| A s a longtime climber I was somewhat sceptical when I heard
about heli-mountain- eering vacations, so I got out my calculator and started
doing the math. I crunched the numbers again and again and kept getting the same
results: helicopter plus mountaineering equals cheating. Then I took a closer
look at the Canadian Mountain Holidays website, gazing long and hard at the pictures
of the six luxurious lodges it operates in the mountains of southeastern British
Columbia: the hot tubs, the gourmet meals, the leather furnishings cozily arranged
around roaring fires.
I then recalled some of my own somewhat dissimilar experiences above the treeline
(reached on foot, never by helicopter). I thought about the wind-whipped tents
I’ve shared with pungently odiferous companions. I recalled “hot meals”
consisting of PowerBars dipped in lukewarm tea. I thought about the snow cave
I slept in at Joffre Lakes that contracted as the night wore on so that by morning
the roof was three inches from my nose.
I then compared these divergent types of experiences in my mind and thought,
a little guiltily at first but less so with each passing day: Into each life a
little cheating must fall.
Better known as the world’s premier heli-ski operators (the company
hosts about 7,000 powderhounds annually) CMH started offering helicopter-assisted
hiking and climbing programs in 1978 as a way of exposing the region to a whole
new group of travellers during the off season. Most come for the hiking, much
of it in terrain where the chances of running into another party are virtually
nil, but a few aim for bigger and more precipitous things.
Now you’d think in a province like British Columbia, comprised of row
upon row of mountain ranges that make it the topographical equivalent of a pair
of corduroy pants, that mountaineers would be as common as corkscrews at a wine
festival—but you’d be wrong. In addition to being a lot of hard work,
most of it on long “approaches” through rugged terrain with gear-laden
packs, mountaineering is a potentially dangerous way to have fun. Along with the
obvious hazards, including plunging off cliffs or getting buried under tons of
rock and ice, there are the vagaries of the weather to consider. One minute you’re
happily snapping photos on the summit; the next you could behuddled on a ledge
negotiating with whatever gods you hold dear as a stinging hail assails you like
a swarm of killer bees.
No credible outfitter, including CMH, will tell you they can eliminate the
risk factor entirely. And there would be little point to the exercise even if
they did, because, frankly, one of the main reasons people go mountaineering in
the first place is to feel the rush of fear and climb it anyway. However, in addition
to eliminating the grunt hike in, CMH can provide those who’d like to give
mountaineering a try—or are getting a little long in the tooth—the
opportunity to learn the basics in the company of experienced guides fully accredited
by the International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations. Experienced climbers
are welcome, but not many show up because, I suspect, using a helicopter means
the climb in question simply doesn’t count for your personal peak total
or for climbers’ bragging rights. However, if you don’t care whether
it “counts” or not, heli-mountaineering is a sweet way to get high.
Base Camp
Home base for me turns out to be the Bobbie Burns Lodge, a 27,000-square-foot
chalet in a verdant river valley in the Columbia Mountains south of Golden. It
has 23 comfortable but spartan guest rooms left deliberately austere, presumably
to discourage guests from hiding in them when they could be hanging out in the
massive fireplace lounge mixing, mingling, drinking, eating, or just enjoying
the view of the surrounding peaks through the floor-to ceiling windows. Other
comforts include a dining hall, a climbing wall, a massage studio, a sauna, an
outdoor whirlpool tub and a swimming pond complete with dock.
I’m not a foodie, but gourmet food is a given when clients are spending
several hundred dollars a day for these tours. Breakfast is a hot-and-cold buffet
comparable to high-end hotel offerings, while dinner comes boarding-school style,
at common tables where guides serve us from platters of filet mignon or rack of
venison with lemon gremolata. Late-night kitchen raiding is tolerated and wine
with dinner is complimentary on the first night. Lunch is pack-your-own from a
groaning board rich with sandwiches, dried fruit and chocolate.
But back to the climbing. Every CMH guest brags about their guide, and I won’t
deviate from the conceit. Austrian by birth, Roko (pronounced row-ko) Koell has
guiding in his genes; his father, grandfather and great grandfather were all members
of the fraternity in Europe. Koell grew up peak-bagging in the Dolomites and East
Austrian Alps, eventually going on to become assistant coach of the Austrian national
ski team before coming to Canada in 1989. Like all CMH guides he’s got a
bit of an entertainer’s streak, but his mirthful demeanour belies a very
serious side. He’s constantly sizing up both the situation and his clients,
pushing them when he thinks they can take it, pulling them back when they succumb
to what he calls “negative fear.”
His goal, he tells me, in between discussions of fear, fatherhood, geology
and climbing, is to transform every human being that comes into his care. “I
want to bring them closer to the border of what they can do but would never have
thought themselves capable of,” he says.
These tours start with a half-day orientation hike or climb, which guides use
to determine each client’s abilities. Since I came specifically for the
steep stuff, not for hiking, I get Roko to myself opening day.
Peak Condition
We’re travelling in a 14-seat Bell 212, cheek-to-cheek with a dozen hikers,
all casting dubious looks upon the two guys in harnesses, hard hats and clunky-looking
plastic mountaineering boots. I ignore them and concentrate on the ride itself.
Helicopters seem so improbable: instead of the roar, the rush down a runway and
the seemingly inevitable lunge into the air, you just sit there until the shuddering
ship gently slips its moorings and floats skyward. It is both dreamy and exhilarating.
After depositing the hikers on various ridges and plateaus, pilot Wayne Grover,
a man with 43 years experience at the stick, drops Koell and I off next to a small,
unnamed peak we’ll be sporting on for the rest of the afternoon.
Roko leads and every so often finds a ledge to perch on so I can follow. The
climbing is easy, but I fight off nerves anyway, which has less to do with the
difficulty than a desire to impress. We stop frequently so he can take pictures
he wants to use in a slide show later that night as a tool for seducing other
hikers into joining us the next day. As it turns out, three of them sign on. They
include Alex Fong, a teenager from Vancouver whose natural ability and coolness
make him seem much more mature; 30-something Heather Armitage of Canmore; and
Marydale Oppert, a college student from Atlanta.
Day two’s fun begins after Wayne drops us off on a snowpatch in the
shadow of 2,880-metre Mount Syphax, our pre-lunch goal. Using an ice axe, Roko
cuts steps into the snow leading up to a rock wall he studies for a few moments
before starting up. I ask him how he would rate the climb according to the Yosemite
system for measuring difficulty. “Don’t know,” he replies succinctly.
“I’ve never climbed it before.”
A couple of hours later we’re at the top, taking pictures and enjoying
the view: Bugaboos to the south, Rockies to the east, Columbias all around. Okay,
so the summit doesn’t “count” for serious climbers, but it’s
still great to be there.
After-lunch diversions include a traverse along a skinny little ledge using
a via ferrata (a wire rope bolted to the wall we clip into with carabiners in
case we fall—the exposure is mind bending), a little rock climbing, and
a rappel off a hanging cliff that leads us back down to the snowfield we started
out on. It’s silent standing there in the afternoon light until we hear
the cheery whop-whop of the helicopter coming in to ferry us back to the lodge.
We give a cheer, knowing that a hot shower and cold beer are not far away.
All About Ice
The next day, crampons are issued and we spend the morning clambering on the Conrad
Glacier before trying our hands at ice climbing. We do this by finding a suitable
looking crevasse into which Roko lowers us one by one. To get out we have to climb
back up using our “ice tools,” miniature ice axes with sharp points
that we whack into the ice and hang on to while kick-stepping up the wall with
our crampons. Fitness is an asset. After lunch we spend the afternoon traversing
Wolverine Ridge, a slim rock line affording spectacular views of the glacier and
surrounding peaks.
And then it’s over. Roko calls for the helicopter and we get snatched
off the ridge moments before a squall hits, rain and wind buffeting the bird as
we make our way back to the lodge. A grand farewell dinner precedes hugs, kisses
and promises to email.
Despite the helicopter assistance, I leave the next day exhausted, a condition
exacerbated by the altitude and the bottle of scotch I helped drain the night
before. Even when climbing does include a long approach, there is always room
in the pack for a pint of Glenfiddich. |
The
Columbia Mountains are on the western side of the Rocky Mountain Trench, running
almost parallel with the Canadian Rockies. They fall within the Kootenay Rockies
region of Tourism British Columbia. 800-435-5622, hellobc.com. 
