Whirlwind in the Backcountry

A Ski Touring Trip to Kees and Claire

February 22-23, 2024

It has not been a particularly productive fall or winter for my outdoor exploits. A badly sprained ankle at the end of august led to my (admittedly fanciful) plans of regularly running becoming impossible. Furthermore, the many alpine objectives I had aimed to do had become less than ideal when winter decided to abandon us. So, it has been quite a while since my last trip report and thus, my last good bout of exercise. Of course, riding a stand up bike was always an option, but I must adhere to my mantra: I tolerate exercise only if it brings me to cool places. The one activity I had picked up was fortunately gentle on the ankle but not particularly cardio boosting. I finally learned how to ski. Due to the nature of this particular winter, I quickly learned to dodge shark fins and balance on ice. After ten days on the slopes, I was feeling relatively comfortable.

Sitting on the couch annoyed at the amount of ice on the ski slopes and mourning the lack of ice to climb on the walls, I get a text from Christian and Carter inviting me on what promised to be an amazing backcountry adventure to the Kees and Claire Hut. The fat and grease in my veins from a hundred frozen pizzas started pumping as I pictured the possibility. I peeled myself from the couch: This will be my triumphant return to the great outdoors! Funnily enough I had met up with both Carter and Christian seperately over different trips to Switzerland, and they had also met up there as well, but never us three together. The Swiss triumvirate were finally together.

Christian had been to the hut before and had skied the surrounding slopes, so he was familiar with the area and thus was the lead of the trip. We made an uneventful drive up to whistler on the Thursday and hopped onto the lifts at 9:45. Donning an overnight bag, we rode Symphony chair and ventured into the backcountry.

The visibility was pretty poor. Clouds moved in and out making the expanse of untouched snow seem to go on forever. Following a thin line of tracks the visibility improved as we descended, a hint of blue skies in the distance. Despite my relative comfort on skis, my limited resort experience has restricted the different types of snow that I had encountered. Here I found one of the many unencountered types which many a dubious anthropologists would claim to have a place in the expansive list of Inuit words for snow. This simple fact check google led me down a rabbit hole of linguistic relativism vs linguistic determinism and despite coming to no solid personal decision on the matter, I can say for a fact that not having a specific english word for the type of snow I encountered certainly did not change my perception of the snow and finding myself thrown over, one ski in the air, I can positively say that had I been able to name said snow, I would have still been struggling to stand up with cold melt down the back of my jacket. In other words, it was heavy and hard to ski.

I struggled to turn in the heavy snow and my bag bounced awkwardly, but I slowly got used to it. At the base of the slope, I pulled out my skins and flipped my boots into touring mode for the first time. Up we went. My cardio struggled like a horse drawn brick building, but my muscles hadn’t quite clued in yet so I felt pretty strong. Another couple up and down cycles culminated with the hut appearing over a rise.

It was a beautiful hut. Perched over a snow-covered lake, mountains were supposedly extending far into the distance somewhere beyond the changing clouds. The sun beat down through the mist as we entered. An isolated atrium led into the main room with tables along tall windows opposite the kitchen which provided everything anyone might need to cook. From your choice of coffee making apparatus to a variety of spatula shapes, the only thing that was missing was running water. Pillowed benches sat at the far end of the room, a cast iron fireplace along the wall. A basket of assorted lululemon yoga mats and rollers was also on offer. We proceeded downstairs to the rooms and selected our bunk beds. Dropping our gear, we sat for a quick lunch before once more donning our ski boots and heading outside. We skinned westward along the sloping hills and gained a ridge. After thirty minutes the clouds grew thicker and we decided to turn back to the hut. As we removed our skins for the descent, a diffuse sun shone through the temporarily thinned mist illuminating us in a shroud of golden orange. It was gone. We skied the snow, much nicer than the ski to the hut, but still heavy. In no time we were sitting back inside the hut hanging our skins in the drying room ready for dinner.

I am by no means an expert—nor a novice, and really pushing beginner—in backcountry skiing. However, I can imagine that surprises are not usually something one looks for in the backcountry. If someone was telling a story of their ski adventure and started with “Man, we were out there far from aid in the middle of nowhere skiing those remote snowy slopes and all of the sudden we were surprised by…” I would not assume the story is one of joy, happiness, and good decisions. On the other hand, those stories are unlikely to include Christian and Carter. If these stories would so happen to include those two, that sentence would end with “M-Budget chocolate from Carter and a full-on steak and wine dinner from Christian”. It was as if the food gods had followed us into the backcountry, but it was just Christian. Whipping out three vacuum packed slabs of steak, Carter and I stuttered speechless at the surprise. Luxury in the mountains of BC doesn’t come easy. Everything you bring into the backcountry must be carried on your back for hours. While we were in a fancy hut, compared to the equivalent Alps hut this was nothing. We still had to bring a sleeping bag, there was no running water, and there was no prepared menu consisting of dishes “inspired by local tradition”. Despite this, we were certainly going to eat fancy.

The steaks sizzled as they were basted in butter. The room filled with the delicious aroma of perfectly pan seared steak. No doubt everyone else in that crowded room was jealous. Christian had even brought some basil. He had truly thought of everything. We proceeded to live like kings as we downed the steak, fancy Annies Mac and Cheese (upgraded with extra cheese and sauce), and a cup of wine. What an absolutely perfect trip.

As the sun set the clouds disappeared and a nearly full moon illuminated the landscape in a bright glow. Fissile Mountain rose prominently to the West, the Spearhead traverse was laid out to the North, and carving out the horizon across the southern valley were the sharp peaks of the Tusk and Castle Towers. Dozens of other peaks extended into the distance all shining white with a nightly glow. You could ski with the moonlight it was so bright. Jupiter shone among the few stars that weren’t washed out by the moon. We stood outside for an hour admiring the spectacular view then retreated to our sleeping bags for the night.

We awoke just before seven to the clamour of the hut rising for the morning. Eating a breakfast of oatmeal we planned our day. We would ascend Whirlwind peak and ski the area. We donned our skis just after 8am and were off. The rising sun illuminated the white blanketed landscape in a bright light elongating our shadows in harsh contrast to the snow. We skinned along this canvas, the sharp and rocky ground turned soft under its cold embrace. The sun rose in our eyes as we squinted, our sunglasses insufficient against the morning. We made good headway following the thin track which wound through the landscape.

Two other groups were ahead and though they had chosen perhaps a shorter route, we took the ridgeline permitting us a view across the valley and over the seemingly endless expanse of peaks. We soon reached the upward push to the summit of Whirlwind. Progress felt slow as we switchbacked our way up, but in the warm rays of the morning sun it was spectacular. Carter forged on ahead, Christian a length behind, and I took up the rear. At each switchback, I was attempting a flawless kickturn with marginal success. Perhaps midway up the steep slope was not the place to practice.

We rose up and nearing the top soon came upon a view of Overlord Glacier. We had considered skiing it for a lap or two but at this point decided to simply ski off Whirlwind then head back to Whistler. Proceeding up the final push we came upon a group standing just below a summit ridge at the top of the long powdery slope. A quick greeting and we continued up to the true summit of Whirlwind determined to stand atop its peak. Gaining the summit ridge we were greeted by a flurry of powder thrown up by the wind. We skinned for a moment and were soon on the sunny peak. A previously blocked view of the vast expanse of eastward mountains stretched on. We were surrounded by a panorama of white on what felt like the top of the world. Admiring the view, we spent a while taking photos. I lifted my ski to turn around then, all of the sudden, my toes popped out of the pins. Oops, I had forgotten to lock them on the last transition. Fortunately, my ski didn’t slide away so I wouldn’t forced to ski all the way back to whistler on one leg. We descended off the peak down to a more sheltered area and had a snack as we stowed our skins. Off we went.

The Skiing was spectacular. My first backcountry powder turns. Snow sprayed with each turn glinting in the morning sun as we descended that perfect face. The snow couldn’t have been better that first 250 meters. As we descended further the quality deteriorated, and it became heavier and tougher to ski. Nearly at the bottom of our long descent I caught an edge and tumbled in a mess of snow. I was getting pretty tired. As the sun climbed higher, we donned our skins and up we went once more. The now nearly mid-day sun shone brightly upon the snow, its crystals catching the light flashing in the still air as if we were plodding through a vast field of diamonds. Silence in the vast mountain air save for the sounds of motion from our ski pants, our boots, and the sliding of the skis.

Our return to the hut was uneventful. We sat briefly in the dining hall eating lunch before packing up and heading back towards Whistler. Unfortunately, due to the unusually low snow pack this year, Singing Pass fell short of its promise and was unpassable. Thus, we made our way back up and down…and up and down. My severely lacking cardio, while a constant dark veil over the entire trip, became particularly apparent. Before our final uphill push, while transitioning to skins, I downed a Clif bar. “Not gonna lie boys,” I say ironically adopting a ski bum patois to lighten my mood, “I really be strugglin’ on the uphills”. My muscles burned as we gained the ridge and looked down upon Whistler resort. While we had missed the last lift for Symphony and there was still a small uphill hike, it was essentially all downhill. Soon we were seated at Dusty’s downing enough nachos to feed a family.

It was quite the trip for my first backcountry outing. I was expecting to be introduced to the discipline through a day thing to Red Heather but alas, as with all my outdoor trips, it could not be done in half-measure. This backcountry trip was everything I could have asked for and way more, especially for my first season on skis. Weather, snow, location, food, and company were of an all time quality.