Is anything more romantic than a backcountry hut nestled high in the snow-covered mountains? Words :: Kevin Hjertaas
Skiers dream of remote cabins with crackling wood-burning stoves casting a warm glow. Dozens of those perfect ski lodges exist across Western Canada, both commercially run or cared for by the Alpine Club of Canada (ACC). But most commercial lodges are booked seasons in advance, and they aren’t cheap. And the comfortable ACC huts in prime ski country fill up fast, especially during high season.
That’s why more skiers and snowboarders than ever are questing into the backcountry in search of alternative shelters.
A Tin Can with a View: The Sapphire Col Hut
Three-quarter-inch guy wires—eight of them in total—are drilled into the frame of the Sapphire Col Hut and bolted directly to the granite mountain. Whoever put this tin can here was clearly worried it would blow away. At 2,590 metres, on the ridge between Castor Peak and The Dome, high above Rogers Pass, it’s exposed to wind from all directions and, as the smallest ACC hut, it wouldn’t take much of a breeze to send it flying.
From outside, I watch Chris Rubens open the upper half of its cute wooden split door, allowing a bit of steam from his Jetboil stove to escape. The shelter has no other ventilation; its only small window is fused shut permanently. Wearing his puffy down jacket, Rubens leans out over the lower half of the door and checks the weather. Satisfied that the sky will be blue when the sun finally rises, he returns to the task of boiling water for breakfast and coffee.
There’s really only room for one person at a time to stand up, so I squeeze back inside and onto the lower bunk. I pull the sleeping bag over the ski clothes I wore all night and adjust the backpack I used as a pillow. Other than the tiny stove we brought, there is no heat in the shelter. The ACC website lists the amenities as such: “Heat source: none. Light source: not provided. Stove: not provided. Oven: none. Bedding: not provided.” But damn, you can’t beat the location!
Rubens, Bruno Long and Anthony Bonello have come to capture some ski action for an upcoming ski film titled Farming Turns. I’ve come because I’m a sucker and was told it would be fun.
The ACC website lists the amenities as such: “Heat source: none. Light source: not provided. Stove: not provided. Oven: none. Bedding: not provided.” But damn, you can’t beat the location!
That ACC website also told us that, when it was erected in 1964, “This was the first modern high-altitude hut in the Columbia and the Rocky Mountains.” This statement makes us giggle because there is nothing “modern” about the spartan accommodations now. The two bunks are nothing more than sheets of plywood, and there are no other furnishings. A tiny triangular shelf is built into one corner beside the door for cooking. It’s so crooked that we almost spill our ramen right off the stove. No, wait. Upon further inspection, the shelf is square to the building. It’s the entire structure that is leaning over noticeably.
Related content from ML:
To access all this luxury, you need to ski tour 1,375 vertical metres from the highway and cross a glacier. It’s worth the effort, though. The 2 by 3 metre metal box sits atop prime ski country. Directly out the door, the north ridge of Castor Peak cleaves the steep, rocky west face and the steep, snowy east face. In short, it’s the perfect launch pad for this mission.
Well before the sun rises to warm our tin shack, Rubens, the athlete on our team, has begun climbing the ridge while the two cameramen, Long and Bonello, circle around below the east face. In less than 30 minutes, everyone is in position to ski or capture the action when the first light of the day hits the face. With every turn, steep powder explodes in the butter-gold light. By mid-morning, the cameras have captured a full day’s worth of content. That’s the glory of sleeping in an alpine sardine can; there’s no time wasted in the morning getting to your day’s objectives.
If Sapphire Col’s shelter were any more comfortable it would be booked all winter. But its rustic nature, coupled with the effort needed to get to it, deter the masses and keep it available for last-minute strike missions. Our little trip left me wishing we could build tiny shelters below every great ski slope.
Home is Where You Dig it: Snow Caves
Camping in the snow necessitates a fair amount of gear: thick sleeping bags and sleeping pads, reliable stoves and all the clothing needed for a cold winter’s night out. Luckily Todd Joyal is built for heavy loads. His powerful frame is the first thing you notice about him—after his shaved head and warm smile. The ex-bouncer, turned ski patroller, turned mountain safety expert hails from the tough town of Winnipeg, and even there he must be one of the toughest. He could probably pick up the Sapphire Col hut and carry it with him, but he doesn’t need to. He and his friends have mastered the art of snow caving in the Canadian Rockies, creating their own shelter anywhere they choose to travel.
“I can’t tell you how many snow caves I’ve dug in my life,” Joyal says. “Growing up in Winnipeg, it’s what we did for fun. It’s been a big part of my life.”
The most common snow shelter in Canada is said to be the quinzhee, an Athabascan term for the most basic of winter shelters. One simply makes a pile of snow and then digs into it, forming a room within. Joyal, a Metis boy who grew up playing in snow forts and never stopped, has built plenty of quinzhees. But for ski adventures, he prefers to dig snow caves by finding deep, stiff snow to carve directly into (saving the step of first piling the snow and waiting for it to set).
Joyal and his ski partners have built collections of these impermanent shelters around Banff National Park that have allowed them to explore different valleys that are rarely visited in winter. In 2015, they even connected the three ski resorts in Banff National Park by ski touring between them and sleeping in snow caves along the way.
Joyal recalls some of their best creations over the years: “We’ve stayed for a few days, up to a week in some of them. We find spots near tree line where there are deep snow drifts to dig into. Then we often return to them again weeks later.”
After a few years of perfecting their program, he says, “We got it down to a science. We could roll in at 10 p.m. and have one built with a living room, beds and smoking room in an hour or so.”
He’s joking about the smoking room, but just barely. Joyal and his partners typically dig a 2-metre square room. In the far wall, they dig a countertop for the stove and get some water boiling as soon as possible, both because you’re always trying to melt more snow for drinking in camp and because the heat created helps solidify the walls of the cave. They like to use an avalanche probe to poke a few holes through the roof above the stove for ventilation. Next they dig a bed platform on either side. These platforms act as seating while they cook or hang out and later as beds, which are slightly elevated above the main square so cold air can collect below the beds. Once that’s done, they cut a block to cover the entrance and carve shelves or ever-more-elaborate seats. Or you can dig an additional “smoking room.”
“We got it down to a science. We could roll in at 10 p.m. and have one built with a living room, beds and smoking room in an hour or so.”
Snow caves are about the least luxurious accommodations you can find; even if you go the extra mile and dig recliner seating, set up string lights and excavate a dancefloor, you’re still sleeping in the snow—without heat. But what they lack in warmth, snow caves make up for with versatility and location. You can build them almost anywhere. That mountain face that’s too far to ski in one day? Your home for the night can be directly below it. Want to do a winter traverse in a remote range? You can stop anytime you tire and make camp right there. It’s nice not to carry the weight of a tent, as well, but most people demand a bit more comfort.
Luxury in a Secret Location: Base Camp Tents
The Purcell Mountains run roughly 480 km, from Kinbasket Lake in the north down to the U.S. state of Montana in the south. Deep in the heart of that ancient mountain range, Colin Puskas and his ski partner Rob Heule found their perfect camp in a valley that’s rarely visited and even more rarely skied.
For the past decade, Puskas has dedicated large chunks of every winter to exploring the mountains of Western Canada. “The exploration is what it’s all about for me,” he explains. The ex-pro skier’s boyish face is betrayed by specks of grey in his black beard, but his mischievous smirk is still youthful when you ask him where he’s been skiing.
“It’s a secret,” he says.
The Purcells have 467 named peaks, and it took Puskas years to find his favourites. After he exhausted the novelty of the Columbia Valley Hut Society offerings, his gaze turned deeper into the wild range. One day, while touring far from any road or hut, he spied his little Shangri-La: It was further west than most people venture to explore, and it was untouched by skiers and snowmobilers.
He could see tree runs and pillow lines through the old-growth forest. Higher up, an array of alpine descents spread out over every aspect. And glaciers capped it all with enticing routes through crevasses.
“It was like finding our own Rogers Pass and having it completely to ourselves,” Puskas says. “But it was way too far to enjoy in a day trip. So we started scheming ways to create our own hut in the middle of it to ski out of.”
Puskas invested in a canvas-wall tent shaped like a teepee, 3.5 m in diameter. The tent has a hole designed for a chimney stack to run a small, lightweight wood-burning stove, allowing him to melt snow, dry wet ski gear and stay cozy and warm.
You Might Also Like:
They look for deadfall near camp, then use the chainsaw, axe and hatchet they carry in to buck up and split it into firewood. They can cook on the wood burner if they need to, but to make life easier they haul a two-burner camp stove and kitchen supplies, as well. On top of that, they bring chairs and a wash basin along with the usual basics.
How on earth do they get all that gear into the far, high corners of the Purcells? Not on their backs—behind their snowmobiles. Puskas and Heule pull fishing toboggans full of the gear, food and beer they need for a week or more away from the world.
They sleep in bivy sacks in a second, floorless tarp-tent erected next to the big canvas one. It’s pretty plush backcountry living, but it’s not easy to assemble. It took them what Puskas calls “a full, full day,” to get there and get set up. They had to drive all the way around to the west side of the Purcells to access a logging road to start. Next, they loaded snowmobiles and their trailers full of gear. Then they started building the sled road by intermittently dropping a toboggan and snowmobiling up steep slopes to build a track, then looping back to tow the gear up. Three hours later they were at camp.
Their elaborate camp takes two to three hours to set up, then it’s time to chop wood and start cooking a late dinner. But after all that work, when they wake up in the morning, they’re smack in the middle of more great skiing than their legs could ski tour during their 10-day stay.
Puskas estimates that the entire camp, including kitchen kit, tents and stoves, cost them about $3,000. Which is less than two people would spend to ski at most commercial touring lodges in BC.
“Looking at the overall value, it’s cost-effective, and you can keep building on it every year and take it to new places whenever you want,” he says.
He adds that it was worth every penny. “It was so quiet out there. And humbling. The peaks are big and you’re way out there alone.”
And when the friends end a long powder run from glacier down to tree line, gliding to their well-equipped camp, they can crack a beer, throw a log on the fire and settle in for a peaceful night under stars, comfortably sheltered.
Check the ML Podcast!
