I scored a ride with a friend from Whistler to Revelstoke. From there, he was headed south to go fishing. It had been a long winter for him also. At the gas station I asked a rough neck working on the oilrigs for a ride and I threw my skis in next to his welder. He fired up his huge truck and set fire to some more fossil fuels.






It was late and I wasn’t going to make it Banff in one ride, so I jumped out in Golden and crashed at a buddy’s house. I finally managed to get Brandon on the phone and we conspired to meet in the middle. He was in Calgary, I was in Golden, and therefore Field would be the rendezvous. My only problem was my lack of wheels, but we figured I ought to be able to hitch a ride. It was the Trans-Canadian HWY after all.

The cab pulled up out side and waited in the dark for me to gather my stuff and rub the sleep from my eyes. He dropped me at the gas station on the highway and I hung my thumb out. The sun began to rise, casting the most amazing colors over the Kicking Horse Resort, Dogtooth Range and Clamshell. This might be my last day skiing for the year and it was beginning memorably.






The colors were the only thing I had to rejoice over however. I stood there for 2 hours, hustling grumpy, old men in safety vests for a ride, but they were just going a few click up the road to work on the highway. At that hour, they weren’t in the mood to accommodate a young guy off for a day of leisure while they toiled in the dirt.

Eventually Brandon just came and picked me up and we doubled back along the highway to Field. Brandon wanted to ski a north-facing chute on Cathedral Mountain just outside of town. By the time we arrived it was past 8, and 2 hours behind our scheduled start.






The sky was blue and the chute stayed out of the sun for most of the day so we resolved to give it a go anyway. We crossed the road, waited for the train to pass and skinned up on the other side. Hiking up, I could feel the fatigue and weight of the past winter begging me to go sit on the beach. It was also second nature; skins on, pacing it out and climbing steadily, a few sips of water while admiring the view, matching the avalanche report with the snow under your feet.

After what seemed like an eternity, we finally made it to the choke in the chute and started kicking steps up a steep pitch. Below, the snow had been crusty and firm, but in the sheltered chute, it was powder. The sun was sneaking a few rays into the bowl above, and it looked amazing. Steep, fresh and untouched. We rallied and pushed through the chute in order to avoid the firing line of any rocks melting out of the mountain. Huffing and puffing as we caught our breath in the bottom of the bowl, we knew we had nailed it.






Spring conditions in the Rockies means a deep and stable snowpack, and while Whistler and most other places are melting out, the snow here is still as dry as it gets. Breaking trail through boot deep powder, the exhaustion of the previous months felt as light as the snow.

Cresting the ridge and walking the tightrope along the top of the bowl, we worked our way to where the snow met the steep, rock headwall above. It was past lunchtime, but the bowl wasn’t receiving any direct sunlight and remained cold. The skies were blue and there was barely a breath of wind.






Dropping in, my hoots reverberated off the cliffs surrounding our powder amphitheatre. Digging in each turn sent splinters of crisp snow tinkling down my collar. It was like wading through a cloud, rushing to stay ahead of the slough and the shadow from the powder cloud billowing in my wake. It was awesome. The legs felt like it was early season again. I savored every turn and face shot. Brandon didn’t, opting to let the skis run and made half a dozen long, graceful arcs down the face.

At the bottom we giggled like school girls and pulled our sleeves down over our watches. We were going up again.






We cut one more short lap and then another long one that funneled us into the chute and out onto the wide, open boulder field below. The sun had softened the overnight freeze making for fast and edgy skiing. We carved long turns and popped off of kickers crafted from snow caked boulders all the way down to the train tracks.

Mounting the train sitting dormant between us and cold beers in the truck, it had been a perfect day... it had been a prefect winter.