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Alta states: A week at Whitecap

Self-propelled paradise in our own backyard
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"Wipe your feet before you come in the house!"

-Ron Andrews, owner/caretaker of legendary McGillivray Pass Lodge

 

You can just see Whistler Blackcomb from the top of Prospector Peak. Barely 40 kilometres to the southwest as the raven flies, its spider web of runs seems light years away from the wild environment in which I now find myself. And I can't help but marvel at the diversity of experiences that this uniquely-blessed mountain region offers.

To the north and east, almost at the other end of the tenure, is the huge massif called Whitecap (the highest in the area at roughly 2,950 metres). Further west is the distinctive face of Weinhold, with its gap-toothed couloir and impossibly steep approach. In between these rocky sentinels thrust the lofty slopes of Royal and McGillivray and Star. Everywhere I look, in fact, offers up major skiing possibilities. And it makes me happier than I've been in months.

I'm the quintessential kid in a candy shop, my head swivelling around the compass quadrants like a spinning top on a wood floor. I'm in paradise.

But enough dilly-dallying. The sun is setting fast. The cold of the approaching night begins to insinuate itself insistingly inside my down jacket. At an altitude of 2,455 metres (just a smidgen over 8,100 feet), the summit of Prospector isn't the kind of place on which to linger. Particularly not in January. But I can't help myself. It's just too beautiful a place to leave.

Besides, I want to make sure I'm rested for the thousand-metre-plus descent back to the valley...

I mean, getting to the top of this monster was no mere cakewalk. We've been climbing steadily for six hours, the swish-swish of our ski skins against the snow the only sound interrupting the holy silence that surrounds us. Must have covered nearly a dozen kilometres - and loads of vertical. Even had a couple of runs along the way. And my eyes have been busy the whole time. Land of grizzly bear and wolverine, soaring eagle and inquisitive whiskeyjack, the high-country surrounding McGillivray Pass is like no other I have ever visited.

And I'm not exaggerating. Really. A mix of monster alpine summits - some of the highest in the Coast Mountains - and skier-friendly glades spread over an impressive 8,500 hectares, the terrain accessed by Lars and Ron Andrews's Whitecap Alpine operation is a snoweater's dream-come-true. Steep drops, untouched snow, aesthetic lines - a full panoply of skiing experiences await those willing to hike for their turns. And gauging by the people who've travelled from near and far to spend time at the lodge this week, the international ski touring community has definitely discovered this gem.

Which makes me wonder. With the industrial ski resort model struggling to fill the yawning gap made by the steady withdrawal of the fast-aging baby-boomer cohort, is it not time to inspire ourselves from the past in order to move forward into a more sane (and, dare I say, more environmentally responsible) future? I mean, how much simpler can you get than slapping on a pair of skins and climbing for your turns? How much more traditional can you make it than by sitting by the fire in a cosy log home sharing ski stories with other like-minded enthusiasts?

I first heard of McGillivray Pass Lodge back in the early 2000s when Colorado-based Matchstick Productions decided to eschew their annual Whistler Blackcomb shoot in order to fly their adventure-skiing film crew deep into the Bendor Range to stay with the Andrews at their remote mountain redoubt.

With a helicopter parked at his doorstep (and with a near-illimitable flying budget to work with), ACMG-certified Lars - one of the first Canadian-born mountaineers to become an examiner for the guides' association - proceeded to blow the athletes' minds with the quality of the local skiing. The stories that came out of the mountains after that shoot were nearly too good to be true. Whistler hotshots Smiley Nesbitt and Ritchie Schley raved about the skiing. International star Seth Morrison was just as laudatory about the terrain he had tested.

But at the time, nobody but the insiders knew exactly where they'd stayed. All we knew was that the team was bivouacking "somewhere" on McGillivray Pass...

"That was all planned," says Ron Andrews, the faux-curmudgeon who makes everything work at Whitecap. "You see, I refused to let them post the name of our lodge or our company in the film. Why? Because I just couldn't agree with Matchstick's message to the kids about hucking huge cliffs and taking unnecessary risks." He harrumps grumpily. "I still don't..."

Still, the word was out. If you wanted big lines and weren't afraid to climb for them, Lars and his team of young, dynamic guides and guides-in-training could deliver the goods like almost nowhere else in Western Canada. Of course, Whitecap also accessed more mellow terrain. But what set this outfit apart from most others were Andrews's unique mountain guiding abilities and his willingness to push the envelope in search of just the right itineraries for his clients.

"For me," says Lars, "skiing isn't just about going downhill. There's something really special about climbing to earn your turns - especially when you're surrounded by such great beauty." He stops speaking. Sighs. "That's the biggest challenge for us at this juncture in our business: to get people to realize just how much fun - and accessible - this kind of skiing really is."

Built like the proverbial brick ordure house - with short red hair, small blue eyes set close together and a square chin covered in a month's worth of ruddy growth, Lars is nothing so much as a mini-hominid version of the local grizzlies who prowl the meadows outside his home in summer. And his skiing and climbing reflect that ursine power. As does his straightforward talk. "My whole idea with Whitecap Alpine is not to get carried away and grow this company ultra-fast," he explains. "You see, I want to enjoy what I'm doing. And I won't be able to do that if I'm too busy building the business."

But it's not like he doesn't have big goals for the future. "I have this dream of bringing visitors to British Columbia - both in summer and winter - for a week of totally exclusive experiences. I want to give them everything our mountains can offer: terrain, elevation, weather and wilderness. The whole B.C. package." A slight pause. "I can easily see it happening in my imagination. I just have to make sure I've got the timing right..."

Indeed. And if the timing is right, both father and son could do very well in the upcoming years. They're not going to become millionaires, that's for sure. But for two intense mountain lovers like Ron and Lars, getting paid to introduce guests to such an inspiring locale is worth all the hassles that running a heli-accessed lodge business entails.

Like so many other backcountry operations in B.C. - and like the way it was for so many years throughout the mainstream ski business - Whitecap Alpine is very much a family operation. While Lars runs the actual ski-touring business, Ron takes care of the 40-year-old log cabin and its ancillary buildings. Whether it's fixing the generator or hooking up the showers, repairing a propane leak, shovelling mountains of snow off the old roof or just making morning coffee for his thirsty guests, the indefatigable 66 year old never stops.

A grab-bag of muscle and sinew, the guy is impossibly fit for his age. His much-scarred fingers are thick and calloused; his hands are huge and work-worn. But as busy as he is now - as full as his daily work agenda can become - age has definitely mellowed him. "You're so much less stressed than you used to be," says one long-time visitor. "In fact, you're much more pleasant to be around than you've ever been in the past."

Ron just rolls his eyes. "That's not what my wife would say," says the retired veterinarian. And then he's on to another task.

But enough talk. Now I need to concentrate. My climbing skins are off, my bindings switched from walk mode to ski mode, and my boots are buckled tight. Below me is a narrow couloir called Going For Gold that drops 500 vertiginous feet off Prospector's northwest flank to rejoin the main glacier below. The light is flat, the wind has risen and the sun is sinking fast behind the mountains. No time for theatrics. I'm all business.

I take a deep breath. Let the beauty of my surroundings etch itself deeply into my psyche. It's now or never. I push off and feel the edge of my skis dig into the soft snow. Then time stops. I'm floating on a sea of white. Effortlessly dropping from turn-to-turn. No thought now of the half-dozen kilometres I still have to negotiate to get back to the lodge. No thought of the blisters on my heels, or the hunger in my tummy or the fatigue in my limbs. I'm mountain flying. And for the moment, that's all I care about.

For more information (especially for Olympic-time specials) see whitecapalpine.ca.