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Molly Hoeg
Long stretches of trail through unbroken woods make the Wabos Loppet an exceptional ski.
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Molly Hoeg
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Molly Hoeg
Molly and her husband, Rich, pose outside the Stokley Creek Lodge in Ontario.
This couldn’t possibly be the right spot to drop us off. Where was Wabos, the small lumber village in northern Ontario? After all, we were skiing the Wabos Loppet, named for that town.
Instead, we had stepped off the train into deep snow in the middle of the wilderness. Quick reconnaissance by our guide confirmed that we were indeed in the right place.
Then and there, Rich and I knew we’d made the right decision to sign up for this trip.
About a year earlier, we’d read about the Wabos Loppet in a cross-country skiing magazine. You ride a train through northern Ontario, get deposited in the woods, then ski 27 kilometres back to the lodge on what is a ski trail only for one day each year.
Once the idea was planted in our heads, we knew we would do it.
The Wabos Loppet, roughly 30 years old, is run in March by Stokely Creek Lodge, a cross-country ski resort north of Sault Ste. Marie. Staying at the lodge made the trip all the more alluring, with its 110 kilometers of cross-country ski trails right outside the door, delectable home-cooked meals and the fellowship of avid skiers.
To be clear, the loppet is not a race. It is a ski event to be savored and enjoyed, as much for the camaraderie as for the experience and scenery. This is not like the long-distance ski races we’ve done, which are by their nature competitive and stressful.
Our day started early. Skiers of all ages and abilities greeted one another before boarding the bus at the lodge. The fresh overnight snow that delighted us meant extra logistics for the loppet crew with break-of-dawn trail grooming.
From the bus, we boarded an Algoma Central Railway train, its engine designated “Ski Train” with faint lettering. After depositing our skis and poles in the baggage car, we settled into a comfortable railway car and began trading ski stories with other passengers. The prospect of skiing through the wilderness with no roads, towns or other civilization was exciting. Rich and I felt in excellent shape, having just completed Wisconsin’s American Birkebeiner.
Shortly the city neighborhoods of Sault Ste. Marie gave way to tall snow-laden pines, the beautiful staple of our scenery, with little variation, during the hour of travel.
Then the landscape noticeably receded. We were traveling over a railroad trestle, invisible from the window, but allowing plummeting views of the valley below us.
When the train stopped, we hopped out into a half foot of fresh powder on top of the snowpack. We formed a long colorful chain of skiers, holding skis overhead and picking our way to an opening in the trees. As we clambered down the steep bank, we encountered increasingly deeper snow, soon thigh-deep. There was an air of frivolity and much laughter. With no graceful option, we felt like kids playing in snow, feet sticking in sink holes, floundering in the depths.
In the clearing, individuals clamped on skis and threaded mitts through pole straps. The first leg of the route was a soft, silent path. Only the swish of skis and planting of poles broke the stillness. As skiers found their pace, we spread out, sometimes skiing solo, sometimes in the company of others.
I had long since lost sight of Rich as he tore off through the woods.
We are both highly competitive – running, cycling or skiing. In training and races, we each do our own thing and meet up at the end. I’m a faster runner and cyclist. Rich is by far the faster classic skier. We’ve learned to separate recreation from workouts. When we go for fun, we agree to stick together. But that all went out the window for Rich as soon as he engaged his ski bindings for the loppet.
I was on my recreational skis. For a competitive, driven person like me, there is a benefit to donning equipment that connotes “relax and enjoy.” Rich relished being first through virgin snow and reaching each checkpoint ahead of the others. For this trip, I preferred to savor the feel of the trail at my own pace, stretching the experience as long as possible.
The terrain was undulating, hilly at times, but devoid of sharp turns or life-threatening downhill plunges. Amazingly, over its entire length we never crossed a single road.
After 10 kilometres, we came to a flowing brook crossed by a narrow bridge. Voices carried through the woods. Skiing up to a small cluster of skiers, I immediately saw what looked like a mountain man whose ample beard didn’t hide his big grin. He was wielding a tea kettle and cups. He and his buddies had set up their camp stove trailside and eagerly served us tea, cookies and orange slices. That hot black tea sure tasted good.
The refreshment stop was strategically placed. Beyond it, the trail, though groomed, launched into a long uphill climb with a particularly steep stretch prominently visible. Temperatures held in the mid-teens and the crisp wind occasionally found us through gaps in the trees. Once we set upon that hill, however, we were immune to the chill.
Progressing farther, each climb ended in respite on gently rolling land, but inevitably we landed at the foot of yet another hill.
This section lived up to the warning we’d been given, but the wintry scene enticed us onward. Pines gave way to deciduous trees that managed to capture snow on their bare sinuous branches. Picture-taking gave me gracious excuses to catch my breath or trade pleasantries with passing skiers.
As quickly as the terrain ascended, we found ourselves in a long, gradual descent, losing all the altitude we had gained in a delightful downhill glide. At the bottom, we reached our second milestone, Norm’s Cabin, once home to an old trapper who entertained passing skiers with colorful stories over rose tea and orange quarters. Skiers among us remembered those days. Even without Norm, it was a welcoming stop, warmed by the wood stove and clogged with skiers relishing the heat, sustenance and company. The bulk of the kilometres were behind us, as were the hills.
I caught up with Rich there. He was in prime form, beaming at being first to reach the cabin. (Someone forgot to tell him it was not a race!) But he also admitted to a spectacular wipe-out at the base of one of the hills.
Norm’s cabin is on the far reaches of the Stokely Creek trail system, so we had reached “civilization” and the charted, groomed trails. I chose a detour before returning to the lodge, taking advantage of the extensive trail system and perfect ski conditions to get in a few extra kilometres. Rich, naturally, made straight for the finish.
Eventually we all made our way down the final stretch to where a party awaited us. With a sense of great accomplishment, we removed our skis and slipped them into the snowbank to form a varicolored ski fence. Inside the log cabin, we feasted on a barbecue lunch, warmed by a stove and serenaded by a guitar-keyboard duo.
The loppet was done. No need for medals, finish times or paces. Skiing through the wilderness was its own reward. Out there, I had no idea where I was, with the nearest road or town miles away. But it didn’t matter. All I needed to do was to follow the trail through the silent woods and drink in the tranquility.
Molly Brewer Hoeg is a recently retired information technology professional in the Twin Cities who is turning her hand to writing. She is an avid outdoors enthusiast and enjoys taking her running, cycling and skiing to lengthy distances. She and her husband, Rich, built a house in Duluth, their hometown, to reach nature and the outdoors right outside their doorstep. They are eager to share their proximity to Lake Superior with their children and grandchildren.