Witnessing the evaporation of the celebrated glacier route near the Alberta-BC border—the Wapta Traverse. Words :: Heather Thompson.
“The what?” was the most common response from friends and colleagues when I told them of my spring vacation plans. For Ontario skiers, resort trips are the norm, and I’ve definitely enjoyed my fair share of lift-access March Breaks, but I wanted something different this time. I craved the solitude and serenity of backcountry skiing, and the Wapta Traverse, one of Canada’s most iconic ski tours, offered the connection and adventure I needed.
The Wapta is a four-hut trek that crosses a series of interconnected glaciers straddling both Banff and Yoho National Parks. The 600 square kilometres of glaciers feed four river systems, emptying into the Pacific, Arctic and Atlantic Oceans.
The first known ski exploration of the Wapta was in the 1930s, and over almost a century it has become a prime destination for ski mountaineering due to its low-angle glaciers and accessible high peaks (most hover around 3,000 metres), often ascended with a short, non-technical bootpack, or better yet on skis. The original huts were built in the 1960s, eliminating the need to camp and making the icefields more accessible. The Alpine Club of Canada took over the maintenance and booking of huts in 1989, completing the most recent one in 2016. That final hut allows a perpendicular route to the traditional Wapta Traverse, called the Bow-Yoho Traverse.
Along the Wapta, lucky skiers are treated to endless vistas, multiple summiting opportunities of surrounding peaks and generally low-angle powder descents. Others less fortunate might have five days of whiteout blizzard-like conditions accompanied by howling winds (making you think twice about that run to the outhouse at 2 a.m.). When we land in Alberta, the weather forecast is variable—but, blue skies or blizzards, our trek across the glaciers promises an unforgettable adventure.
Others less fortunate might have five days of whiteout blizzard-like conditions accompanied by howling winds (making you think twice about that run to the outhouse at 2 a.m.).
Our journey commences at Peyto Lake, a common tourist stop in summer known for its aquamarine water. After traversing the frozen lake, we’ll ascend up the Peyto Glacier to take our first steps on the Wapta Icefield. Peyto is one of the most studied glaciers in the world. Like most of the world’s glaciers, it’s retreating due to climate change, and has already lost a staggering 70 per cent of its mass in the last 50 years. I learned a few months after completing the traverse that the large, well-known ice cave we passed at its toe has since collapsed; we were among the last few to ever see it.
Our first day is a veritable checklist of backcountry ski adventuring. After an initial side-stepping, bum-scootching, gnarly descent through thick conifers, we traverse a huge frozen mountain lake, cross a creek in ski boots, don skins to slog up steep moraines, then boot-pack up rocky slopes before ascending the crevasse-riddled glacier while roped together, requiring a surprising amount of concentration. In my exhaustion, I wonder if I should have taken up my husband’s offer to spend the week skiing at Le Massif’s luxurious Club Med in Charlevoix, Que., instead. But when we arrive at the first of four small, unheated huts, I think I’m more excited about our dehydrated supper and bunk beds than I would have been for a deluxe meal and plush mattress after a day of resort skiing.
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Throughout the next two days we’re treated to sapphire skies, the snow glittering like an endless carpet of diamonds; there is not a tree in sight. We summit peaks with majestic panoramas, followed by smooth-as-butter untracked powder descents. As I think about our rapidly shrinking glaciers, I feel a mixture of melancholy and gratitude and acknowledge I’m one of the few who get to experience this otherworldly landscape.
Although day one was the most grueling, day four over Balfour Col is considered the crux. Hazards include crevasses, avalanches, poor visibility and unstable overhanging icefalls; poor conditions force many groups attempting the traverse to turn back at this point.
As we click into our skis, mist swirls eerily around the massive icefalls surrounding us. I suppress a shiver, knowing they could break off at any second. Rather than the usual switchbacks, our guide ascends straight up the col, breaking trail through thigh-deep powder at what feels like a breakneck speed. There is no stopping until we’re at the top. I’m winded from the steep ascent and fast pace, and grateful for the tedious hours on the stairmaster in the preceding months. (Knowing ahead of time I would be the only Easterner, my best training motivator was my fear of not being able to keep up.)
It’s white and windy at the top. The flat light gives us the unique sensation of feeling blind even with our eyes open. Slope angle and terrain features become invisible; discerning crevasses, moats (vertical walls of ice that drop off) or even cliff edges is nearly impossible.
Our guides rope together. Blindly snowplowing at a crawl, they lurch awkwardly down the slope. The rest of the group remains untethered, with strict instructions to stay safely within the guides’ tracks. Skiing downhill in zero visibility is difficult enough without being connected to one another by rope.
We come to an abrupt halt when our guide stops suddenly. He starts probing with his pole. I squint ahead, trying to see what he’s worried about, but all I can see is white, with no differentiation between where the snow ends and the fog begins. With one thrust, his ski pole goes down. Deep. He quickly scrambles back up toward us, yelling something I can’t hear over the howling wind. I’m not sure what he’s found, but it doesn’t seem inviting. We all frantically side-step up the hill we’ve just descended, and our guides pull out their GPS units, pointing in different directions. I have complete faith in them, and the thought of what could happen without a guide sends a quiver down my spine. They come to a decision and we press on, making it safely to our final hut without further incident.
Our last day treats us to a potpourri of challenges as we make the 1,100-metre descent. We start with a giant natural halfpipe, with high steep walls on either side that could easily avalanche down into the main chute. Luckily a sun crust forms a bomb-proof ice layer, reminiscent of conditions east of the Rockies—except it’s littered with death cookies. The balls of ice, formed from avalanche debris or falling cornices, range in size from a fist to a St. Bernard, and the consequences of hitting them vary from losing your balance to a serious injury. The challenge only increases once the clouds roll in and the death cookies become invisible in the flat light.
We barely have a moment to catch our breath before it’s time for the next obstacle: a series of (mostly) frozen waterfalls with a hard-as-rock crust. It should be old hat for this Eastern skier, but the uneven terrain, rolling over boulders in a narrow chute, scattered with holes of running water, poses an intimidating challenge. We inch down one by one; I’m starting to miss the uphill slogs. The razor-sharp focus of forced precision-skiing with a heavy pack atop tired muscles is exhausting in its own way.
We emerge from the chute to find ourselves back at the parking lot. I look behind me, and all I can see is a hill of thick trees. There is no hint of the grandeur of the magnificent Wapta Icefields looming far above and behind. I see the cars whizzing by on the highway, not even sparing a glance. But perhaps that’s for the best. Some places are best left hidden and unspoiled.
Although on clear, sunny days the Wapta can appear deceptively friendly and easily accessible, it can be extremely hazardous. Risks include avalanches, crevasses, rapid changes in weather and sudden, long-lasting whiteouts making navigation extremely difficult. Unless skiers have extensive ski mountaineering experience including whiteout-navigation proficiency and crevasse and avalanche rescue skills, professional guides are necessary. Many guiding companies with Association of Canadian Mountain Guides (ACMG) certification are based out of the Banff/Canmore area. I used OnTop Mountaineering: www.ontopmountaineering.com.
Preparing for a mountaineering traverse is different from the usual squat-heavy routine appropriate for resort skiing. I used a program from Uphill Athlete, a virtual platform that focuses on preparation for ski traverses, mountaineering and trail running. While strength and stability workouts were definitely a component, the primary focus was building an aerobic fitness through heart rate-based workouts. Multiple groups and programs on the site are targeted toward ski mountaineering; to prepare for the trip, I joined the Female Uphill Athlete Training Group.
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