Spirit of 'Jackrabbit' Johannsen lives on in inaugural northern trail event

The spirit of Herman "Jackrabbit" Smith-Johannsen showed up – for real – at Mont-Tremblant's Domaine Saint-Bernard for the start of the inaugural Jackrabbit Classic last Saturday, and he spooked the life out of me.

It was 6:15 a.m. ET. The sun wasn't yet up, and as I struggled into my cross-country skis in the dark, desperate to catch up with the field of 275 skiers who had already set off ahead with hoots and hollers, I looked up and my head lamp shone right at Jackrabbit's ghost. 

I yelped – then grinned.

Of course, the Norwegian-born pioneer of cross-country skiing in Canada had shown up: The Canadian Ski Marathon organizers made sure of that.

Never mind that "Jackrabbit" died at the age of 111, back in 1987. This event was named in his honour – a test run for the new northern trail which might one year soon become a permanent section of the 50-year-old marathon.

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For half a century, the annual 160-kilometre, two-day event has run parallel to the Ottawa River between Gatineau and Lachute, but the trail west of Montebello is in trouble as climate change robs farmers' fields of snow cover.

Because Saturday's event was a trial run, with a sparse team to offer support along the trail, it was open to experts only. I don't qualify – but I talked my way in.  

Alone in the woods

Those determined and experienced enough to go the whole distance to Montebello, 103 kilometres away, left me and my skiing buddy Pam Reimer in the dark.

We watched them take off across a clean, white field, their lights bouncing off the snow.

We never saw them again.

So for kilometre after kilometre, we were alone: alone as we watched the sun rise at 7:23 a.m., just north of St-Jovite. Alone as we skied through a magical forest of red pines, planted by schoolchildren decades ago in what is now the Arundel Nature and Science Centre. Alone as we tramped up a private mountain trail "loaned out" for the day to the event's organizers, the only sounds our breathing and a chipmunk as it skittered across the trampled-down track ahead of us.

It was as if we had winter to ourselves. 

Blue wax and date squares

We did, eventually, pass a few fellow stragglers, exchanging queries about waxing. We sounded like pros: Two layers of green grip wax, three layers of VR40 Blue Fluor.

This, we had learned from the patient and deliberate Éric Miquelon just the night before.  

We'd picked up our race bibs, and the volunteer at registration said, in her best English: "Éric is here from Swix. He can give you a great lesson in farting."

How could we say no to such an offer?

Fartage, in case you wondered, is the French word for "waxing."

Miquelon's advice worked, and we shared it freely.

But we saved our real secret weapon for friends we caught up with at kilometre 47, where the old rail bridge crosses the Rouge River: Veteran skier Anne Nicholson's espresso-laced date squares.

Those date squares were hand-delivered by my significant other at the bridge after an urgent text from me when I realized they'd been forgotten as I packed up in the dark at 4 o'clock that morning.

Horses on the trail

Along the way, a couple of horses had broken through a fence and galloped ahead of a pack of skiers.

They must have been a lovely sight to behold, but by the time we arrived, we could only guess at the story from the hoof-holes and, um, manure messing up the manicured track.

We were ever so grateful to snowmobilers who stayed off those tracks – usually their highway – until all the skiers had passed.  

We were less happy about the few impatient ones who didn't wait for the stragglers and revved their engines as they passed, way too close and way too fast. 

Thanks, volunteers

It is the volunteers who make these kind of events go off without a hitch, and those who policed the trails and shoveled fresh snow across roadways were our guardian angels.

The soup wasn't piping hot by the time we arrived at the 40-kilometre mark at Arundel town hall with 12 minutes to spare before the cut-off time of noon. But at that moment, it was the most delicious soup we'd ever tasted, and the guys from the Arundel Outing Club who handed it to us made us feel like rock stars.

Bruised rib forgotten

One hundred and four of us made it to the 62.3-kilometre mark at Boileau and a whopping 102 completed 103 kilometres to make it to Montebello – the last one over the line at 7:43 p.m. ET.

I have already forgotten about my bruised rib after my ski caught on exposed gravel on a descent down a narrow back road and just how exhausted I was when I hit the 60-kilometre mark – presumably my finish line – only to discover thin ice and poor snow cover had forced the trail-makers to make a few detours and add a couple of kilometres to the planned route.

Instead, I am planning to improve my technique and pick up enough speed so that next year, if indeed the Jackrabbit Classic becomes an annual event, I will go the distance and make it all the way to Montebello – just as "Jackrabbit" Smith-Johannsen used to do himself, winter after winter, bushwhacking all the way from Piedmont to the Ottawa River.  

His spirit lives on.