I remember the day I almost hit a groomer. I‘d come around a blind corner and there it was, looming over me, filling the trail. Wide-eyed, we both hit the binders, and my sled came to an abrupt stop as the skis kissed the groomer’s blade. I looked up into the cab, feeling small and vulnerable before that machine’s great bulk.

Now here I was again, being dwarfed by a piece of grooming equipment. Except this time, my hope was to enter it through the door, not the windshield. Jim, the operator, was holding it open so I could join him that night. I wanted to see what it was really like to groom a trail.

Within minutes the friendly lights of town succumbed to an all-pervading darkness that fell from the sky as if painted with a tar brush. The Man on the Moon must have been on vacation because the only illumination was the groomer’s lights, cutting a swath in the inky blackness. It was eerie knowing that we were surrounded by wilderness, but only able to see the scantly lit limbs abutting the trail. And the white carpet ahead, moonscaped by moguls, bumps and divots.

Fortunately, our cab was cozy, although my passenger jump seat hardly compared to Jim’s ergonomic throne. Enough heat blasted through that Jim opened a side vent for a little fresh air. The engine noise notched up a few decibels, but we could still chat. The controls for steering, and working the blade and drag were laid out around him like a casino’s black jack table. He worked these with precise, deft manoeuvres, an integrated ballet of motion geared to lay out a table top of reworked snow out the back.

Funny thing about grooming: unless there’s snow to plough up front, most of the action takes place behind, where the multiple drag blades cut off the peaks, churning the snow to the pan where it’s flattened and packed into a new surface. Hopefully, it will lie there untouched for 6 to 10 hours while it hardens in a metamorphosis much like what happens when the kids’ snowman sits overnight. With any luck, it will take that long to melt too!

Unless there’s a problem, the passenger has nothing to do in a groomer except keep the operator company. I watched Jim’s eyes flitting back and forth constantly, from the trail ahead to the rear view mirrors, to frequent glances over his shoulder to ”check on the product”. Because the terrain was completely irregular, Jim was always shifting this or adjusting that to ensure a level cut that didn’t skin the hill tops or dump too much in the holes. He said that this slow, steady pace gave the drag time to do its work, whereas too fast caused skipping that would leave nearly invisible ripples that soon morph into moguls.

I was glad he knew the trail well. The thought of driving into that black void ahead would have been frightening otherwise. Even so, I marvelled at his anticipation of the many corners, hills and valleys we traversed that night. The monotonous rumble of the diesel became soothing after a while and I had trouble staying awake. Jim must have seen me nodding off, because he stopped, announcing it was time for a stretch.

We both stepped out onto the huge rubber tracks whose spongy give under my feet reminded me of walking on a floating dock. I’d forgotten how nippy it was outside. I didn’t even want to think about the possibility of breaking down or getting stuck out here. I hoped his two-way radio worked. And that someone was awake at the other end.

We still had many hours left in this grooming run. Jim told me that 8 to 10 hours at a time is his preference, but when he fills in for one of his buddies occasionally, it can mean a 22-hour marathon that I didn’t even want to think about. After my first four hours, all my thoughts were focused on my warm, soft bed where I’d dream of riding smooth, smooth trails.