Skip to content
Join our Newsletter

The Ultimate Christmas Present

The Ultimate Christmas Present By G.D. Maxwell "It doesn’t get any better than this." Like some crazed mantra, Brad Russer was repeating himself… for something like the hundredth time in the last three days.

The Ultimate Christmas Present

By G.D. Maxwell

"It doesn’t get any better than this." Like some crazed mantra, Brad Russer was repeating himself… for something like the hundredth time in the last three days.

What it doesn’t get any better than is having nearly two metres of snow fall when a spring storm roars through the Cariboo Mountains. Sure, we had some sympathy for the unfortunate souls who’d encamped the week before us at the lodge and who had to amuse themselves with indoor games the last three days of their stay. But there are no friends on powder days. Better them than us.

And it sure doesn’t get any better than a strong ridge of high pressure moving into the area the day after we arrived. Accompanying gentle breezes sucked moisture out of the snow, turning it from wet and heavy to powdery and light. Warm spring weather returned as did bluebird skies, both promising a bit of corn snow later in the week.

Beyond argument, it certainly doesn’t get better than new snow, steep, long runs, constant fresh tracks, no lineups and the prospect of heli-skiing almost 200,000 vertical feet over the course of a perfect week in the middle of April.

Add all that to the fact Brad was living his ski bum dream, compliments of his fiancé winning this trip in a contest, and brother, you could understand why his face was contorted into a Joker’s grin from the moment this adventure started till sometime long after he’d returned home to Colorado.

Still, it was wearing thin.

"It doesn’t get any better than this," he repeated for good measure.

I counted down: 3… 2… 1. "I’m getting paid to be here." I let it hang in the silence that followed.

A knowing look of incredulity erased his frozen grin. "Okay. It gets a little bit better," he agreed.

But it absolutely, positively, beyond argument, doesn’t get any better than that.

That’s not to say if someone close to you – possibly even yourself – figured out how to wrap a week of heli-skiing at one of Canadian Mountain Holidays’ idyllic lodges in bright Christmassy paper and slip it under the tree with your name on the card it wouldn’t qualify as The Ultimate Christmas Present. It would. Oh Santa Baby, it sooooo would.

A Simple Formula

Over the last 35 years, the alchemical magicians at CMH have tweaked and honed all the components of the ultimate glissehead experience into a seamless package. The elemental aspects of the formula are simple. Start with 20,000 square kilometres or so of rugged, majestic, B.C. mountains bearing quaintly Canadian names like Cariboo, Monashee, Bugaboo. Add reliable snow each winter that generally measures in the hundreds of inches. Build nearly a dozen substantial lodges in isolated, drop-dead gorgeous valleys, sites carefully chosen to reconnect harried, urban adventurers with the awe-inspiring power of nature at its grandest. Furnish the lodges simply but comfortably. Don’t forget the bar… the sauna… the hot tub.

Then staff them with two star chefs who understand the firestorm of hunger a day’s snorkelling through deep powder can work up. Throw in efficient, friendly housepersons, equally at home making your bed or holding their own in a conversation on world politics over a nightcap. Add a couple of strong-handed masseuses to knead your weary body, a riproaring chopper pilot or two who can set a Bell 212 down on a skinny alpine ridge a mountain goat might think twice about traversing, a full-time mechanic to make sure the beast stays safely in the air, and a couple of ski techs to keep the equipment waxed and sell you just the right piece of gear if what you brought just doesn’t cut it.

Scour the world for even-tempered, keen-eyed, level-headed mountain guides. Men and women who can ski anything effortlessly. Leaders who can read weather and snow conditions and thread a line down steep couloirs, across endless glaciers and between seemingly impenetrable forests of old growth fir and cedar. Coaches who can instil confidence in their charges, encouraging them to push their limits and expand their boundaries.

Package the whole kit ’n’ caboodle into a high-touch, guest-centred adventure holiday. Remember your guests’ names, preferences, prior visits, cumulative vertical skied. Stay in touch with them. Lure them back. Treat them right. Make them beg for more.

Simple, eh?

And does it work? Ask Art Dion. Last season, Art reached a milestone few others have, or ever will, hit: 15 million vertical feet skied with CMH. No, Art’s not a guide. And it took him the better – way better – part of 22 years to log that kind of mileage. But time flies when you’re having fun.

Or even when you’re not. Rifling through the Cariboo Lodge’s library on a rainy Saturday afternoon, arrival day, I stumbled on the collection of guest logs. The earliest, 1976 – two years after the lodge was built – contained passages of poetic ecstasy. It also contained passages like this one. "Can’t believe our shitty luck. Rained five days, got in half a day skiing. Best skiing in my life."

Best skiing in my life? Well, that was my experience too. Except the rain of Saturday stopped falling on Sunday and for the next six days, 38 guests, four guides and a handful of staff tracked out fresh powder throughout the company’s tenure in the Cariboo Mountains. Every run. Every day. All day.

Good Luck Beats Good Planning

To say we hit the conditions just right, to say we were lucky, is an understatement. For a blissed-out week in April, a week when we should have had, at best, spring conditions, we had a perfect combination of sun, heat, cold, dry and, most particularly, a fundamentally stable snowpack. John Bentson, chief of neuroradiology at UCLA and an inveterate heli-skier – closing in on five million vertical feet at CMH himself – was logging his 12 th trip to the Cariboo Lodge. We skied runs that week he’d never skied before. We skied runs even the guides hadn’t skied for several seasons. That was the luck we were riding.

It could all have gone so differently. When the storm finally passed on Sunday, after a rain-soaked session of transceiver and avalanche recovery practice and a solemn, lodge-bound lunch, most of us had pretty well given up hope for the day. We’d moved on to working out in the gym, lazing in the comfy lounge or shooting some low-stakes eight ball.

And then the bell rang. Bells are an integral part of the CMH experience. Staff walking through hallways, clanging bells, wake you at 7 a.m. The same bells call you to breakfast and dinner. They motivate the dalliers to the helicopter staging area. They are incessant without being obnoxiously intrusive.

When this particular bell rang, the whole lodge sprang into action. Like firefighters, we dropped books, cards, and cue sticks. We left the wheels of stationary bikes spinning, drinks half drunk, sentences half spoken. It was orchestrated chaos, a scramble back to rooms to pull on ski clothes, boots, gloves, helmets, goggles. All that was missing was a brass pole.

Before we knew it, we were plowing our way through thigh deep Wet Coast powder. Thick, heavy, almost viscous, in places more like chilled quicksand than snow. The weather was changing quickly. Remnants of a five day system scooted down the valley as chilled air and patches of blue sky moved in. We were relegated to lower elevations and picked our way, buddy system, through trees barely yielding passage. Looking back upslope from the chopper’s pickup spot, we could see tracks emerging. But we couldn’t see spaces between the trees. Puzzling.

At dinner, in the big dining room where guides and staff serve it up family style, there was an electric buzz. Newbies could be heard exclaiming the afternoon had been the best skiing of their lives. Sage heli-skiers – anyone who’d been at least once before – applauded their enthusiasm while letting them know the best was yet to come. John Mellis, lead guide that week, confirmed the prognosis: high pressure moving in, clear skies, perfect conditions in the forecast.

The next day proved John right. What had been wet, heavy snow had morphed overnight to silken champagne powder. Swishhhhhh , our fat Volkls whispered down a run called Exsemius, the white noise punctuated with repeated yelps of joy as people finally got a first taste, or reminder, of what we’d all come for. Andrew, our group’s guide du jour, led us through a panorama of B.C. backcountry. From high ridges through sweeping mountain valleys, in and out of widely-spaced trees, through a recent burn area where skeletal remains of giant fir punctuated the landscape like a blurring barcode, into a natural terrain park of pillowsoft hits and bumps and small air opportunities. No two runs were quite the same, each better than the last… or so it seemed.

With military efficiency we yo-yoed our way from one ridge to another, always making fresh tracks. Divided into four groups, we never seemed to wait long at pickup points for Gord Crollet to thwap downvalley for another pickup. Like some malevolent, steroidal dragonfly, the big Bell 212 responded gracefully to his touch, often landing gently within inches – okay feet – of where we hugged the snow, penitents before an altar, witnesses to the Powder and the Glory, pilgrims seeking enlightenment.

We clipped off a memorable 30,000 feet before returning to the lodge where all-knowing chefs had prepared a snack of fresh veggies and dip, pizza and bar snacks. Knosh in one hand, invigorating beverage in the other, we sought refuge in the hot tub or sauna, reliving the day’s runs, arguing with no real conviction whether Enchantment was better than Morning Glory, Twilight better than Dream, knowing they’d all been the best.

Except that the best – and the worst – was yet to come.

Some Good News… Some Bad News

The worst came on Wednesday. With temps spiking on Tuesday afternoon, western aspects of the slopes Wednesday morning were a treacherous, unskiable mask of unpredictable, impenetrable crust. Often was heard a discouraging word… but the skies were not cloudy all day. Things softened up. Those who stayed the full day – ample opportunity was available for people to return to the lodge – were rewarded with by now familiar powder on northern slopes and creamy corn snow as the afternoon warmed things up.

By Thursday, you’d have thought people would know better than to pack it in at lunch. But despite the group all being pretty strong skiers, the 100k of vertical we’d notched so far in the week left enough campers convinced the gentle ministrations of Werner and Russell – the lodge’s masseurs – were preferable to pushing their jellied legs any further. Enough of them left to reduce the groups to three. Pity that. Because what happened the rest of the afternoon left those of us who took part in it with memories we’ll dredge up until we simply stop remembering anything at all.

Heliski vets might opine at length about the advantages of January or February trips, the copious dumps of downy fluff topping their list of arguments. But one thing you can be sure of in April – the days are longer. Climbing into the chopper around cocktail hour, Dave Gully, our day-one guide reprising his role, looked at me and grinned. "Goin’ home," he said.

What the hell? I could use a tall, frosty drink. Goin’ home didn’t sound so bad even though we still had enough light for another run or two and at least one of my quad muscles still worked.

Gord seemed to practice his aerobatics on the trip home, just topping notched ridges and dropping in near-weightlessness down into the precipice on the other side, banking hard enough to offer unique views of treetops and generally scaring the bejesus out of us. Nice to see a man who enjoys his work. In the pitch and yaw it almost didn’t register we were crossing the Canoe River valley upstream of the lodge.

Then the penny dropped. Going Home. We’re not going home; we’re going to ski Going Home.

Meanwhile, back at the lodge, the radio crackled with the news. The lodge’s PA system hummed to life. The announcement was made. "They’re skiing Going Home."

The skiers who’d gone back early didn’t grasp the meaning of the announcement. The staff did. Cooks wiped their hands, turned temperatures down to idle and headed for the deck. Last round was called at the bar. Massages were brought to a premature conclusion. Laundry was left unfolded. The buzz was palpable and the guests’ knew from the staff’s reaction something was up.

So did the guides. You could feel Dave’s excitement, hear it in Johnny’s voice over the radio.

Gord set us down on top of a large, round dome of snow. The lodge lay thousands of feet below, a Lincoln Log toy set in an endless forest. Dave got serious. "I’ll go first. No one goes until I’m down. One at a time, carefully. Don’t stop." There was just enough gravity in his delivery to offset the high amp smile on his face. He disappeared.

From the lodge, Going Home looks steep. A deceptively gentle slope leads from the top of the peak to skier’s right and into a wide, seemingly vertical face, plunging until it gets folded into a closer ridge and disappears.

From the top, it’s a receding, convex dome. You approach it gradually and can’t see over it until, well, until you’re over it. By then you’re committed. The steepness of the pitch – probably 48º – and the gaping run opening below, cause involuntary sucking noises, stifled gasps.

Turn, sink, turn, sink, turn… snow sloughs at each turn, each pole plant. A controlled speed is just about the same speed at which the snow sloughs down the slope. Ten turns in, the illusion is more body surfing than skiing. The steep pitch lets the fat skis sink deeper than usual. Weight forward… freefall through the arc. Weightlessness… silence… euphoria. Twenty turns, thirty, this run seems endless. Gain speed, ski through the leading curl of slough, hold a turn, let it catch up again. Part of me wants to make infinite, perfect turns; part of me wants to dive head first into the next turn and somersault out.

At the lodge, rail space on the southwest deck is at a premium. Oohs and aahs, bravos, encores are exclaimed. Pools of jealousy ripple, happiness over our good great fortune rides precariously on their surface.

It’s over. Breathless, rejoining the group, I stare like those who’ve arrived before at my tracks, their tracks, the widening comb essed down Going Home. Impossibly high above us, one of the snowboarders misses a turn and starts tumbling in slo-mo. It looks mirthful, slapstick. He ragdolls head over heels, once, twice, threefourfive, mirth turns to worry. He’s airborne, tumbling. Worry turns to horror. He finally stops. Thumbs up. Relief.

The rest of the pitch is melodramatic. Unmemorable. We’re all overloaded. Our systems suffering ecstasy shock. Bodies slide down to the pickup site; hearts and souls stuck somewhere back there, thirty turns into the pitch.

Seats facing Going Home were at a premium that night in the dining room. "Look. That one’s my line," was heard more than once, eyes straining to differentiate one track from another in the gloaming. A bond formed, a slight differentiation between those who had and those who hadn’t. During dinner the guides told us none of them had skied Going Home in, couldn’t remember, maybe three or four seasons. Conditions weren’t often right. Dumb luck wins over good planning more often than most of us would like to believe.

The last day and a half was skied in the shadow of that one run. Another 40k was added to the week’s total, now pushing nearly twice the guaranteed 100,000 vertical. Then it was over.

Except it’s not. Powderpigs live in the shadow of a powerful addiction. Doubtless when the scientists wading through the mountains of data falling out of the Human Genome Project solve the crippling mysteries of cancer, Hodgkin’s disease, multiple-sclerosis and other human scourges, they’ll turn their attention to that rogue bit of DNA that drives people to strap boards onto their feet and seek out high, snowy places.

Till then, CMH will be the King of Pushers and those of us struggling with the ravages of this all-encompassing addiction will do just about anything we can to buy their product or whine for someone to buy us The Ultimate Christmas Present. We have to.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

Feed your own addiction. Everything you need to know and pictures you’ll want to see are at www.cmhski.com



Comments