed out at minus 67 yesterday, with the thermometer in Oymyakon unable to keep up with the deep freeze. In 2013, the village recorded an all-time low of minus 71.

Oymyakon was the subject of a recent MSN photo gallery I put together with the help of Kiwi photographer Amos Chapple, who travelled to Siberia to document what life is like for the 500 hardy souls who live there. 

​CLICK HERE TO CHECK OUT THE GALLERY 

On the northeastern flank of British Columbia's 2,408-metre Terminator Peak, a group of 10 skiers, some with avalanche transceivers in hand, charge into a small stand of pines.

"Over here!" shouts Martha Handford of Canmore, Alta., as soon as her beeping device locates a buried target. Her Australian rescue partner, Scott Burley, immediately deploys an extendable probe and begins stabbing it into the snow in a spiral pattern. A direct hit is made in less than a minute, prompting the pair to start digging like crazy.

It's a scene that would send chills down the spine of any back-country veteran; thankfully, this isn't a real rescue. There are no physical signs of an avalanche and two ski patrollers in red jackets shout instructions from a groomed trail nearby. If any doubt remains, it evaporates when a member of the group pauses to snap a selfie.

The skiers are in the midst of a weekend-long avalanche skills training (AST) course run by Kicking Horse Mountain Resort. The six men and four women, from the ages of 23 to 63, aren't locals or staff. All of them are here on vacation.

Until quite recently, most resorts did little or nothing to educate visitors about avalanche avoidance and survival. Ski areas such as Kicking Horse spend hundreds of thousands of dollars each year on snow-safety measures such as forecasting, signage, fencing and ballistics, but they aren't technically responsible for the terrain outside their boundaries or for lift-ticket holders who choose to enter it. So safety training for guests was typically left to third-party outfitters and alpine organizations.

What has changed? Back-country skiing has exploded in popularity in the past decade, so now many of the resorts that tacitly enable the inherently risky activity are working harder to educate resort skiers on back-country safety. Most of British Columbia's big resorts – Kicking Horse, Revelstoke, Whitewater, Sun Peaks and Whistler Blackcomb, to name a few – have all been expanding their snow-safety education programs in recent years.

"We're at the start of a shift in resort mentality," says Sean Nyilassy, a member of Kicking Horse's mountain safety department who leads the weekend-long programs. "From our boundaries, you can instantly enter uncontrolled back-country terrain, where inexperienced or uneducated skiers can run into trouble. We still see a lot of people out of bounds without the proper equipment, and for every 10 we see there are 100 who get away with it. This puts our guests and our rescue personnel at risk. But with the proper education, the risk goes down."

Snow-safety education got a shot in the arm in 2004 when Avalanche Canada's headquarters opened in the town of Revelstoke, B.C., 150 kilometres west of Kicking Horse down the TransCanada Highway, the aptly nicknamed "Powder Highway." Among much else, the NGO issues daily avalanche forecasts for Canada's most popular back-country regions via its website and smartphone app – both of which are invaluable AST tools – and shapes AST curriculum. Revelstoke is a fitting home for the centre, given that snow safety is such an inescapable fact of life in this part of the world. A few blocks away, the Land of Thundering Snow exhibit at the Revelstoke Museum & Archives explores avalanche research and snow science, with an online component that focuses on skier safety both in and out of bounds.

Ten years after Revelstoke hosted its first course, a variety of AST programming occupies just about every weekend from December to March. A day-long companion rescue skills course, meanwhile, is designed to refresh rusty skiers and educate time-crunched visitors.

Then there's the "Avalanche Ranch," which Revelstoke unveiled in 2014. The wireless transceiver training area, the first of its kind in Canada, occupies a hockey rink-size basin at the top of the resort's busiest lift and allows skiers to hone their transceiver and probe skills. "This is as much about awareness as it is about ability," explains avalanche forecaster Chad Hemphill. "It gets the seriousness of back-country safety across more effectively than a bunch of signs."

Hidden under the snow blanketing the Ranch are eight targets. Each is toggled on or off at a junction box, and when each is struck the box emits a loud beep. Hemphill's demonstration draws the attention of several youngsters, who shout encouragement to the target-seeking travel writer struggling through waist-deep snow.

Young skiers such as these, and their worried parents, are the focus of other resort-based programs such as Whitewater's month-spanning "Avalanche Awareness Beyond the Boundaries" – a free course now in its seventh year – and Sun Peaks' All Mountain Skills weekend camp, which launched in 2014.

"What do kids want to do? They want to duck the rope and ski out of bounds. And I would say the vast majority of them are unprepared," says Bodie Shandro, who runs Sun Peaks' camp. "Kids show up and say, 'I'm here because my dad says I have to be here,' but by the end of the day, they're totally into it."

READ THE REST OF THE STORY IN THE GLOBE AND MAIL (AND FIND OUT WHERE YOU CAN TAKE AN AST COURSE)