AdventuresNW
I am not a gambler, but I won the lottery this past March when I was invited to spend a week at the Asulkan Cabin on the British Columbia/Alberta border. The cabin is renowned for being situated in the heart of excellent ski terrain and sits at treeline (7000 feet) next to several large glaciers. In winter, it is accessed by a four- or five-hour ski from Rogers Pass on the Trans-Canada Highway, gaining around 2500 feet of elevation along the way. Through a combination of hard work and luck, a friend had wrangled the entire 10-person cabin for our group, inviting a disparate group of friends from Vancouver Island, Washington, Montana, the lower Mainland of British Columbia, and all points in between. With a mix of excitement and trepidation (Rogers Pass is the heart of major avalanche country), I prepared my backcountry kit and carpooled north with a few Washingtonians to meet the rest of the group in Revelstoke, BC.
Being high in the alpine, with a strong crew, good snow, and clearing weather, is an intoxicating…. and potentially dangerous situation.
Upon arrival in town, the first order of business was to meet for dinner to get to know one another and talk about the upcoming week. A major storm was expected to arrive late that night, potentially complicating our skin into the hut. It was forecasted to drop significant snow at warming temperatures, and the avalanche risk would likely skyrocket the next afternoon. The way into the Asulkan Cabin crosses many large avalanche paths, including an especially complicated area called “The Mousetrap,” where several paths converge in a particularly dangerous spot. Decision-making is often where a group fractures, but this discussion went surprisingly smoothly, with everyone on the same page to get a pre-dawn start and ascend through the Mousetrap before the slopes above became dangerously loaded in the afternoon. We all agreed that if anyone noticed anything concerning or surprising (intense snowfall, rapidly rising temperature, or other signs of instability) we would revisit our plan the next day as we ascended. If things were much worse, especially earlier than we expected, we could always turn around and wait a day. And so, with this plan in place, we went to bed early with alarms set.
We awoke to grey murk and blizzard conditions in Revelstoke and hurriedly downed Tim Horton’s coffee and donuts as we blasted eastward and upwards to Rogers Pass. As I raced to load my pack at the trailhead in the gathering storm, I looked around and noted that this was a fit and dialed group. There was purpose, good humor, and minimal delay in our rapid preparations to set out—a positive sign for the week ahead! And then we were off, gliding silently through the forest, following the well-beaten path to the upper Asulkan valley, snowflakes drifting down, soon muffling any sounds but our labored breathing.
Traveling upwards from the highway was easy by Cascadian standards (an aside: the Cascades can prepare you for mountain adventures anywhere in the world), and within a couple of hours, we were at the imposing juncture of two massive avalanche paths. This was the Mousetrap, a location all of us had wondered about for some months. It was a classic terrain trap, where an avalanche can pile up very deep on top of anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. So, with a quick stop to eat and drink, the team spread out to cross through the Mousetrap as quickly as possible, always with an eye on those ahead and behind. Thankfully, we had beat the brunt of the storm and crossed without incident, and we all breathed a sigh of relief as we regrouped under a cluster of large trees on the far side at the base of the final climb to the hut. Although sweating, we felt relieved to be through hazardous avalanche terrain for the day. All that remained was the final thousand-foot climb to the cabin.
Taking my time, I arrived at the hut to find the vanguard of the group settling in, melting snow, and organizing gear for the next day. Perfectly designed as a hiking and ski base, the Asulkan Cabin has large windows looking north past the porch on the lee side of the building. It’s compact, measuring only about 16’x20’, and has the base floor devoted to cooking and eating while the loft above is for sleeping (padded bunks provided). It is heated cozily with propane flown in by helicopter. Lighting and cooking are also propane-powered, and all pots, pans, and utensils are provided. Water comes from snow melted on the stove, and dishwater collects below the sinks in buckets and is then dumped in a grey water system just off the porch. An outhouse is a short walk to the south, although it doesn’t seem short enough in a storm! The Asulkan cabin is much like a ship at sea—it has everything you need and nothing you don’t.
We had divided up into two-person dinner teams for the five nights in the hut, and as a couple cooked for the group, the rest of the team discussed the next day. It was obvious that the storm was still raging outside, and the forecast was for it to continue throughout the next day. In short order, we decided that we wouldn’t be going above the hut on our first day of skiing but instead dropping into treed lines below the hut. The risk of slides is greatest during periods of heavy snow and wind, and the more snow that falls, the longer it takes to stabilize, sometimes several days or more. We turned in early as the snow piled up outside and the wind howled.
The morning dawned stormy, with several feet of new snow piled up in the trees below the hut, and excited chatter filled the cabin as we raced each other to eat and drop in for the first turns of the day. We partnered in smaller groups of two to four so as not to increase the risk of burying multiple people in a single avalanche. This meant we skied near, but not directly on top of one another. But as the morning progressed and the snow continued to pile up, we realized there wasn’t much to worry about regarding avalanche danger. Nothing moved—the snow was stable and light, and it was plain that we had a winter playground all to ourselves!
We all lapped the trees several times, some more than others, younger more than older, but all with broad smiles. Group by group, all returned to the cabin around dinner time, encrusted in ice, thoroughly satisfied with the trip’s start. After dinner, the storm slackened, and we caught tantalizing glimpses of higher terrain, whetting our appetites for the days ahead.
By the next morning, the snow had stopped, and the clouds were beginning to clear. Being high in the alpine, with a strong crew, good snow, and clearing weather, is an intoxicating…. and potentially dangerous situation. Good snow and aesthetic ski terrain is a combination that can kill you and your partners, especially the first day after a major storm. Therefore, much of staying alive in avalanche terrain is fighting the desire to ski the biggest lines with the greatest number of your friends as soon as possible after a storm. And so, on day three, we split up again, this time all heading up above the hut in improving visibility. My group planned to start small on low-angled and low-consequence terrain. But, several in our group felt good about the snow after digging into the snowpack and performing stability tests on short, steeper slopes. Satisfied that the storm snow was sufficiently settled, they set off upward, venturing high to the summit of Youngs Peak (9,236 feet) while the rest of us watched from below and held our breath.
This was the first time any of our group skied steep or consequential terrain after the storm. There was a bit of suspense as the first rider dropped into the precipitous face at the top of the well-known run known as “Seven Steps to Paradise.” The snow billowed overhead as he gracefully ripped high-speed turns down the steep headwall. But the slope stayed put, and I think all of us breathed a collective sigh of relief as he let out a yell a thousand feet down the mountain. Four more riders followed, spaced out, each thoughtfully placing their line right next to the one before. We would be here all week, and the fresh snow had to last!
And, just like that, the dam had burst for our group. All the data indicated that we had stable snow, cold temperatures, improving weather, and slopes without tracks in all directions. Day four was bound to be the day for the week, and the night before, some very ambitious plans were being hatched by the young rippers on the trip. The first three days of the trip had driven home that I couldn’t hang with most of these energizer bunnies. And so, when the day dawned cold and clear, my friend Steve and I opted for a day spent doing two laps of the famed “Seven Steps” run off the summit of Youngs Peak while the others roamed far and wide from the hut on grander adventures. However, two laps on Seven Steps was still no slouch of a day as each lap involved over 3,500 vertical feet of climbing. But with the skin track set and the cabin as our lunch spot, it was a glorious and relatively mellow day. Maybe one of the most memorably perfect backcountry days in my several decades of skiing! Each turn was in untracked snow, top to bottom on both runs. The sun was out, the snow was cold and light, and it was just Steve and me with a huge mountain expanse to ourselves. It is days like this that call me back year after year after year to backcountry skiing.
Back at the hut that night, an exhausted crew traded stories of face shots, steep slopes, and incredible mountain views. It would be almost impossible to beat day four, but Steve and I took stock of the runs skied that day, and came up with a plan for day five. We would focus on north-facing slopes now that the temperatures were warming and the snow was becoming crusty on southerly aspects. And so, with another clear morning, we set off the next day from the hut, traversing across the Asulkan Glacier to join a skin track coming up from the valley. We headed to Sapphire Col, and after a long climb, we arrived at the tiny tin can, otherwise known as the Sapphire Col hut, where we stopped for a mid-morning snack out of the wind. After quickly transitioning into ski mode, we descended breakable crust down onto the Swanzy Glacier. Another transition and skin up over Lily Pass followed, and then it was a beautiful ski down the Lily Glacier to a lonesome lunch spot below the imposing north face of Swanzy.
The impeccable weather continued, and we marveled at our luck to have an entire wilderness valley to ourselves on a perfect winter’s day. But, as always in the backcountry, there was a price to pay. In this case, a tiring skin up to Dome Col, which brought us face to face with the masses (about two dozen people) that had skinned up from the road that morning. It was a shock to see people outside of our party after five days of skiing with just a few others, but it was a first-world problem if there ever was one. A quick transition to downhill mode was all it took, and we beat most everyone down the 3500’ to the valley floor, skiing settled, but still glorious, cold snow. While the rest turned downhill to the highway, Steve and I pointed our skis in the other direction to climb back 1500’ up to the Asulkan Cabin for our last night in this remarkable mountain kingdom.
Despite our tired legs, a festive mood prevailed on our final night in the cabin. Everyone was energized after four memorable days of skiing around the remarkable terrain of the upper Asulkan Valley with an all-star crew. We hadn’t flown to a distant country, we hadn’t helicoptered into an expensive hut, nor had we hired a guide on this adventure. And yet, the entire trip had gone off without a hitch. I had stayed away from Rogers Pass for several decades, scared off by the imposing terrain and reputation for large avalanches. This week taught me that with a favorable forecast, strong crew, and humble respect for the terrain, it didn’t have to be somewhere I would only ski in my dreams. It would be somewhere I would ski again. And I wouldn’t wait another twenty years.
If You Go
Asulkan Cabin bookings: https://www.alpineclubofcanada.ca/asulkan-cabin/
Glacier National Park Winter Permit: https://parks.canada.ca/pn-np/bc/glacier/visit/hiver-winter/ski/permis-permit-quiz
Avalanche Canada: https://www.avalanche.ca/en/map
Jason Griffith is a fisheries biologist who now spends more time catching up on emails than catching fish. Regardless, he’d actually prefer to be in the mountains with friends and family. Jason lives in Mt. Vernon with his wife and two boys.
