‘Girl powder’ group finds its own rhythm
CARIBOO MOUNTAINS, Canada — In early morning I boarded a Bell helicopter, after a 3 1⁄2-hour drive from Kamloops, for the 10-minute shuttle to luxury timber Cariboos Lodge, set amid snowy, forested wilderness on the banks of the Canoe River, not far from Jasper, Canada.
As a blizzard swirled around my ski group, a safety briefing introduced us to the radio and small backpack with a probe and rescue shovel we would carry daily as well as transmitters we strapped on each morning.
Then we headed to the helipad for helicopter etiquette and safety.
Dawn the next morning arrived with sun, bright blue skies and more than 14 inches of fresh snow that had transformed the sub-alpine trees into snow ghosts.
We started the morning with a 7:30 stretch class and lodge manager John Mellis’ trademark yodel at 8 before he delivered the day’s briefing at breakfast.
Then we grabbed our skis and assumed the hunched “heli-huddle” position at the pad to avoid being bowled over by “rotor wash” as the chopper landed alongside us.
Heli-skiing is an iconic Canadian sport, and Austrian ski guide Hans Gmoser, whose Canadian Mountain Holidays pioneered what is now one of the world’s top adventures more than half a century ago, is considered its father. Even today, much of the world’s heli-skiing takes place amid the dry Champagne powder of British Columbia’s interior.
Our helicopter, carrying eight women ages 24 to 65 with limited powder experience, rose quickly, banking over granite spires, glaciers and endless snowy peaks.
We touched down softly on a broad mountain ridge. We leaped out, huddling again as the “thump-thump” of the helicopter rotor resonated through my chest.
The chopper took off, leaving us in deep silence amid the white world of the Cariboos, a subrange of the Columbia Mountains. Around us was skiable terrain with a 550-inch annual average snowfall.
I snapped into my bindings, breathed deeply to beat down the adrenaline, and took off through untracked powder on the Bratwurst run. Although it seemed as if we were in the middle of nowhere, the guides knew each of the area’s 319 runs, with such names as Teeter Totter, Shark’s Tooth and Enchantment High.
We were a diverse and enthusiastic group: a mother and daughter; several wives whose husbands had headed out for the day with more advanced groups; a father and bubbly daughter — we made a male exception for the delightful Bill — and several single women thrilled to experience this sport in a noncompetitive environment.
We carved our way down to the tree line, following JF through glades with widely spaced trees. Then we bundled our skis, heli-huddled and shuttled in minutes to the summit again in the warm chopper.
Floating downhill, we left contrails of powder hanging in the air. We wiped out. Our skis popped off. We struggled to our feet and put ourselves together again in yard-deep powder with the help of Erika Flavelle, our Czech guide whose job it was to “pick up the pieces.”
We laughed. We cheered when someone triumphed with an amazingly curvy run. Then we hopped in the helicopter and did it all again.
There were opportunities throughout the day to quit early and head back to the lodge for a hot tub, sauna, massage and 5 p.m. après-ski snacks at a spacious bar alongside a fireplace-warmed living room.
Dinner was fine dining family-style at long tables, marvelous meals created by chef Nick Catherine, formerly of the Fairmont Banff Springs.
Though we skied together during the day, our group mingled with the other lodge guests, a total of 42, who included Swedes, Australians, Germans, Americans, Canadians and 22 Dutch skiers. Some guests have been coming annually for up to four decades. About 60% of CMH clients are return customers.
Our vertical-drop descents were logged daily and posted on the bulletin board. Reach the status of the Million Footer Club and CMH awards you with a special ski jacket and pants.
As the days passed, the camaraderie and bonding cemented friendships on the slopes and over local wines and craft beers.
By our last day we were getting the hang of skiing in knee-deep powder and there was much downhill howling with happiness. After all, we were on our way to becoming full-fledged powder hounds.
By the time we choppered out at the end of the week, I only had 980,478 vertical downhill feet to go to become a Million Footer.