Diary from Bell 2 Lodge

OUT TO THE LAST FRONTIER
—MEMORIES BURNED INTO MUSCLE FROM AN INDELIBLE POWDER JOURNEY

9:12am. Jetset anticipation.
The roar of the jet engines wake me from slumber as we whip high and fast through white cirrus. Below me stretches the Coast Range. The inside passage, once sailed by Captain James Cook, stretches into the distance off to the west, while the wild mountains of British Columbia dominate the east. The orange glow of a morning sun refracts a thousand shards of light from glaciers far below. I keep the sunglasses on. All I can see out the hazy window are first descents.

10:33am. Windblown to Smithereens.
Smithers airport is a patch of icy tarmac. I glance around and recognise a few skiers with their racoon-eyes; suspicions are confirmed as the two-metre bags clank through the carousel. Soon, we are shaking hands: there’s Jaime, a guide with Last Frontier Heliskiing, all nimble smiles, and a handful of European guests, zoned if not zonked from the timewarp across the Atlantic to this far Canadian outpost, and yet visibly excited as we step outside into the cool air and spy, in the distance, the massive mountains that surround us. Without further ado, our luxury coach arrives. The next few hours pass in conversation, sleep, and Scrabble as Jaime fills us in on the terrain. It’s huge, he says — bigger then anything we’ve ever seen. We devour fresh sandwiches as the coach rattles over a well-worn road dwarfed by four metre snowbanks. The Stewart-Cassiar Highway appears to lead into the middle of absolute nowhere – a very snowy, mountainous nowhere.

5:48pm. Home by the firelight.
Bell 2 Lodge, home of Last Frontier Heliskiing, glows warm in the twilight wood, its yellow cedars buried by a monumental snowpack. Bags are tossed in a snowmobile sled, and I amble in for the first briefing with our lead guide, Jeff. Soon we are immersed in a world of weather, terrain, and the primal hunt for powder. Plans are set — we will take off first thing in the morning after beacon practice. Then we’re off to our cozy chalets through corridors of snow. The air is crisp, and the orange evening light flickers across the surrounding peaks, which stretch, tantalizingly, in all directions. I get lost — but find the hot tub, yoga room, snow cave, fire pit, and outdoor ice bar. Then I stumble across my cabin, with sprawling king-sized bed, hot shower, and a roaring wood-burning fire. I like this place.

8:47am. Up the bird
Anne is at the helm, our Québecois chopper madame, guiding the graceful, 5-seater A-Star into the cold air. First peak, first run, and we are out the door. Beacons checked, skis clicked, and Jeff leads the way down an untouched bowl of sparkling smoke-dust. I am last to roll, and let loose into high-speed airplane turns, screaming into the wind, rooster tails flourishing. We’ve finally landed, and are reaping the benefits of over seven days of storm that dumped untold metres of powder prior to our arrival.

10:38am. Valley of the Gods.
Two hours later, after riding all manner of descents into alpine valleys of blue spruce, we set out to explore deep into a new valley. Tucked behind our last peak, the golden line awaits us: we’ve unearthed a small nirvana of pillows and christmas trees, thigh-deep in champagne blower powder. The usually staid Germans giggle with glee: they’ve never skied anything like this. Me, I’m a BC boy, and I line the pillows up against the crackling cartilege in my knees, and bounce down at speed, popping and airing, whooping and hollering, sprays of white gold flying high over my head. I am a powder cowboy incarnate…and yes perhaps slightly delusional

11:24am. Powder hound unbound.
The summit reveals itself as wispy, low-lying clouds part. Jeff prepares us for the 700 vertical metre descent. The line is a Shangri-La. From the alpine bowl we slip past haunting cornices. Spindrift floats against the sun; snow crystals hang suspended as if in slow-motion. A natural halfpipe, carved out by wind, is ripe for slashing and smearing. The playful terrain spills out into a wide meadow, where we surf powder, skiing without speed limits. The yellow bird is far down below, a mirage in the mind’s eye. It is the only other human artifact for as far as I can see. The powder universe surrounds us.

As before, the chopper awaits. Anne and the machine are one, dancing with delicacy, crowning each summit with a gentle touchdown. The advantage of the small team is clear: this is the way heli-skiing is meant to be, a tight crew scouting transcendent lines in massive terrain. Digital cameras fill memory cards with vast views. There are, simply, too many peaks to count. Hungry eyes scan the jagged horizon of limitless possibility.

1:12pm. Arctic hors d’ouevres.
Lunch appears by flying carpet. The guides dig out a picnic table as we bask in the sun and snow. The chef anticipates all: soups, hearty sandwiches, sausages and cheeses, nuts and fresh fruits, hot chocolate and juices, crisp vegetables and Swiss chocolate. We stock up the pockets with Toblerone, and zippers up, declare ourselves ready for round two.

4:28pm. Schnaaps & soak for the snowblind.
We gesticulate wildly as we clamber out at the lodge, recanting the day’s tales with an eye on the après. Dark amber ales and pilsner — then rounds of schnapps, as we feast on hearty meats, chili, and soup in the intimacy of the cedar-planked bar. Soon, aching quads call for the hot tub. Donning flip-flops and a fluffy white robe, I head to the sauna. After the sweat session, I let my tortured muscles relax in the outdoor bubbled bliss. Above me, crystal stars align in the deep black as the sun sets. The moon climbs above distant peaks. The snow is electrified with the ethereal, northern lights.

7:37pm. Feast of the snowfiends.
We decide on wines. Laughing at the long table are guides, chopper hands, owners and guests. Then, it’s a feast: fresh rocket salad with red and golden beets, dressed with lemon feta crumble; duck breast with jasmine rice, sweet chili sauce, and Japanese edamame; pickerel fillet with red pepper polenta, baby squash, and oven roasted potatoes. Then dessert: out of this world, freshly made blueberry cheesecake. And chocolate. We retire for ales and pool upstairs, before I am dragged into a ping-pong match. That is the last I remember as the ancient bottle of scotch is revealed from its hidden lair.

9:48am. There are strange deeds done under whitegold sun...
I am balanced between heaven and earth in the high alpine, where the Coast and the Skeena ranges collide. The mountain is indelibly imprinted on my muscles and memory. I glance far to the western horizon, where the hallowed light reveals a skier’s Kubla Kahn: innumerable slopes unfolding into the impossible distance. The pleasure dome is decreed; we are redeemed as snowy saints. Our next line sees tracks only every few years. We are not even close to the same range we were in yesterday: blue skies have granted us range to roam, and flying we have gone. We have travelled far enough to get a glimpse of Alaska.

I turn to my ever-smirking tailguide. “Hey,” I say, thinking I have a joke for his omnipotent grin — a product of knowing he lives the job of dreams. “I can see Sarah Palin from here.” Only a guffaw. He’s heard it all. Time to ski the dream of light, sparkling snow, and ghostly shadows.