hellfrozenover

"Any time you can end with the word 'shiskabob', you know you had a solid set."

-- Charlie Hatton, after my set at the Studio

HELL, FROZEN OVER

By: Jenn Dlugos

“Vacation paradise!” the brochure promised. This would not be my choice of words for a dogsledding expedition in northern Canada in the middle of January.

“But, dear.” my boyfriend said, “We said we wanted to take up a winter sport to stay in shape.”

He said that, not me. My shape was being maintained just fine by my daily yoga tapes. Of course this is mostly because it’s the only exercise that moves slow enough that I can drink beer while doing it (if yoga instructors want to get serious about relaxation, Beer Yoga needs to become a standard course offering). And there aren’t very many winter sports that meet this slovenly movement criteria, besides perhaps curling. Unfortunately, I too have traded in my broom for a Swiffer, so while my curling team would be sweeping our way to the finals, I’d just be happy at how much dust I picked up on the curling court. Finally, my boyfriend made the argument that Beer Yoga is not that many degrees of separation away from dogs dragging my rear-end around on a sled for several hours. Hence, we went.

“The scenery is so beautiful!” my boyfriend said.

I could not dispute that, as we were standing on top of a snow-covered hill looking out at the Canadian Rockies. What I could dispute was the accuracy of “vacation paradise”, because in the middle of this oh-so-beautiful scenery appeared our trail guide who was wearing a baseball cap with bull horns coming out of the top of the hat. I consider myself well-traveled, and I have yet to visit a vacation paradise that featured a tour guide who is clearly a neo-Viking.

The second red flag came when we were given our sled team. We each had six dogs, with two lead dogs guiding the pack. When I think of lead dogs, I think of names like Butch and Diesel. My two dogs were named Lucky Strike and Marlboro. Apparently, Wheezing Emphysema wasn’t available to run that day.

Before I left for this vacation paradise, my fitness buff friends who scoff at my Beer Yoga regimen told me that dogsledding sends the old heart pumping…a Cardiovascular Workout for the Soul, if you will. “It’s simply exhilarating!” they fabricated. Let me say that trying to stay upright on a wooden sled going 40 mph through the Canadian Jungle by two dogs named after carcinogens is not exhilarating. I wouldn’t even call it exciting, electrifying, spine tingling, or downright rip-roaring. The correct term for it would be “bulging aneurysm.”

“Isn’t this so beautiful?” My boyfriend yelled as we barreled down a cliff in a manner way too close for comfort to Wile E. Coyote on ACME skis.

Yes, it was. It was beautiful when I was on top of a mountain overlooking the hilly terrain. It was beautiful when I was clinging for dear life as Lucky and Marlboro barreled me down the mountain. And it was beautiful when I was launched off my sled, sent sailing into the crisp morning air, tumbled down the hilly terrain, and crashed through a family of snow people built by school children, wedging my head firmly in the backside of Daddy Snowman.

While I was being pulled out of Daddy Snowman by the neo-Viking, I only had one thought. If this is vacation paradise, I welcome global warming.