Backcountry skiing is more popular than ever. British Columbia, which has some of the most challenging terrain in North America, is the place to go if you want to ski off-piste.
On the Whistler ski slopes in British Columbia, it was a beautiful morning, and I was descending the Burnt Stew run. The wind whipped around the vents in my goggles, down my neck, and around the sleeves of my jacket as the snow beneath me hissed and chattered. Concentrate, I told myself. You must be swift.
The incline veered sharply to the left. On a midwinter Tuesday, the few fortunate skiers who were up on the mountain followed gravity down toward town and its array of luxury hotels, sushi restaurants, and boisterous pubs. Jamie Silda, my tour guide, failed to make the turn. Instead, he sped around the curve and descended abruptly into a calmer, more untamed world of blue and white.
Instead of going down the mountain, I shot horizontally across it as I followed him. My skis lost their forward motion, and I gasped as I looked up.
Skiing has dominated my winters and structured my travels for many years. travel by car. train journeys place I lived and attended college It has brought me to 15 nations over four continents, including wish-list locations like Switzerland and Japan as well as hauntingly beautiful places like Afghanistan, Kosovo, and even North Korea. However, I was flabbergasted as I stood there, less than two hours from the dim sum restaurants in downtown Vancouver.
Around me, enormous ice and rock mountains rose. Though it would take a lifetime to ski even a fifth of what I could see, it was what I couldn't see—a chairlift—that gave me the willies. From that point on, what was skied down must first be skied up, and Silda demonstrated to me that this required a certain kind of skill.
Backcountry skiing was the sole form of skiing, of course, long before the development of "six-pack" lifts with heated seats and immaculately groomed pastes. Stone Age snow hunters just strapped on their hand-hewn tree trunks and started stalking ibex in the Altai. Before the first chairlift in history arrived in Sun Valley, Idaho, in 1936, our baggy-wool-clad ancestors had to walk up Dollar Mountain to earn their turns. Now that ski resorts are getting busier and we are more eager than ever for new snow, backcountry skiing is once more in vogue.
Skiing has dominated my winters and structured my travels for many years. travel by car. train journeys place I lived and attended college It has brought me to 15 nations over four continents, including wish-list locations like Switzerland and Japan as well as hauntingly beautiful places like Afghanistan, Kosovo, and even North Korea. However, I was flabbergasted as I stood there, less than two hours from the dim sum restaurants in downtown Vancouver.
Around me, enormous ice and rock mountains rose. Though it would take a lifetime to ski even a fifth of what I could see, it was what I couldn't see—a chairlift—that gave me the willies. From that point on, what was skied down must first be skied up, and Silda demonstrated to me that this required a certain kind of skill.
Backcountry skiing was the sole form of skiing, of course, long before the development of "six-pack" lifts with heated seats and immaculately groomed pastes. Stone Age snow hunters just strapped on their hand-hewn tree trunks and started stalking ibex in the Altai. Before the first chairlift in history arrived in Sun Valley, Idaho, in 1936, our baggy-wool-clad ancestors had to walk up Dollar Mountain to earn their turns. Now that ski resorts are getting busier and we are more eager than ever for new snow, backcountry skiing is once more in vogue.
Going off-trail gained appeal when the pandemic drove ski facilities to shorten their seasons and put capacity restrictions in place. According to market research firm NPD, Americans spent over $93 million between August 2021 and March 2022 on the specialized skis and bindings required to travel beyond the lifts. Adrian Ballinger, who has scaled Mount Everest eight times and recently made history by skiing down Nepal's 27,766-foot Makalu Mountain, used to instruct 200 students per season in avalanche safety training at his Lake Tahoe school. He had 900 the year prior. Colorado's Bluebird Backcountry, a brand-new ski resort close to Steamboat Springs, offers season passes, ski rentals, and lesson bookings but lacks even one chairlift.
The backcountry skiing center of North America is located in British Columbia. Commercial enterprises are authorised to take skiers there into a region bigger overall than Switzerland. Almost the entire area is accessible to anyone willing to explore, although skiing this untracked snow is challenging because it is neither groomed nor patrolled.
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To make the most of our powder time, photographer Kari Medic and I had a two-part strategy when we got to Whistler the day before. We planned to go cat skiing for the day at Red Mountain in Rossland after first exploring the wilderness around Whistler. To do this, you ride modified snow-grooming vehicles with treads reminiscent of tank turrets up backcountry hills. We would also take several lifts in between because we are junkies. Medig, a Canadian with ice-blue eyes, is quite familiar with these mountains. He is also aware of the potential risks because he has personally experienced being trapped in an avalanche.
Brightly dressed skiers and snowboarders were lined up for the gondola in Whistler Village, which was bustling. Instead, Medic and I stumbled into the offices of Extremely Canadian, a tour company that employs former Olympians and ski-movie stars to conduct backcountry tours and teach "extreme skiing." Our own backcountry gear includes lightweight Black Diamond skis with special "tech" bindings that allow you to walk as well as ski, flexible ski boots, detachable synthetic "skins" that stick to ski bases and grip the snow for uphill travel, a beacon that enables rescuers to locate an avalanche victim quickly, as well as a shovel and a probe to speed up that rescue. The majority of those who enter these doors—from Amazon executives to college kids whose parents simply want them to be safe—coordinate practically all of it through Extremely Canadian since it may easily cost thousands of dollars to purchase. It's the ideal location for beginners.
Co-owner Peter Smart said, "The magnitude of the accessible terrain is what makes Whistler so spectacular. You may take a lift up to the best parts, spend a fantastic day in the woods, and then return to town in time for dinner.
Smart brought us to Silda, a 43-year-old woman in a ski outfit who was trim and wearing yellow. After the death of a close friend in high school led him to go on outdoor excursions, Selda, who grew up on Long Island, found his way to a profession in the Canadian Rockies.
Whistler-resort Blackcomb's skiing is located on its two namesake slopes, and the fastest way to get between them is to take the exhilarating Peak 2 Peak gondola, which is 2.7 miles long and soars 1,361 feet above the valley floor. Silda planned to lead us on the Spearhead Traverse, a challenging 21-mile path that snakes between the peaks in the shape of a horseshoe. In order to ski the Spearhead, the first skiers needed nine days and had to lug large packs stuffed with supplies like tents.
People will be able to complete it more easily over the course of a few days today thanks to the construction of huts along the route. The three shelters will make it unnecessary to bring cooking and camping supplies, although they won't be very opulent. However, they will be warm and effective works of architecture. We intended to complete the final third of the Spearhead Traverse on an out-and-back trek, staying one night at the Keeps & Claire Memorial Hut, named for two devoted Alpine Club of Canada volunteers who perished in an accident in 2007: Keeps Brenninkmeyer and Claire Dixon.
As Selda, Medic, and I sped down Burnt Stew, my pack—which just included a sleeping bag, a sleeping pad, some food, and water—felt deliciously light. We exited the course, put on our skins, and snuck past a gate separating the resort from the wilderness. As we cruised along, Silda said, "There's something truly lovely about being out here, away from loud stuff.
We spent the morning climbing and descending the hills known as the Musical Bumps. We would take off our skins as we reached each summit and tighten our bindings for quick runs through freshly fallen snow. When we reached the bottom, we resumed climbing. We eventually settled into a rhythm as we travelled, and I started to observe something unusual.
Silda crafted a brilliant plan for each ascent that kept us moving uphill while never escalating too quickly that my heart rate reached its limit. He searched the shadows to learn how the crystals felt, and he discovered wind-scoured nooks that gave less resistance. Observing him do this allowed me to think about the details of all the tiny parts that come together to form a mountain. The uphill's became just as enjoyable as the downhills when they were approached mindfully, with our footsteps acting as a brush across the impasto of winter.
By noon, Keeps & Claire were waiting for us around a corner in a semicircular pod made of wood, steel, and glass that was shining in the sunlight. Skiers were just leaving in a group.
“Whoa!” I shouted.
One of the skiers made the quip, "The Taj Ma-hut."
Yes, not your typical hut, said Silda.
We put on slippers and entered where we discovered an Alpine IKEA. Rooms with bunk beds are framed by pale wood paneling (but no bedding or mattresses). There are four cooking stations in the kitchen, cabinets full of tableware, and tables lined with blue-green chairs. The gear room has clever pulleys and racks for drying skins and boots. A gas fireplace and a reading nook are located in the corner. The hut is without plumbing (though there are foot-powered toilets). Visitors must melt snow brought in from outside to make water. We could see the 7,960-foot Whirlwind Peak beyond a wall of southeast-facing glass, but the real luxury was in the setting.
We quickly consumed aged cheddar and saucisson fernier on rosemary crackers for lunch. Then, for a day of skiing, we simply took our rescue equipment. Selda drove us to the Adit Lakes, where the cold had drained the snow's moisture to provide a quick, silky-smooth descent, and to a place called the Corral, where we discovered wonderful, fluffy snow that was deep enough to float in but not so deep that we wallowed.
That night, I slept like a baby in my sleeping bag. Silda said he intended to take us to Whirlwind Peak for a real adventure in the morning. He remarked, "It's good to stand on a mountain. With coffee and oats for fuel, we left the house before nine in the morning.
We made steady progress up a large face while riding the delicate line between ease and effort. The snow brushed against our skin. We arrived at the summit's long, thin finger around 10:30 a.m. To the northeast of here will be the Spearhead's second hut, which was previously scheduled for 2021 but has since been postponed.
Maybe to himself, maybe to no one, Silda said, "I love this."
It took us two hours to descend from the summit, which was more than a mile vertically, to Whistler Village. Everything felt incredibly loud and convenient when we were back in town. Just as I started to take off my skis for the trip back to the Fairmont Gold, a different hotel inside the Fairmont Chateau Whistler, I saw a man at the Longhorn Saloon squirt champagne onto a crowd that was cheering him on. Although reentering was painful, we still had work to accomplish.
The following day, Medic and I travelled from Vancouver to Trail Regional Airport via an hour-long flight. From there, we took a 20-minute drive to Rossland, a little community 120 miles north of Spokane, Washington. Rossland now has the delightfully retro Red Mountain Resort thanks to Olaus Jeldness, a Norwegian mining engineer with a push-broom moustache who introduced skiing to the area in 1896. We registered at the 106-room Josie Hotel, where the spacious suites had floor-to-ceiling windows, spacious sitting areas, and nightstands with gold flecks (a nod to the historic mine that gave the hotel its name). The chairlift was 23 steps away from the entryway.
Medig and I found ourselves trundling through the forests close to Roseland in the back of a snowcat operated by Big Red Cats because we wanted to go backcountry skiing more but didn't want to put in any more effort. We joined a small group of skiers who had signed up for a day of deep-powder skiing, all of whom were Americans (contractors, a weatherman, a doctor from Flint, Michigan). In contrast to heliskiing, where flights may be incredibly raucous and unsettling, cat skiing is less tense. It's an excellent first step in honing your backcountry skills, and it's much less expensive than heliskiing.
We blasted through creek beds and dropped down steep cliffs through the forests for hours. Through patches of untracked snow, we shouted and roared. Every run ended with the cat waiting at the bottom, taking us back up in a 20-minute ride while we ate sandwiches and slept. After a while, we had completed seven runs; as the day warmed up, the conditions grew more difficult until the snow was as thick and heavy as mashed potatoes. I suffered a severe fall. Snow melted down my back and caked my goggles. Our 28-year-old guide, Matt Lewis, made a joke about the fabled, invisible critter that skiers believe tangles up their skis and causes them to fall, asking, "Snow snake bite you?
They are all over now, I said.
We had time for one more run, Matt said, and it would be through trees that were as close together as toothpicks. Soon Medic and I would return to the Josie for steaks with chimichurri and Paper Plane drinks. In a throwback to the days when there were no lift lines and ancient hermit huts buried away in the forest, we would rip around Red Mountain on our final day. After all of this, using the chairlifts to the top of groomed runs would feel so effortless and liberating.
I stood there waiting for the rest of our party to begin our final cat-skiing run. They entered one by one until Lewis and I were the only ones left. I gave this simplified world of ascents and descents, inclines and declines, some thought. Then I started out into the woods, my skis navigating through the light and shadows.
In British Columbia, Pursuing Powder
Whistler
The Fairmont Chateau Whistler, a ski-in/ski-out hotel at the foot of Blackcomb Mountain, is the epitome of luxury. Bookings for Fairmont Gold provide guests access to a private level with a lounge, separate check-in area, and concierge service.
The go-to place for creative after-work bites like elk tartare and tuna and Dungeness crab éclairs is Alta Bistro.
Extremely Canadian: The guides at this seasoned outfitter are the best in town, whether you're putting your ski legs to the test at a day clinic or going big on the Spearhead Traverse.
After a long day on the slopes, unwind at the Scandinavia Spa Whistler, which offers outdoor hot tubs, saunas, and cold plunge pools surrounded by spruce and cedar trees.
Roseland
The Velvet Restaurant & Lounge at the slope side Red Mountain property, The Josie, attracts a vibrant clientele with its robust main dishes including Cornish hen with Saskatchewan chanterelles, sweet corn, and Yukon Gold gnocchi.
Enjoy the six-course "Trip Around Italy" menu at Gabriella's Restaurant, which highlights lesser-known Lombardy and Calabria among other lesser-known regions of the country.
Have a milk stout at the unassuming brewery in the middle of the city, Rossland Beer Co.
Big Red Cats: Over 20,000 acres of great terrain, this tour company offers day trips for cat skiing.