Driving Porsches On Ice, Finding The Inside Edge

Author Maggie Stiefvater travels to Porsche’s winter playground and discovers the hard stuff underneath the powder.

I was going to write about my Porsche Camp4Canada experience, but I’m not sure it really happened.

On paper, the camp seems real. It’s just one of Porsche’s several Driving Experiences designed to help the affluent enthusiast understand all the vehicular hijinks you can get into without voiding your warranty. Come hither, Camp4Canadas urges: drive cars in the snow. It’ll be fun! It’ll be educational!

It might’ve been a dream.

My flight from Virginia followed close on the heels of the so-called Snowpocalypse. The storm had put a three-foot pillow of snow over my state’s head until its legs had stopped kicking, and so I dug myself out of domestic snow in order to recreationally drive in exotic snow. On the plane, my seatmate was a traveling salesman, an evolutionary marvel of immutable smiles and unflinching eye contact. Before we landed, I asked him if he enjoyed his life.

“100 percent!” He was all teeth. I didn’t think he’d blinked since we took off.

I was headed to drive Porsches on ice and even I’d have only said 85 percent. I feel the 15 percent crap is important for the rest to seem relevant. “Really?”

“100 percent!”

100 percent is a lot.

Camp4Canada began with a drivers’ meeting at the resort. Ordinarily these cover physics and safety regulations, but this one focused mainly on the healing power of fun. Techno music underlined caffeine’s effects as a screen displayed Porsches sliding pluckily around like seals on mind-altering substances.

How much fun?

100 percent.

A bus drove us to Mécaglisse, the hosting track. Snow fell softly in huge, lazy flakes, improbably perfect before a mountainous backdrop. As I climbed out, an enthusiastic cry startled me. A group of preternaturally lovely women in matching red coats with fur hoods waited outside, beaming and cheering for – I wasn’t sure. Their elation suggested they hadn’t seen other humans for months, like they’d been frozen in this snowy remote paradise until the bus’ arrival had magically woken them. The Porsche Sirens of Mécaglisse high-fived everyone before showing us to the cars.

Oh, the cars.

The pit area was a jewelbox wonder of 911s and Caymans, impossibly appealing against the snow. Everyone was bareheaded and handsome as they buckled up. Other driving schools require helmets and five-point harnesses, roll cages and fire extinguishers, but not Camp4Canada.

Don’t worry, Porsche said. You’re safe here.

How safe?

100 percent.

They weren’t wrong. The day proceeded with the surreal internal consistency of a dream. We easily drove rear-wheel drive cars with several hundred horsepower around an ice-solid skid pad. On the slalom, cars spun out in gentle slow-motion while instructors and hostesses smiled with the bright patience of proud parents. My driving partner drifted neatly while looking at her in-car camera the entire time.

“It’s just that easy,” she told it.