Tomb

“I don’t have any winter boots,” I admit. The other end of the phone is silent for a moment. “You should be OK,” Adam says, hesitating. “Have you got running shoes?”

It is 9 a.m. and my friend Adam is preparing me for a day of power kiting, which consists of flying a kite so large that it lifts you off the ground. I found the prospect terrifying.

Adam picks me up around 9:30 a.m., by which time I had unearthed an old pair of runners. As we hit the highway, I start quizzing him. “I launch it like a normal kite, then it picks me up?”

“You won’t need to launch her,” he replies. “Once she’s out of the bag, she’ll want to fly.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to make of that, especially now that the kite was a “she.”

Adam has two traction kites, a three-metre and a six-metre. The kites are made of cloth ribbed with air pockets. The leading edge of the kite contains a series of vents that ram air in a spiral through the pockets, creating “mini-tornados” that increase the kite’s lift. The kite is connected, via long “bridles,” to a control bar. My three-metre kite has three bridles: two “power lines” to steer and a “de-power line” to stop.

My lesson for the day is the “power window.” When flying a power kite, you stand with your back to the wind. Directly in front of you is the heart of the power window, where the wind is strongest. The size of the window depends on the strength of the wind, but the basic idea is this: if your kite is skirting the “windowframe,” you’re on easy street. When your kite hits the window, shit gets real.

Throughout his explanation, Adam uses words like “extreme sport,” “crazy dangerous,” “wipe-out” and “kitemare.” I nod, confident and cool, while my stomach twists into a pretzel.

At Spray Lake, I yearn for winter boots as we trudge through thigh-deep snow. Mid-lake, we unfurl the kite. It shudders at the end of its bridles. She wants to fly, and it is only Adam’s grip on the de-power line that keeps her grounded. He cuffs the end of the line to my wrist and hands me the control bar. “If you feel at all uncomfortable or out of control, just let go of the bar,” he explains.

Then he lets her loose.

The kite leaps into the air, jolting my arms and swelling to full size as her air pockets inflate. My instinct is to twist the control bar like a steering wheel, which sends the kite into alarming dives. I quickly learn to keep the bar horizontal, rocking it left or right to steer. The kite is patient with me, sticking to the edges of the power window, occasionally brushing against it to give me a taste of what she could do.

The wind on Spray Lake is “lumpy,” spotted with surprising gusts that make me stumble. Its force is incredible, and I could tell that if I ever let the kite sit in the power window, she would take me for a ride. The next step, Adam explains, would be “butt-scudding” — letting the kite pull you, on your ass, across the lake. A lesson for another day.

When my shoulders start to ache, I let go of the bar. The de-power line tugs against my wrist and the kite crumples like a used tissue, struggling to regain the wind as she tumbles to the ground.

Adam grins and sets up his six-meter kite. He straps into his snowboard, says “See you in a few,” and lets ’er rip.

The kite propels Adam across the lake at breakneck speed. As I watch, a gust of wind knocks him on his ass, but he twists the kite through a powerful spin and is launched to his feet by her ascent.

The lake is much, much larger than I’d thought. On the flat landscape, surrounded by mountains, I lost all sense of perspective. Way off in the distance, I see a tiny line of barking specks: dogsleds. I ask Adam about them later. “The dogsledders aren’t too fond of us,” he says with a shrug. “Their dogs go apeshit when they see our kites.”

There are people spotted all across the lake: ice fishers, hikers, cross-country skiers. I realize, to my excited surprise, that nestled in this mountainous bowl is a miniature society of adventurers.

Adam slides to a stop 12 metres ahead of me.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he yells over the rushing wind, walking back toward me. He has the snowboard under his right arm, his left hand calmly gripping the control bar. The kite floats along with him, an extension of his arm.

I shuffled my frozen feet over the patch of ice they’d carved in the snow.

Pretty cool.

For more information about power kites, visit www.calgarykiteboarding.com, www.kitescanada.com or www.glorykite.com.

Every month, Mark Hopkins will bravely venture outside of his comfort zone and report back to Fast Forward. What should he try next? E-mail suggestions to mark.c.hopkins@gmail.com.