Cold Comfort

No, it’s not the lair of Dr. No, it’s the spa everyone in North America is talking about: Swarovski’s Sparkling Hill Resort just outside Vernon.

I’m half-naked and fully terrified because I’m about to flash-freeze myself at -110 degrees Celsius. I’ve made the trek to Sparkling Hill Resort, a new $122-million luxury hotel perched on a rugged mountaintop between Vernon and Kelowna. I’m here to test North America’s first cryotherapy spa. And why not? After all, -110°C is only 108 degrees colder than the freezing temperature of meat.
I’m set to indulge in a spa treatment called "whole-body cryotherapy." Common in Europe, it’s designed to help recovery from depression, fatigue and musculoskeletal disorders, none of which I have. What I do suffer from is a lifelong intolerance to cold. I’m skinny and bald, so if there are three ice cubes in my cocktail, I shiver and shake like a Skoda climbing Rogers Pass.
At first blush, the resort resembles the private lair of an Austrian baron. Which isn’t far off the truth. The financier of this palace is Gernot Langes-Swarovski, patriarch of the Swarovski crystal empire-and it’s the first hotel in North America to feature his family jewels, which are everywhere. The walls of Sparkling Hill are studded with 3.5 million crystals, worth $10 million-a nice bit of excess to distract me from the harsh, cold reality I’ll soon be facing.
On the lobby staircase, there are crystals snaking down each step, as if a jewel thief forgot his loot sack and dropped more than he could carry. There are crystals in the saunas. Crystals on the backs of chairs. There are crystal "fireplaces," which are basically a pile of crystals lit with red pinlights. Even the men’s bathroom logo guy is made of twinkling crystals. There are so many crystals here it’s like stepping into Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.
I figure the best way to sturdy myself for the upcoming deep freezing is to quickly slap on a few extra layers of "insulation" at the resort’s restaurant, the Peak. Chef Ross Derrick is only 27-a freewheeling age when things like freezing saunas hold no fear-but he attacks his job like a seasoned locavore, creating new menus daily from the ingredients he selects on his way to work. My "last supper" is pan-roasted halibut on wild rice, peperonata and oyster mushrooms-phenomenal, but I fear it lacks the excessive fat and calories necessary to keep me warm and alive.
And despite the lofty environs, the staff are friendly in a casual, B.C.-interior way. To wit, the young woman who came to my door and handed me "a new wine bottle to replace the one you drank." Hmm, maybe she just wanted me to detox. After all, Sparkling Hill is staking its reputation as a wellness spa. Their giant 40,000-square-foot KurSpa offers six saunas and steam rooms, plus over 100 spa treatments featuring "pure thermal water, Dead Sea salts, volcanic dust and essential oils." But the KurSpa’s showpiece is their cryotherapy treatment. I’ve resisted it till my last day. But it’s finally time to enter the human meat locker called the Ice Lab.
I’ve been told that regular trips to this cold sauna will also reduce insomnia. Which is good because I haven’t slept much since I agreed to be frozen to death. Hans-Peter Mayr, the general manager and CEO of Sparkling Hill Resort, swears the cold sauna will make me feel better. He says, "the endorphin rush is immediate, as soon as you walk out, giving a sensation of wellbeing and energy."
Curiously, the lab attendant tells me to wear as little as possible. "If you wear a bathrobe, it traps moisture so you’ll feel even colder," she says. So I dress in short shorts, runners, mouth mask, earmuffs, and puffy white Mickey Mouse gloves, which I’m pretty sure is Richard Simmons’ daily outfit. Not even Clooney could look cool in what I’m wearing.
Turns out the Ice Lab is actually three six-by-six-foot deep freezes connected by steel doors. Like a contestant on Let’s Make a Deal, I start with door #1. I suck a nervous breath of air, then enter the first freezer. It’s "only" -10 degrees Celsius, brisk and nipply, but manageable without a wind chill. I nod at the attendant and she hurls open door #2.
The second deep freeze is -60 degrees Celsius-and now it hurts. I can feel my whole body recoil, tighten and, ahem, shrink. Apparently lots of people bail out at this point. Not me. I’ve vowed to try everything legal this year, so I nod at the attendant who opens door #3.
This is it. I grit my teeth. Suddenly I’m slammed by -110 degrees of whoa. This cold is severe. You’re supposed to keep moving but there’s slippery frost on the ground. So I pace in small careful circles, like an old dog looking for a place to lie down. My chest flutters. I’m on the verge of freaking out. They pipe in elevator music, but I can’t hear a note. By 90 seconds I’m stung by a searing headache. At two minutes, ice crystals hang from my eyelashes. And after 2.5 minutes…well, you know how they say snow feels warm just before you freeze to death?
I don’t feel that at all. I was just colder than anyone has ever felt except for Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining. Then suddenly-fwoosh-the chamber door swings wide. I’m released! I lunge outside and gulp in the hot air. My skin ripples and shakes, like it’s dancing around a campfire. I feel amazing! I’m going to live forever! James Bond has just escaped the clutched of Blofeld. I am invincible.
And then I rush to my crystal-lined suite, quickly pull on three layers of clothes, dive into bed, hide under the duvet for two hours and drink half a flask of scotch to kill the shivers. But I’ll say this: that night, no dinner has ever tasted so delicious, so rich, so life-giving. Because there’s one magical thing about whole-body cryotherapy: like bagpipes, puberty and closed circuit TV coverage of municipal town council meetings, it feels so marvellous when it finally stops. wl