Glacial glamping

As they say, it was so cold it’d freeze the nuts off an iron bridge.

Margie and I slept in a prospector-style tent, or what Riding Mountain National Park calls an “oTENTik,” at -39 C.

Pranksters dub this “glamping” from the words “glamorous” and “camping.” “Glamour” here means wool socks, three tops and tuques in bed. Plus, my laptop screen froze. Really.

At least our tent, one of six available in the winter, had a wood-burning stove and heater — when lit. The next morning, Margie admitted, “We should’ve stoked the fire overnight.” And, maybe, I think I heard something to the effect of, “Gord, you left the door ajar!” But, hey, no bears or moose sauntered inside.

Later, a park staffer declared, “It’s only minus 24!” I exclaimed with a little dance, “Spring is in the air!” Aside from a frigid floor, the oTENTik became comfortably cosy as we relentlessly fed our fire as if logs grow on trees.

Campers store food and cookware in a shared kitchen with a great cookstove. But the modern washroom’s shower handle didn’t work. I pried, pulled, pushed. I then realized you pat a sensor. Hot water erupts at intervals. A sporadically ambitious overhead vent then quickly dried my hair, saving me from surprising Margie with untrendy frosted tips.

I have finally learned to carefully bring all essentials for camping. I nailed sleeping bags, mats, blankets, pillows, slippers, even candles. Cards. Coffee Crisps! Plus — this time — matches.

OK, I did forget things. After showering we had to wipe off with facecloths. We had to eat pancakes and bacon with spoons. And after driving 40 kilometres, we couldn’t appreciate Lake Audy’s far-off bison because I forgot binoculars. But spotting bowling ball-size bison turds, I did get a close-up photo of the super-duper dookies to show at family dinners.

Nestled in a spruce grove, seasonal lighting adorns the oTENTiks and walkways, in addition to the brilliant stars above. I again ask city council, “When is Winnipeg getting these stars?”

Riding Mountain is unusually peaceful, even chilling in winter. Cottagers can only dwell here between April 1 and Oct. 31 every year. Most restaurants and shops are in hibernation mode. With snowdrifts blanketing patios and doorsteps, there’s a “We fled the planet for Mars” feel.

Beyond Elkhorn Resort’s all-season options, The Lakehouse entices diners with a popular charcuterie board and a yummy tomato-peach bruschetta, plus a rare restaurant feature in Manitoba: a wood-burning fireplace. Yay! A young woman told the server, “It’s great sitting at a real fire!” Her partner arrived and insisted, “We gotta move to see the game.” She complied.

I whispered to Margie, “She should dump him.” Margie said, “Pray for them.” The server reminded us, “It’s hockey.”

The sunset cast my shadow against the fireplace’s stone veneer. That prompted me to project a silhouette of a rabbit, a wolf and — aww — a heart. Margie forcefully whispered, “Stop that! The woman next to us will think you’re sending her woo-woos!” Sure enough, she was looking. Margie moved closer to me. When I again saw my shadow, I had bunny ears.

We visited Elkhorn Resort’s outdoor Nordic spa called “Klar So,” meaning “Clear Lake” or as I told Margie, “Clear Pores.” Staff allowed a photo from a window if no patrons were visible. It was so cold at the spa, steam hid everyone. Spa-lendid!

I have never ventured outside in a bathing suit on a day when our vehicle barely started. Entering, I exclaimed to a chap, “We’re gonna die!” He replied, “That’s what I just said!”

Margie taunted, “If you finally ever un-robe, join me in the hot tub.” Once submerged, I couldn’t see her. I called out, “Hello? Hello? Mildred?” I heard, “SHH!” When a gust cleared the air, I pretended my tongue stuck to a frosty handrail. Inspired by Harry in Dumb and Dumber, I blurted, “You wouldn’t happen to have a tub of warm water, would ya?” Margie said, “SHH!”

I later asked the chap from earlier, “How’s the Polar Plunge?” He joyfully puffed up, “I went in four times! Four times!” He deflated when I joked, “But the Plunge is warmer than the air!”

Pink from the spa’s extremes, you rub with exfoliating salt before entering the steam sauna. Wolves would mistake me for an easy pork chop.

Surrounded by echoing tiles, I felt an urge for an Elvis tribute. I belted out “Oo-oo-oo, I feel my temperature risin’ — mmm.” Margie said, “SHH.” I told a family, “I sound exactly like Elvis, eh?” I deflated when the matriarch replied, “How many plunges did you have?”

Behind the park’s visitor centre, we then discovered a winding skating trail. And this winter, an elaborate, five-metre-tall “snow fort” can be marvelled at. It’s iglooed together. They said they’d sell it to me come May.

And we discovered the Anishinaabe-run Ice Fishing Village on Clear Lake where folks rent tents featuring stoves and pre-drilled holes, and also encountered the campground’s compelling Turtle Village comprising eight off-grid, two-person “turtle shells.”

From the Friends of Riding Mountain, rent fat bikes, snowshoes, snow tubes and “belly boards.” Or try kicksparking. That’s a kicksled without the chair. I told Margie, “But I like the chair part.”

Moreover, we discovered an epic winter escapade. Hope for at least -24 C. And just close your door.

gordmackintosh9@gmail.com