I’ve finally hooked one. A surge of adrenaline flows through my body as the line zings through my reel and my salmon takes off for deeper waters. Careful now. Don’t slip on the rocks. The current is strong here and I’m nearly waist-deep in it. Any wrong move at this point and I’m swimming… something you really don’t want to do in the frigid waters of the Talachulitna River.
Besides, I’m determined to land this fish.
I can’t believe the fight this guy is giving me. Called king salmon in Alaska (we refer to them as chinooks or springs in B.C.), these North Pacific monsters can reach weights of 50-60 pounds by the time they return to their home rivers to spawn. Mine is closer to 35 pounds — but that’s plenty big. With the fast-flowing current and the king’s fierce drive to survive, he’s as much as I can handle right now. Time and again I wrestle him in to shallow waters — only to watch helplessly as he fights his way back into the main current. It’s like an aquatic tug-of-war. Pull hard, watch the rod bend nearly in half, reel in as fast as possible, and then hold steady while he counter-attacks. My forearms scream with pain. My feet scrabble uncertainly across the pebbly bottom. I’m not sure I can hold on.
My guide, Olympic downhill champion Tommy Moe, is standing right next to me, giant net in hand, coaching my every move. He’s smiling as usual, and totally calm. Every now and then he casts his eyes over the three other fishermen in our group to make sure everyone is safe. A large-bore handgun is strapped tightly against his chest. Around here, pilgrim, you never know when a hungry grizzly might show up on the banks of the river looking for an al fresco fish lunch.
And suddenly I feel the need to pinch myself. Was it really only last night that this same group was unloading from a helicopter at Top of the World deep in the Tordrillo Mountains? Barely eight hours since Tommy had led us on a late evening ski outing — our first in this remote Alaskan Range? Seems hard to believe somehow…
Especially given how exotic last night’s adventure was. Imagine, if you can, skiing high above primordial glaciers while the midnight sun lightens north face slopes almost like it was midday. Imagine gazing across a five-mile wide river of ice to a still-smoking volcano that scratches the sky at over 11,000 feet. In the distance, far to the south, sparkle the legendary waters of Cook Inlet. Grizzly bear tracks bisect our path as we traverse a wide-open bowl. A bald eagle surfs the thermals far below. And no, we’re not skiing powder. But with fat skis, this creamy midnight schmoo feels just as good.
The brainchild of three longtime friends — Tommy Moe, ski film star Jeremy Nobis and mountain-guide-to-the-stars Mike Overcast — the five-day “Kings And Corn” program at Tordrillo Lodge is like no other mountain trip I’ve ever been on. “We all grew up hunting and fishing,” explains Moe, “but our first connection was through ski racing. So it was kind of natural for us to come up with this kind of a trip. All we’re doing, really, is sharing our passions with our friends.”
Indeed. But the logistics of such an operation boggle the mind. For one thing, the lodge is located nearly an hour’s floatplane ride from Anchorage. You can’t get there any other way. There are no roads, paths or trails that bisect this part of the world. Which means that everything the lodge needs — food, supplies, guests, laundry, medicine, booze — has to come in by air. Conversely, if the weather turns bad, you’re stuck there till the planes start flying again.
But it’s not just the location that’s challenging. For this ski/fishing week has to be one of the most gear-intensive holidays ever devised. Think about it. You need all the stuff required for conventional heli-skiing: ropes, avalanche and crevasse rescue gear, transceivers, shovels, probes and emergency medical kits (not to mention skis, boots, poles, repair kit etc). But on top of that, you need all the gear required for big-game fishing too: five-man rafts, pumps, paddles, lifejackets, reels, rods (both conventional and fly-fishing), lures, guns, inflatable kayaks and other sundry pieces (waders, tarps, rain gear etc).
If that weren’t complicated enough, all this gear has to be packed in such a way that it can fit into an A-star helicopter, along with a guide and four guests. Are you impressed yet?
But that’s nothing. To me, the truly unique aspect of this trip is that the same guides handle both mountain and river duties. And that’s impressive. Walter Bruns, the president of Canadian Mountain Holidays (the big daddy of heli-ski outfits) was also a guest last week. He admitted he was blown away by the Tordrillo guides’ skill range. “We have some of the best mountain guides in the world at CMH,” he said. “But I don’t know many who also have the river skills to do what Moe, Nobis and Overcast do here.”
So how does this story relate back to Whistler and Alta States? Easy. For there is much that Whistlerites can learn from the folks at Tordrillo.
Most of you know what I think of the industrial skiing model foisted on us by our friends at Intrawest. These days, a “record-breaking day” at Whistler-Blackcomb has very little to do with promoting skiing or riding fun. In fact, it’s a demoralizing experience for most guests. But people’s feelings aren’t considered on an accountant’s spreadsheet. It’s all about processing numbers there. And the numbers invariably say “bigger is always better”. To that, I reply: “Bull puckies…”
I’ve written about this subject in this space before. But it bears repeating again. People are drawn to the mountains for the wild magic that resides in the world’s high places. They go there to get away from the busy-ness of their everyday urban lives. And there’s the rub. From the moment a mountain resort becomes too urbanized — the moment it gets as busy as the city world it seeks to complement — then that’s the time when people start to search out other alternatives.
Fortunately, the Sea-to-Sky corridor is blessed with an abundance of mountain opportunities unmatched by any place I’ve ever visited. Whether hiking or ski touring, heli-skiing, climbing, snowcat riding or snowmobiling, the region around Whistler is a modern mountain funhog’s dream-come-true. And given the plethora of rivers, lakes (and even accessible saltwater), the aquatic possibilities here are pretty much limitless…
So what are we doing about it? Or better yet: what should we do about it? To me it’s a simple proposition. We need to disengage ourselves from our unhealthy fixation on the Whistler-Blackcomb model and start devising ways of enticing young entrepreneurs to develop new and creative businesses that celebrate the Coast Mountain spirit. We need more backcountry lodges and high-mountain huts. We need more inspiring programs that take people beyond their ordinary lives. Finally, we need more mountain-loving owner/operators who put their heart and soul into their product — not just their dollars and cents.
Cascadia is growing by leaps and bounds. To argue that there should be no more tourist facilities built in the local mountains (as some of our elected officials maintain) is to be ingenuous as well as NIMBYish. To be ultimately successful, Whistler needs to become the hub of a network of smaller mountain communities scattered throughout Sea to Sky country that offer a diversity of experiences — from industrial to intimate, from exclusive to everyman. Only then will we able to speak of a true Coast Mountain culture — and real sustainability.
We’ve got to get creative folks. We’ve got to come up with activities and infrastructure that attract the kind of people we want living (and/or visiting) in our mountains. And that, to me, means coming up with healthy and inspiring alternatives to city life — not alpine copies of a suburban mall. It’s pretty simple really: no matter how much lipstick you apply to a pig, it’s still a pig…
After a 15-minute duel — and four or five botched attempts at getting him onshore — I can finally sense that my salmon is starting to tire. Slowly, I begin to lead him back into shallow waters. And he follows, but not without challenging my efforts all the way. “That’s it, Michel.” Tommy croons. “This is the one. Don’t make any jerky movements now. Just try to lead him in as gently as you can.” And just as suddenly as it began, it’s all over. Tommy slips the net under my “hawg” and muscles the big salmon ashore.
The other three fishermen in our group have reeled their lines in by now. Everyone is clapping. Given that I am the last one in the gang to actually hook one of these big guys, I feel a wave of relief wash over me. It’s not like my ego was on the line or anything. Or that my manly pride had been challenged. Well, OK, maybe it had been a bit. Mostly though, I wanted to be able to tell a good Alaska fishing story when I returned home.
And in the end, isn’t that what memorable experiences are all about?
