Curling is a hot sport during Montana’s cold winters. The attraction is in its egalitarian appeal.
WORDS BY EDNOR THERRIAULT
ILLUSTRATION BY HALLE HAUER
On a misty day in Scotland during the Little Ice Age of the 1500s, a shivering Scotsman muscled a large stone out onto the frozen surface of a pond and sent it skidding across the ice. “Hmm,” he thought, (or more likely, “Aye,” he thought), “What if a lad were to fashion some kind of target or goal over there, and teams could take turns sliding stones back and forth in a game of skill?” He noticed that the stone’s path had a faint arc to it, something of a curl. His logical next step was to set upon inventing beer.
While this scenario may not hold up in court, it’s generally accepted that curling has its roots in Scotland; a squarish rock with “Stirling 1511” etched into its surface was recently found when a pond in Dunblane was drained. In the ensuing five centuries, the sport became standardized and has grown steadily, especially in Canada. In the last few years, curling’s popularity in the U.S. has risen quicker than a kilt in a windstorm, due in part to Team USA’s dramatic victory in the 2018 Olympic final over Sweden to bring home the gold.
Curling is hot during Montana winters with established clubs in most bigger towns, many of them working toward the goal of a dedicated ice facility. So what’s attracting so many Montanans to this weird-looking sport that some call a cross between shuffleboard and chess, with a little sweeping thrown in? For one thing, it’s curling’s egalitarian appeal.
“As soon as you come out to an event, you’ll see all these body styles, all these different delivery methods. It’s very adaptive and inclusive,” said Harmen Steele, president of the Missoula Curling Club and secretary of the Dakota Territory Curling Association. The participants who show up at local ice rinks for learn-to-curl events bear him out. Married couples, parents and children, old timers, bearded hipsters, people of all abilities and ages will compete against each other. The ice is a great equalizer.
To boot, curling is a gentleman’s game. Honor is everything. There’s a refreshing lack of animosity between the competitors. Opponents shake hands before and after every match, and good shots are celebrated while bad shots generate zero trash
talk. After a match, teams will usually gather over a beverage to socialize. “I did a lot of other sports when I was younger,” Harmen said. “A lot of toxic culture. Now, I wouldn’t want my kids doing any of that [stuff]. Curling is so friendly. There’s a camaraderie.”
But why is there so much yelling? And what’s with the sweeping? Before I say much more, let’s get our footing on this slippery sport. Each team (or rink) has four players, one of whom (the skip) calls the strategy. Eight innings (ends) are played, with each player throwing two 20-pound stones (rocks) per end. Opponents alternate their throws from the same end, pushing the rock toward the center of the 12-foot-wide target (the house) at the other end of the 146-foot long court (the sheet). A stone must stop inside, or at least touch, the house to score. A team gets a point for every stone closer to the foot- wide bullseye (the button) than the opponents’ closest rock. And there’s a bit of defense involved: Players can attempt to place guard rocks in front of their potential scoring rocks to prevent the opponent from blasting them out of the house with their last salvo (the hammer).
Tweaking the amount of curl and speed on the stone is the job of the sweepers. This sudden, furious sweeping might be the most befuddling part for us non-curlers. I mean, that’s the kind of sweeping I do when I hear my wife pulling into the garage and I suddenly remember that I’d promised to clean the kitchen floor. Well, it’s for more than just drama. The thrower usually puts a slight rotation on the stone at release, causing it to curl left or right. At the hollered directions of the skip (“Go! Hurry hard! Stop!”), the sweepers try to make the rock travel farther and/or straighter by sweeping directly in its path, melting a bit of the ice surface and reducing friction under the stone. Early curling brooms featured wood handles and long bristles, much like you’d see on a witch vehicle. Short-bristled push brooms eventually came into vogue, along with lightweight, carbon-fiber handles. Nowadays the broom head is a cushioned pad with a durable fabric covering that’s slightly rough. Imagine a Swiffer that would scratch the hell out of your Pergo.
Side note: In 2015, a scandal known as Broomgate rippled through the curling world. It involved a high-tech broom head arms race that resulted in brooms that were a little too good, actually degrading the ice during the games. It was a powder keg that created deep factions in the genteel culture of curling, and very nearly put an end to the sport. There’s a CBC podcast that lays it all out in a breathless narrative that rivals the best Tom Clancy spy novel.
Curling ice is incredibly specialized, right down to how much particulate is in the water. Before play starts, the ice is given a pebbled surface, like the skin of a football, by spraying droplets from a hot water tank. This gives some grip and uniformity to the rock’s travel. The tips of the “pebbles” are shaved off by a contraption called an Ice King, which looks like the love child of a rototiller and a snowblower. Even the shavings from that are carefully swept away. Ice must be kept as clean as humanly possible to provide a consistent surface for a rock. In an arena that hosts several hockey games a week, that’s a huge challenge.
Most curlers would agree that there are two versions of the game—one played in a hockey arena, the other in a curling facility as seen at the highest levels of the sport. Arena ice, as it’s called, is so full of ridges, dips, and other irregularities left by skate blades and the Zamboni that it’s akin to golfing in a cow pasture. Curlers must “read” the deformities in the ice surface during a tournament (called a bonspiel). The team that learns the ice first, they say, will win the bonspiel.
Indoor ice that’s not routinely chewed up by figure skaters, hockey players and the Zam allows the sport to be played in its purest form. While observing a recent bonspiel in Butte, I overheard a female curler talking between matches about her first experience on dedicated ice. “I played in Minot [North Dakota] last year, and my god. It was insane. The shot that you’re trying to make can actually happen. It’s night and day.”
Harmen explained strategy and technique at the bonspiel as we watched the playdown among seven Montana teams over the three-day event. I remarked on the empty bleachers, asking why there were almost no spectators.
“Well,” he said, “It’s cold in here.” He explained a dedicated facility would have a warmed area for viewers to watch on big screens or through the glass. Missoula is currently the club closest to realizing their own dedicated facility, with plans to throw the first rock down that sweet ice by the next winter Olympics.
This fall I got the opportunity for some practical education at Missoula’s Grizzly Ice Rink, where Harmen showed me the basics of delivering the rock. A curler wears a grippy rubber footie on one foot and a slick slider on the other. In the delivery, the thrower angles their broom handle across their back to serve as an outrigger, providing balance as they put most of their weight on the sliding foot directly underneath them, dragging their other foot behind, and holding the rock’s handle in their throwing hand. Once set, they kick firmly off the hack, the C-shaped block attached to the ice. Their momentum carries them forward, and they gradually take their weight off the rock, releasing it before they cross the hog line. By now they’re balancing on three points—their left foot, broom handle, and trailing right foot. When done with proper form, they’ll look like a hood ornament.
That’s the idea, anyway. When this couch-trained, middle- aged writer assumed the position, I felt like I had a golf shoe on my right foot and my left was on a banana peel. Harmen guided me into position at the hack and placed two rocks in front of me. “Don’t even throw the rock,” he said. “Just kick off, keep your weight on your left foot, and hold yourself up with both rocks. You’re just going to glide. See how that feels.” I crouched, looking around to see who was making popcorn. It was my knees. I put my slippery left foot beneath me and gripped the rock handles, carefully balancing my weight over the two rocks while my right foot found the hack. “Good,” said Harmen. “Now slowly push off.” I pushed off, trying to drag my right foot behind me like I’d seen the other curlers do. My left foot squiggled wildly as I slid behind the rocks, trying to lower myself. Next thing I knew I was face down on the ice, legs and arms splayed out like a frog ready for dissection. The rocks were heading for parts unknown. My quadriceps in both thighs were screaming in pain, strained from being suddenly called into use. My right ankle hurt. My pride was throbbing.
Harmen helped me up. “Don’t worry,” he said, trying to suppress his laughter. “It takes a while to get this part down.”
I’d love to tell you that I mustered my courage and swallowed my pride enough to give it another go, but my once-dormant body parts were giving me a clear message: No más. I thanked Harmen and left the ice to sit in the penalty box and watch the rest of the club go about their practice session. My respect and admiration for these athletes grew immensely. I decided to stick to shuffleboard.
Ednor Therriault has been criss-crossing Montana for 25 years, poking around for interesting stories. His program “Finding Montana” is one of the most requested from Humanities Montana’s Speakers Bureau, and he’s published eight books about Montana and its national parks. His latest title, Big Sky, Big Parks, was released last year on TwoDot. He lives in Missoula with his wife, Shannon, and tends to go into semi-hibernation after Halloween.
Halle Hauer is a Bozeman-based graphic designer and illustrator, drawing inspiration from the stunning scenery and diverse activities abundant in Montana.
