My Impressions

Photos by Peter Dorfinger and Martin

Gears shifted in our last week in BC and the skiing would become excellent again. Not that this had much to do at all with our being in better physical shape after three weeks of driving, hotspringing and, yes, some ski touring. Luck played a role. But the main reason was that our environmental conscience went out the window, the distances covered on the road became ridiculous and we started resorting to unsound means of locomotion in the mountains.

Deep powder in Kimberley and Panorama

We left Kootenay Pass eastward bound for Kimberley. Annikki had bid farewell in Nelson on Sunday morning, from where she would cross the US border on a bus to Spokane and catch a flight back to San Francisco. As enjoyable as a road trip with us was, we did not blame her for having enough after a week. The see-saw temperature cycles would continue and mercury dropped to well below -10°C again. Fresh snowfall seemed likely although we still failed to make sense of the weather patterns. All areas were clearly dependent on westerly low pressure systems from the Pacific but where and when snow would fall seemed completely arbitrary.

While Peter was trying to nurse his back pain with intensive hot tub and sauna therapy on the first day at our rental apartment Kimberley, Martin explored the mountains around St Mary Lake. Many photos of possible touring routes were taken before the incoming storm would cloud visibility. Possibilities seemed endless but most mountain bases were, yet again, only accessible by driving on logging roads or riding snowmobiles. We still didn’t have a radio to tune into the truck traffic and the four extra wheels we carried on the roof of our car brought us no closer to having a sled. Plans were made to return to St Mary Lake the next morning, do a few kilometers of approach on skis to climb the back of a mountain and ski an avalanche chute back to the lake shore. But then we met Jason and his buddies in the hot tub.

St Mary Lake

Jason was a local snowboarder in his 50s who had many stories to tell. His favorite smell was that of helicopter fuel, he had been buried in three avalanches in one season (and manifestly survived) and seemed to have had most of the bones in his body broken at least once in his life as a mountain biker. He was also friends with a number of Canadian mountain bike pros who had been our teenage VHS heroes in the 1990s. We listened to Jason in something between awe and disbelief. After a brief exchange of pleasantries and our reassurances that we did not live in the area and could therefore be trusted not to disseminate inside information, we were invited us to join a gasoline-assisted tour the next day. Now that was an offer we could hardly refuse. Jason, on the other hand, assured us that that his attitude to risk had changed since becoming a father.

We met up the next morning in the parking lot of our apartment block, which had been covered overnight with some 15cm of fresh snow. We were joined by his friend Steve, infamous for roaming the backcountry on his own and thus locally known as Solo Steve. A Ram truck carried us effortlessly to an undisclosed location in the Rocky Mountains across the valley from Kimberley. Steve radioed periodically to ensure that the logging road was clear. After unloading the sled and being shuttled at little higher, we climbed through thick forest in heavy snowfall. Miraculously, this area had received about three times as much snow as anywhere else in the vicinity and laying the skin track was hard work. Peter and Jason were struggling to keep their skins attached, a problem temporarily fixed by duct tape (see here for further information about this piece of equipment) and ski straps. Somewhere close to the tree line, however, Jason threw in the towel. Martin joked that a bonfire could keep him warm while waiting for the rest of the group. We followed Solo Steve a little higher towards the ridge but soon turned back too amid frightening whumpfing noises of a thick and fresh snowpack settling on the harder layers underneath. While pulling off skins, Martin wondered why the air smelled burnt in the middle of a snow storm. Steve said he had no sense of smell. After a first few bottomless turns in waist-deep powder, we reunited with Jason who had calmly lit a fire in a tree well on the edge of the forest. Martin was relieved that the rest of the forest was not on fire. The remaining descent was heavenly and may well have been the deepest snow we skied during the entire trip. A machete would have been a useful piece of equipment on the way back through the forest.

Secret spot, Rocky Mountains

A non-negligible reason for our heading back east after Nelson was that Peter had found last-minute availability for a daytrip with RK Heliskiing, an operator of a disturbingly unsound and the least environmentally friendly means of mountain access. Unsurprisingly, Jason was the first-ever snowboarder to have flown in RK’s helis in the 1990s. He would have joined us in a heartbeat had he not, as he explained, been grounded by his wife for family duty after three consecutive days of touring and other follies. We were reassured that RK ran a legitimate operation and that the skiing would be excellent, provided that we would share the helicopter with skiers of comparable aptitude.

We bid farewell to Kimberley and drove two hours north to Panorama early on Wednesday morning. Despite 400$ in repairs, the heating in our car worked no better than during the previous spell of Arctic cold and we gladly checked in to the RK Lodge at Panorama at 7.45am. A few breakfast sausages, security briefings and a 5-minute flight later, we were in the midst of the Purcel mountain range, atop a ridge at 3000m elevation and surrounded by impressive mountain faces and glaciers. Quite a change from endless approaches and skin tracks! The helicopter was shared with a group of eight German tourists who were on what they referred to as a ski safari and had never skied off-piste before, i.e. skiers a semi-respectable Austrian would not consider of comparable aptitude. We were worried that we’d spend the rest of the day doing laps on the flattest part of the glaciers. But enough of stereotypes and inappropriate comments about skiers from countries with no mountains. The scenery was breathtaking, the weather sunny and cold, the snow excellent and the terrain got steeper as the day progressed. We did a total of seven laps and may well have had the best day of skiing in four weeks. Our pilot explained that the Bell 212 we were in consumed some 400l of jet fuel per hour of flight. We made some rough calculations and felt guilty but quickly refocused on skiing. Peter nearly finished the day on one ski after taking Martin’s good advice to carry some momentum for a turn too literally, but John, who guided our group, helped us relocate the missing blank several 100 meters lower.

Breakfast at RK Lodge

Unsound means of transportation and skiing in the Purcel Range

Final Rocky sunset

Rossland: cats for skiing and gin & tonics after skiing

Another questionable means of transportation was used the following day. Big Red Cats had given us a literal raincheck for the day of cat skiing, and rescheduled our turn for this week. Cat skiing refers to a method of cheating in the mountains similar to heliskiing, except that a modified snow cat is used to haul skiers to the top. Big Red Cats were based near Strawberry Pass, two-thirds or so of the way between Nelson and Rossland. That area had gotten much less snow than Kimberley, Panorama and the Rockies. But we did what we had to do, drove some 400km west, away from the freshest snow and back across Kootenay Pass close to where we had come from, to spent the night in Castlegar. The next day featured some more security briefings, an eclectic group of Americans, Canadians and one Australian in the back of the cat, all of roughly comparable aptitude as skiers, cold temperatures and tree skiing. A conversation with Bert, our driver, confirmed that the 300hp cat consumed significantly less fuel than a Bell 212 helicopter. We did 12 laps, which were each short but fun with playful pillows and a bit of air time, but did not find a single strawberry between the trees. The snow was better than expected. An unnecessarily strict no-alcohol policy of Big Red Cats seemed to be creeping into late afternoon, as only our Australian skiing mate stuck around at the parking lot for a beer. We soon moved on to Rossland proper.

Big Red Cats at Strawberry Pass

Rossland would become our last stop in Canada. Peter felt an obligation to report back to work by 14 March, which would leave three days to return to San Francisco. Martin failed to convince him otherwise. Accommodation seemed, yet again, scarce. After a few drinks at the Flying Steamshovel, Martin stumbled upon the number of Angela’s B&B and rang. An entire vacation apartment was available but Angela was concerned that she would not be able to offer us coffee for breakfast because she had ran out of cream. As it happened, our supplies still held half a pack of milk and we booked without hesitation. Eventually, however, we would brew our own coffee the next morning. Angela, a British lady in her 70s, had moved to Rossland in 1976 for a season of skiing. Although she was taking a break from skiing due to a bad leg and adhering to a strict gin & tonic regimen to avoid alcohol in favor of cardiovascular medication, that season had not yet ended in 2022. We were welcomed with several of her gin & tonics, among other treats, and listened to four decades’ worth of ski bumming stories before nearly passing out in the hot tub. Angela, who also spoke French and some German, was puzzled that our Austrian skiing vocabulary held no translation for face shot, a powder skiing term (see here for a concise definition) she and her friends had bestowed on a cocktail mixed of snow, orange juice and cheap champagne. The cheap was emphasized. Heavy-heartedly, we turned down invitations to stay longer and ski Red Mountain with Angela’s friends but promised to come back another year, when there would be more snow.

Angela’s B&B

The long way home: Washington, Oregon and a final day of hotspringing

Weather seemed unfavorable to take the detour through the northern Cascades in Washington so we spent the next day driving some 500 miles trough endless flats, across Columbia River and on to Bend, Oregon. Mount Hood and several of the volcanoes in the region loomed large in the sunset. Although winter seemed to have ended long ago at this latitude, we were unable to find out whether roads were clear of snow to access ambitious one-day tours up one of the Three Sisters. Oddly, our guidebook seemed to say that ski touring at the Three Sisters was best in summer and would require at least two days with a camp along the way.

Back in the US of A

A decision was made to attempt something more manageable, and we headed towards Paulina Peak, another volcano south of Bend. We had coordinates of two hot springs by the shores of the crater lake on the far side of the crater rim from the peak. After a 6km approach up a closed road, as Peter’s stomach was struggling with the Thai dinner the night before, we decided to pass the peak to our right and head straight up the left side of the rim to ski straight down into the crater. It would have been a lie had Martin claimed that he didn’t appreciate this shortcut. The descent was short but the springs and scenery made up for any regrets about the quality of the skiing. Although burnt butt cheeks from bubbles emerging from the ground were a constant risk, we soaked facing the frozen crater lake in water whose temperature we could conveniently modulate by regulating the flow from the lake. Beavers swam between and skidded across the floating ices sheets. The scene seemed unreal and too beautiful to leave. We had come full circle since leaving California nearly a month earlier – the hot springs were center stage again.

Paulina Peak, Lake and Hot Springs

In the evening we met up with Florian, a German-born pilot, entrepreneur, adventurer, and eternal ski bum Francis and Martin had met on a ski trip through Oregon three years earlier. Florian and his friends, who all claimed to also have adult jobs but spent the winter working at Mount Bachelor ski resort and its ski school, were celebrating the final day of an eight-week skiing program for elementary school kids from Bend. We needed little convincing to join the celebrations for this occasion but had to turn down, yet again, an invitation to stay and ski the next day.

Last night in Bend, Oregon

Grudgingly, we set course southwest and arrived in San Francisco on Sunday evening. Annikki welcomed us with beers on the terrace of the Silicon Valley Castle.

Back in California