Hurry hard to Revelstoke to get swept up in curling
This small B.C. mountain town has a long history with the sport, and is attempting to revive it
REVELSTOKE, B.C.— In my mind it’s a beautiful thing, the stone spinning out of my hand with a perfectly steady counterclockwise turn, sliding effortlessly down the sheet, cruising all the way to the button without even a single stroke from the sweepers, with me gliding likewise, perfectly — even majestically — behind it.
But that’s not what happens — no, not at all. Pushing out from the hack on shaky legs, my left leg threatening to give way before finally holding true, I deliver a stone that’s pitifully light, one that — despite my pleas for those sweepers to hurry! hard! — fails to even cross the hog line.
It’s a snowy Friday night, and I’m one of dozens who have chosen to kick-start the weekend with some drop-in curling. Begun about a decade ago, this weekly event brings in the curious and the eager, many hailing from countries around the world, mostly ski and snowboard bums looking to learn a Canadian tradition.
It’s a hot ticket: taught by an all-senior, all-volunteer staff, the mostly under-35 crowd often lines up outside before the doors even open.
Amountain town located in the heart of B.C.’s interior, Revelstoke has a long curling tradition, with curlers almost a century ago hauling their own stones and bushy corn brooms out to the frozen Columbia River and local ponds to play.
The current indoor rink opened in 1963, and club vice-president Deb Munroe recalls the halcyon days of the 1970s and 1980s, when everything was smooth sailing, their four sheets of ice perpetually filled with members both day and night. “We used to have league play seven days a week, with a draw during the day and two in the evening,” she remembers.
But as their membership aged and the sport’s popularity waned, the club faced financial challenges. Enter Friday night drop-in curling, which, Munroe says, got a significant boost from the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver. “They saw it on TV, and they wanted to try it,” she says, noting that it quickly became a social event, everyone here to meet new people.
The $5 entrance fee — plus the money made from selling reasonably priced pitchers of beer — have been a boon to the club, and a cast of Canadians, Aussies, Kiwis, Danes, Swedes, Germans and others keeps flowing through the door and out onto the ice. “Most of those who come here, this will be their only chance to curl,” she explains.
That’s certainly the case on the dark, snowy night when I visit.
Joining a small group of young firsttimers, we’re led through a lesson in the game from Bob Holland, the club president and a Friday night volunteer. First, we slide on rubber covers over our street shoes — “grippers,” in curling parlance — to keep us steady and safe on the ice. Then Holland walks us through the basics of the game, everything from how to throw the rocks to the scoring system to the sweeping — and when it’s appropriate to hurry, hard.
None of this is new to me. Growing up with a Manitoba-born father who started curling in high school, I spent my childhood watching the national championships — the Brier and the Scotties Tournament of Hearts.
Inspired by what I saw on television, I even, on occasion, transformed our linoleum kitchen floor into a fair approximation of a curling rink, pasting down a house with masking tape coloured by blue and red crayons, my dad and I then competing, taking turns sliding yogurt containers weighted down with hockey pucks to my jury-rigged rings.
And every Boxing Day, for several years, my uncle rented out the local curling rink so we could form ad hoc teams and have a sort of family bonspiel.
But apparently none of that translated to actual athletic skill on the ice.
Alittle frustrated with my performance, I wander over to the other three sheets, striking up a conversation with a group of friends. Two of them — Cameron Lackey and Tasmin Porter — recently moved from Whistler and are here for the first time. Hailing from Wodonga, Australia, Porter readily admits that she had only the foggiest idea of the sport.
“We had to show her a picture today,” Lackey explains, although Tasmin says that only raised more questions.
“I was like, ‘OK, what do we do with the brooms?’ ”
But, together with friend Jonathan Sullivan and a full cadre of Aussies, they all say they had a great time. “It can be intimidating, but you come in, and the volunteers are all so patient and kind,” he says. “And everyone’s on the same level. Everyone is struggling and having laughs.”
After joining them for a pint, I notice a steady progression from the ice to the warm confines of the upper-level lounge, the beer flowing steadily as the volume rises in the room, everyone recalling their misadventures out on the rings.
Looking out the big windows, I notice just one couple still at it on the ice, just the two of them, taking turns throwing their stones.
Munroe had told me that a few of the newbies end up actually joining the club and, re-affixing my grippers, I wander out to the rink, wondering if these two may be candidates to join.
It’s quiet out there — I see Holland and Munroe a couple sheets over making minor repairs to the rink, and find Germans Florin Zepernik and Christina Raub with their game faces on. Asking him how he’s doing, Zepernik says, “I’m disappointed — last end was better,” before asking me to let them finish before we chat.
In town for a few months as part of a bigger trip around the world, these two have become regulars since seeing something in the local newspaper and attending their first Friday night.
“It’s a lot harder than it looks,” Raub says.
But they both tell me they enjoy it. In fact, Zepernik is considering opening a club back in Berlin, with plans to visit the Revelstoke rink during the day to see how they make the ice as part of his research. Yes, it would be a novel and interesting business opportunity — but mostly, it would simply give them a place to play.
“I love it,” he says. “We’re hooked.” Tim Johnson was a guest of Tourism Revelstoke, which didn’t review or approve this article.