Pro Guiding Service - Canadian Haute Route

"Unbelievable. I can't believe anyone would ski carrying such weight." Rinaldo Borra, a Swiss mountain guide who spends his winters in British Columbia as a heli-ski guide, has just hefted the 45-pound pack he will be toting over the Spearhead Traverse for the next five days, and is not enjoying what he feels. Back in Switzerland where Borra spends at least a month each year guiding in the Alps, his patrons rely on provisions from the huts and, therefore, carry anoretic day packs. "In Europe, my clients would laugh and go home if I gave them this pack."

This is not Europe, however. While the Spearhead, a classic high route that interconnects the backcountry of Canada's two largest ski hills (Blackcomb and Whistler), does have one primitive hut along its length, the traverse lacks the network of stocked structures that makes European ski touring so comfortable AND so crowded.

Nonetheless, the Spearhead really does have much in common with Old World touring. In fact, it is often likened to a European ski traverse because lifts carry you painlessly above the green nightmare of vegetation that makes so much of the Coast Range inaccessible. Using the high-speed quads at Blackcomb Mountain, you ride a vertical mile skyward expending cash ($20 CND) rather than sweat. You reach the white zone without sacrificing a drop of blood to Devil's Club.

The glaciers of the region are also of European scale. Like the Pennine Alps where Borra lives and guides, the domain of ice in the Coast Range defies imagination. Glaciers hundreds of yards deep and whole valleys long smother the mountains like sea stars settled over clams. When I ask Borra about this comparison, however, he is quick to illustrate differences. These mountains are more spread out than those of his native land. In Switzerland the peaks rise faster from the valley floor and jut higher into the sky. "And," he reminds me, "we don't carry these ridiculous packs."

For our other team member, Mike Hattrup, the packs accompanying North American ski tours are as much a part of the game as skis. Hattrup, a former mogul specialist for the US Freestyle Team and now the telemark guru for the K2 Corporation (and guide for Pro Guiding Service), has skied the Old World, the New World, and many points inbetween, including Greenland and New Zealand. He's enjoyed the huts that put the cush (and crowds) into the European scene, and he's shouldered the heavy packs that ensure the isolation (and virgin snow) of North American adventures. As we traverse out of the Blackcomb ski area and reach the col between Blackcomb Mountain and Spearhead Mountain, Hattrup surveys the route before us. "I don't see a single track out there."

Borra warms to this realization. "Unbelievable," he mutters. "In Europe, the off-piste near such big ski areas would have hundreds of tracks." The realization seems to lighten his load.

Our good visibility lightens my load. The Spearhead Traverse crosses 12 glaciers and threads through 15 gaps, all of them above timberline. The size of these glaciers, not to mention the 450 inches of snow that hammers the ski areas, speaks convincingly of the area's proclivity toward poor weather. From April (the time of our visit) to mid-May, visitors are likely to encounter relatively good weather, but fifty-fifty odds of decent visibility is about as good as it gets.

Navigating the terrain by instruments alone spooks many skiers, so the route is commonly seized by speed. When fair weather strikes, Spearhead skiers catch the first lift up Blackcomb and embark on a two or three day blitz. We're playing the game differently. We've budgeted five to six days so that we can travel the terrain AND track the ski peaks passed en route.

From our viewpoint at the Spearhead/Blackcomb col, we drop down to the Decker Glacier, climb that glacier to an indistinct shoulder, then drop onto the Trorey Glacier. By the time we reach another gap between the Trorey and Tremor glaciers, we can resist the bait no longer. It's nearly 6:00 p.m. but the steep northwest face of Mt. Pattison begs to be tracked. We dump the camping gear and climb upward using the gentler terrain of the north ridge and the east face to access the top. The east face has been hammered by mid-April sunshine the past two days and its shadowed corn snows have refrozen into a inclined rink. But as soon as we cross over the summit onto the northern slopes, we are looking at a winter snowpack.

Hattrup skis the 45-degree field of powder below us cautiously, testing the snow at the top before linking telemark turns downward. After several turns, he ducks behind a small buttress in case the slopes above him destabilize. As is often the case here in maritime climates, however, the layers of snow underfoot are surprisingly well bonded.

That leaves Borra with the prize: a steep, fall-line run to carve. The powder is heavy, but the heli-ski guide carves perfectly metered parallel turns. He flies past the vantage point where I am photographing his silhouette against the margarine light of sunset."Unbelievable," he yells as he blows by in the middle of a maelstrom of billowing snow. An instant later the guide is a shrinking figure merging with the Trorey Glacier.

An hour later we are setting up the Pyramid by last light while our flame thrower melts snow in the background. After our rudimentary tent is anchored, Borra kicks back to soak it all in. Starlight reaches us as it burns through nearly infinite distances, but not a single human-generated lumen pollutes the horizon. Reclined on his ensolite pad, Borra steeps in the lonely beauty of it all and utters his catch-all phrase, "Unbelievable."

We awake to sunshine, leisurely break camp, then ski down onto the Tremor Glacier and into the paradox of skin-blistering heat lingering over glacial ice. We make the hot slog to the col between the Tremor and Platform glaciers, each of us fixated on the centerfold of Tremor Mountain before us. Despite the meter-deep crown of a slab scarring the center of the 50-degree face, the plum seems ripe to ski today.

Borra takes the lead from the top of this prize and, on slopes that drop so steeply that they scroll out of sight before him, he cuts cautious turns. Initially he stops after each cut and lets the sluff he creates slide past. Then, confident in the stability and consistency of the snow, he lets the skis run and outraces the wave of snow sliding behind him. A minute later he's off the steeps, laying the boards on edge, and letting them carve from turn to turn.

Hattrup follows. Trusting what he observed of the guide's performance, he attacks the slope with the speed necessary to outrun the snow he destabilizes, and traces a telemark track that matches the curves of Borra's parallel turns. Down below, Euro and Gringo stand side by side looking up their work. A mutual admiration club, they congratulate each other for the audacity and aesthetics of their lines.

We return to the col, pick up the piggish packs and stride across the Platform Glacier to a gap below Quivly Peak where we pitch camp. By the time the tent is up, it's 4:00 p.m.

The axiom of safe travel in the Alps is to have the day's mission completed by noon. The Alps come alive by the heat of the afternoon and they're apt to kill those who stick their necks onto steep terrain late in the day. Here, temperature variations are not as intense; southern slopes remain safer longer, northern aspects can retain wintery conditions throughout the day. Hattrup and I decide it's time to ski.

The catatonic guide can make little sense of our compulsion. "It would be better to relax now and climb peaks tomorrow," he tells us from the comfort of his ensolite pad.

I explain the weather forecast for the past two days predicted cloudy weather and our clear skies should be used well. "The weatherman is probably predicting sunshine tomorrow."

Borra understands my slam of Environment Canada's forecasting accuracy and slips on his boots. An hour and a half later we have crossed two glaciers and have climbed to the top of Mt. MacBeth where the view of whitecapped peaks, long in shadow and thick in snow, hypnotizes. We should hurry to make our descent, but I'm having a hard time putting down the camera. Hattrup, meanwhile, can't tear himself away from the view of Mt. Fitzsimmons. Its north face is home to 2000 vertical feet of Alaska-steep terrain. Hattrup wants that line tomorrow and is scouting safe points of access and egress.

Pulling ourselves away from the future and concentrating on the now, we drop into the initial pitch of the Curtain Glacier, fearing the wind crust we broke on the ascent will ruin the skiing. The crust splinters easily and we carve a series of pleasant turns down to a small bench in the glacier. We look at our watches, then at the col that will return us to camp--we can traverse to the col without skins and be back at the tent in 40 minutes. But when we look down the glacier, the white hand of the descent grabs us, "Let's do a series of turns to that next bench."

At the next bench we repeat the ritual: look at watches, look at the col (which is now overhead) look downhill and find ourselves seduced-- "Since we've gotta put on the skins, let's make the climb worthwhile."

We repeat the ritual four times. It may be dark by the time we roll into camp, but our powder cocktail has given us a fine buzz.

Hattrup's dreams of tracking Mt. Fitzsimmons go on hold come morning. Overnight the weather switches from fair to foul and we can barely see the rock ridge a mere rope length away. We decide this is fine moving weather--we'll relocate to the Russet Hut on the edge of Garibaldi Park. From the hut we can knock off Fitzsimmons and Overlord Mountain if the weather cooperates, Fissile Peak if the weather is schizoid, and evacuate if the weather goes altogether postal.

We mark the map with bearings, pull down the tent, put on the harnesses, and head into the fog. For five hours we follow bearings across glaciers, use the altimeter to contour, and rely on the handrail of ridges and cliff bases to guide us. As we cross seven glaciers and thread through seven cols, the clouds occasionally spit flurries of snow; mostly they simply obscure vision. Only in the final minutes before reaching the Russet Lake Hut do we actually drop below the cloud layer. Instruments are tucked inside storm parkas and we pilot ourselves in on visual.

Throughout the evening, the winds strengthen. Hattrup and I are wallowing in the knowledge that we won't have to listen to flapping nylon all night. We comment that the structure makes the tour all the more European, but Borra is not sure this 10' X 19' quonset hut deserves comparison to European huts. "It needs candles for light," he observes, "and a wood stove there in the corner." Suddenly he's in the Euro mindset, "They should fly wood in here every fall. If the skiers who came just left a few dollars, it would pay for itself."

It's an idea that might work in Switzerland. In North America, however, the cynic in me believes a few unscrupulous visitors would be happy to finance their travels by skiing away with the jackpot others left behind.

In the days that follow, the weather keeps us guessing. Our barometers show a pressure rise but the blue skies we expect never arrive. We ski up Whirlwind Peak, a peak we can bag in foul weather and one from which we can launch more ambitious forays should conditions improve. We climb in the fog; we descend in the fog.

The altimeter continues to rise and the next morning we're out of the hut early to climb Fissile Peak. On top, we think about dropping into the dramatic gully splitting the north face, but strong southern winds have deposited a deep slab of new snow on the northern aspects. The ski down could be heavenly or it could beam us into oblivion. We decide the west face with its frosting of powder over a base of frozen corn is a saner prize.

At the base of Fissile we decide plums like Mt. Fitzsimmons are, for now, dead dreams. Dark clouds extend far to the south and, we fear, far beyond our food supplies. We return to the hut; load our packs; and make the several hour slog to Piccolo Summit on the southeastern flanks of Whistler Mountain. A long traverse leads us to the groomed runs of the ski hill where we carve long-radius turns and drop.

Just below the resort's mid-station we drop completely out of winter. The snow is gone, the air fragrant with alder. Skis go onto packs and we drop farther. Soon we are walking through lush grass, trees are chartreuse with new growth, and the wildflowers are making me sneeze. This drop from the land of permafrost into springtime is a phenomenon I associate with European tours and I tell Borra this. He nods his agreement.

I notice Borra has grown oblivious to his obese pack. I ask him about comments made earlier--that Europeans would laugh at such packs and go home. "Would you ski this route again and would your clients like it?"

"Of course. You're all alone, you sleep in a tent, you need winter camping skills...you can't have such an adventure in Europe."

"So people would come for the experience more than the place?"

"No, for the place too," he confesses. "It's like skiing the Grand Paradiso of Italy, but without the big huts and fancy food. It's so wild here, it's... unbelievable."

I pull out my notebook to record an important note. I've been thinking about plates of pasta and cups of coffee for several hours. "What's the name of that place in Italy again?"

SIDEBAR:

THE ROUTE: The Spearhead follows a horseshoe-shaped line through the backcountry lying southeast of Blackcomb Mountain and northeast of Whistler Mountain.

LENGTH: The 28-mile route has been done in a day, but most parties need at least three days to complete the tour. Peak baggers can easily spend a week.

SKILLS: Due to the glaciers and the likelihood of whiteout weather, skiers should have strong crevasse-rescue and navigation skills.

GUIDES: Hire an ACMG-certified guide through the Whistler Alpine Guides Bureau (604-938-4040). Hattrup and Borra (who is a UIAGM-certified guide) are also guiding groups on the traverse (208-726-3855).

MAPS: The black-and-white maps (92J.006 and 92J.007) obtained from the B.C. Ministry of Environment, Lands, and Parks in Victoria, BC show the route in the most detail (1:20,000). Cost in Canadian funds: $5.15/map plus $4.75/order for shipping. Order by phone (250-356-5263) or over the internet (www.landdata.gov.bc.ca).

HUT: The Russet Lake Hut can accommodate 12 skiers. Its use is free and space is available on a first-come-first-serve basis.

OTHER: To rent or purchase mountaineering equipment, buy topo maps, or obtain current information about the route, contact The Escape Route, a Whistler-based mountaineering shop (604-938-3228).