Skating on Native Ice

Most people don't associate ice-skating with Arizona, although we do have a professional hockey team, when they're not on strike. We also have public rinks in Phoenix and Tucson, plus one outdoor rink in Williams, just west of Flagstaff. But never mind all that organized ice.

This is a story of canyon skating on Arizona's "native ice." "Canyon skating" may not qualify as a real term, like downhill skiing or snowboarding, and it is certainly not something tourists travel to Arizona to do. But, fortunately, places like the Grand Canyon draw all the tourists, leaving the many smaller canyons to the locals.

I never put backcountry hiking and native ice-skating in the same sentence until one Thanksgiving Day on a little family outing. My brother, a carpenter in the Phoenix area and an admitted desert rat, announced that he would like to do a bellyslide across a frozen pool in Pumphouse Wash, a small canyon near my home in Kachina Village outside Flagstaff. He backed up a few feet and eyed the long frozen pool cupped in a small slot of red-brown sandstone. We fell silent for a moment, wondering if he was serious, then he was off and running. Just as he approached the pool, he did a low belly-dive as if he were stealing second base. We watched him glide until he stopped about 2 feet from the other side. He lay motionless for half a second before scrambling to his feet and reaching for the rock bank and stumbling on ice we were sure would break. It didn't.

Canyon skating wasn't exactly born on that day, but we planted the seeds. I convinced others we would find frozen pools if we hiked farther into the canyon in the middle of the winter, although I was more curious than certain. That same January, we hiked deeper into Pumphouse Wash, a canyon that begins just south of Flagstaff and eventually reaches Oak Creek Canyon. We soon found frozen pools dotted along the canyon bottom.

Canyon skating was in an early evolutionary stage: a group of friends running around on ice in hiking boots. Dogs joined in.

Falling was considered more a sign of proper effort than lack of skill. Yelling loudly bothered no one with the possible exception of curious wildlife watching from a safe distance. We celebrated with hotdogs cooked over an open fire and beer before hiking out of Pumphouse Wash.

The small canyons around Flagstaff channel water to bigger creeks, then rivers, such as the Verde and the Little Colorado. They are home to red-tail hawks, eagles, deer, elk and even black bears and mountain lions. Perhaps, though, we were the endangered species-the rare middle class of Flagstaff: the teacher, firefighter, biologist, small-business owner, musician and photographer all redefining the "cost of living" by simply living.

Last fall, in the spirit of cheap thrills and the anticipation of winter, I spoke of our well-kept secret. Sliding around on ice was fun (and free) enough to do at least once a year; all agreed. This time I suggested that we actually wear real ice skates, a suggestion met primarily with polite nods. "Sure," they said. "That would be great." It wasn't exactly the beginning of a lengthy conversation, but it did raise a couple of questions: Did I know how to ice-skate? Did I own any ice skates? My answers were fairly honest: "kind of," and "no, don't you?

Canyon skating would not be suppressed for a mere lack of ice skates. I had an Alaskan friend at Jay L. Lively Ice Arena in Flagstaff who offered me a pair of skates for a day, free of charge. He was another Flagstaff resident who stayed in town, turning down other jobs to live in the high country with winters mild enough to enjoy snow and sunshine in the same week. Smiling, he wished me luck.

Northern Arizona had just welcomed a fresh layer of powder with open arms. The storm lasted two days, snowing steadily. On our first official day of canyon skating with real ice skates, the sun rose to see the storm on its way east. Roads were still icy and pine branches sagged with caked snow occasionally brushed by a lazy wind.

canyon skating was in an early evolutionary stage:

As a group of friends running around on ice in hiking boots. dogs joined in. HARD DAY'S DELIGHT An unexpected snowfall proves challenging for the "perfect skating rink" search party. Equipped with a shovel, borrowed hockey skates and a pair of cross-country skis, McGlothlin and Black trek across powder-laden Coconino National Forest property (opposite page) before descending into the icy, wet narrows of Oak Creek Canyon (left), where they and their four-legged companions trek approximately 2 more miles.

Because the Forest Service roads leading to the trails were closed for the winter, we parked at a pullout off State Route 89A near Oak Creek Canyon. We began our trek across a blanket of fresh powder, as yet undisturbed by human feet.

We descended through the surreal landscape, stopping at the canyon bottom to appreciate the sunlight and the random breeze. Looking back up at the rim, we wondered if we were in a glass ornament being handled by a child anticipating Christmas. The canyon walls caught the first sunlight, the red rocks with golden-brown and silver-grey patterns contrasting with the cool glare of fresh snow.

We crossed the confluence of James Canyon in a symphony of birdsong. Shaded by large oaks and old-growth pines, we found our frozen pools. We studied the frozen pools that we had stumbled and slid upon last year, but this year's warm winter had made the ice dangerously thin. No one was interested in tempting hypothermia. Not 50 yards farther, the canyon bends to create a wall that shades the creek bottom, where water had carved the sandstone like a divine sculptor. And at the foot of it all, ice.

After some shoveling and grooming, it was time to skate. Since we had only one pair of skates, we took turns racing around our little canyon rink while the others kept the ice groomed and clocked time trials. We attempted to build speed in the short stretches before the corners. Above us, the bright sunlight melted the fresh blanket of powder off of the canyon walls and tree boughs. Small streams began to flow from the rock walls.Hiking out on the disappearing snow, which would soon become water flowing through Oak Creek Canyon, we stopped a few times to look back down with a tug of regret for the melting of winter. The canyon bottom faded from our sight as we reached the top of the rim, and we began our walk back to the highway, grateful for what would be this winter's final storm. Maybe next winter will be cold enough for canyon hockey. Al Doug McGlothlin is a former wildland firefighter and now a high school English teacher who enjoys wandering in the state's lesser-known canyons with his dog and friends. He lives in Flagstaff.

Geoff Gourley enjoys accompanying imaginative writers on harebrained adventures to beautiful and unusual places. He lives in Flagstaff.

Online Slip and slide away at other skating, skiing and snowboarding venues at arizonahighways.com (Click on the December "Trip Planner").