+ The Shiny Road

A first-hand account of a month-long road trip to the great white north and back.

Story and Photos by: John Coleman and Keith Addy

"Poor driving conditions." When Parks Canada says this, they mean it. We are about 85 kilometres into our 4,922-kilometre snow-seeking adventure and we have already left dry, bare roads behind. We find ourselves negotiating the ice, wind and blowing snow of the road appropriately named the Icefields Parkway. Little did we know just how familiar we would have to become with hockey-rinkesque road conditions. The clear blue glaciers are extra brilliant in contrast to the mild gray overcast day and keep us distracted from concentrating on the treacherous road ahead.

After a quick stop in Jasper for lunch and a bit of food in Prince George, we find ourselves anxiously driving towards Powder King—our next stop, 90 minutes up the road. We're anxious and skeptical of the skiing conditions at Powder King because our windshield wipers are swishing away raindrops instead of snowflakes. But, moments before we reach the turn for Powder King, the temperature turns, the precipitation turns, and our mood turns. We find ourselves howling as the stoke meter redlines, it's puking snow and we can barely see the road!

Powder King

We fish tail into the Powder King parking lot and are greeted by Cheryl, the hotel manager and Scotty, who is the bar manager by title but seems a jack of all trades. We have a couple beers, chatting jovially, as we watch the snow falling past a nearby street light. The parking lot it illuminates is filling with fat flakes of snow and we fill with excitement for tomorrow's turns. The hotel at Powder King is a series of ATCO trailers attached together with hostel-style rooms and shared bathrooms. Our room has a window, a shelf, and bunk beds.

“It’s going to smell in here after a couple days,” I say, and it does. There are 15 centimetres of new fluff on the ground outside and it’s coming down harder than before. Things look promising as we bid good night to our first day on the road.

We rise with the sun and there are 35 centimetres of new snow…we’re amped! We fill our bellies with oatmeal and head out to face the day. A three-seater, fixed-grip diesel carries us above a naked sea of snow...not a single track! We were told by Powder King's owner that they actually had to start lying to the weather channel about their snowfall claiming less than what they actually receive because the weather channel thought they were lying about the amounts they get and wouldn't post their reports until they start telling the truth. The truth is as Jim tells us, that Powder King does not have five-star lodgings, the fastest lifts, or the biggest restaurants. What they do have is snow, and lots of it. Powder King gets an average of 1,250 centimetres of snow annually.

There is a reverse localism phenomenon here at Powder King and everyone is stoked to show us their favourite runs and secret stashes. Most of the inbounds terrain is very mellow. The steeper stuff is just out of bounds. Ask around for the way to 86’ers and you will be pleasantly surprised with fast, deep, tree skiing full of fun features. You know it’s a good day when you spend more time in the "white room" than not. Or at the end of the day when you look at the buddy you've known for years and say, "Oh that’s what you look like!" because they've become more recognizable as a bursting cloud of powder rather than their familiar human form.

After four days of the deepness, a kitchen party with the great Powder King staff, a terrible night's sleep (no thanks to the flats of Bow Valley Lager that we brought with us) and getting the truck stuck twice in the parking lot, we’re on the road again. The great people we met were surprised to see us leave as Powder King was expecting another familiar dump of 40-plus centimetres of snow, but we've got another place on our mind…Alaska!

Back on the Shiny Road

Driving from 11 a.m. to 6:30 a.m. we pass through Dawson's Creek, Fort Nelson, and Williams Lake stopping only for food, gas, and occasionally to stretch our legs. Driving this stretch at night is not recommended especially after a greasy pizza dinner in Fort Nelson—sleep beckons. Under the full moon, we watch the landscape change from prairie, to forested rolling hills to jagged mountains. We lose count of the number of moose we see and also pass a couple herds of bison. We meet one lone bison walking down the road ahead, we slow to photograph the beast and to figure a way around it. We slowly tail it in awe of its size and potential power. Suddenly the Bison stops, turns around, and stares into our eyes, and deep into our souls, or so it seems. We are trapped—one bison in front of us and the rest of the heard behind us. Knowing one of these beauties could easily bang up the truck, we peel away, leaving the creature in our wake. This moonlit, 520-kilometre stretch of road takes nine hours.

Everyone has close calls. Events that cause you to ponder why you survived and others died. Such an event occurs just outside Whitehorse. In whiteout conditions, I crank the wheel to narrowly avoid a van parked on the highway and slide into the oncoming lane sideways at around 100 kilometres per hour. As I fight to keep control of the truck, my copilot, calmly chewing on a carrot, says to me, "You got this man." And I do. A little love tap on the snow bank and we're back in business. Since Dawson Creek, the road has been absolutely terrible. It is completely ice covered with corduroy grader marks giving the appearance of a freshly groomed ski run. We were planning to park and ski off the side of the road, but at -35°C and with high winds we keep the stereo cranked and drive on with visions of Alaska tiptoeing through our minds.

After four days stuck in Whitehorse, we are finally heading to Alaska. We did not plan to be there for so long but three size three avalanches covering sections of the highway to Alaska had different plans. The White Pass is gorgeous. This is where the Chilkoot Trail is located. If you want to do some serious touring close to Whitehorse, visit the White Pass. The road is in the alpine which means no approach and sleds are permitted. That combined with the biggest snow banks and the biggest snow blower we’ve ever seen makes for some promising skiing.

As we descend into Skagway the temperature climbs to -5°C. The winds are still, and the sky is still. Perfect. There isn’t much going on in Skagway in the winter. Less than 200 people call the town home and only a handful of establishments are open: the bakery, the general store, the National Parks tourism office and, sweet jeezus—the pub. In the summer months, more than 10,000 people flood the streets from cruise ships and the boarded up shops and jewelry stores apparently bloom to life.

haines, Haines, HAINES!

Holy crap. We’ve been going stir crazy and jonesin’ to ski for days and we’re finally here! Anxiously, we roll into Fort Seward and meet the boys from South East Alaska Back Country Adventures (SEABA). We first meet Nick. He’s a big tall guy and his jovial and inviting demeanor obviously make him the marketing and customer service part of the operation. He is hospitable and gladly shows us around. Later we meet Sunny, who is an all-business man of few words, exactly what you want in an Alaskan heli-ski guide. The energy mounts with every introduction.

We meet Drake at a restaurant with his daughter. With a burger in one hand and a pint in the other, Drake enthusiastically tells us that he is a sightseeing charter pilot. His winter business is plane-access skiing. Imagine heli-skiing except in a Cessna with skis on it. The plane can land on a snowfield in seemingly inaccessible terrain. He explains that we can either get dropped and tour back to town; get dropped, ski some laps and get picked up, or get dropped on top of runs and picked up at the bottom. Sounds cool and we’re sold. Drake tells us to keep our phones on and close because he's going to call the next chance we have to go up.

We wake up a little foggy, along with the weather. Drake won’t fly. The SEABA chopper is in transit from Juneau, and SEABA cat skiing is not yet operational. We forgot February is early season in Alaska. The decision to go ski touring is basically made for us. We start the up-track on 7 Mile Saddle and three hours later we’re bushwhacking up bottomless facets and have gained zero metres of ski-able vertical. We keep trucking and it starts getting dark. We turn around. This was not a good start in Alaska. We’ve been craving skiing and getting amped for Haines for weeks, well years now, it will have to wait one more day.

The following day the chopper arrives from Juneau. The heli-ski season at SEABA has officially begun. Unfortunately there is no room for us to fly today. Luckily we were able to get our hands on a trail sled and go play in the SEABA cat skiing area at a mountain called Old Faithful. It takes a little convincing but we got the 550 Fan Polaris started and were off exploring. It is a welcome change having a machine take us into the alpine. This is our first real Alaska skiing experience. Wide-open steep white faces and a bomber snow pack call our names. We park the sled at tree line and get our skins on. After a couple thousand vertical feet of climbing under the broad blue sky, darkness starts creeping in. We turn around and have the best turns of the trip. Just as hunger is the best aperitif, the experience is surely enhanced by the anticipation. The silky smoothness of the powder transfers the magic of Haines, AK from the snow to our skis, our boots, through the snow rolling off our legs, and through our bodies. We are done, not unlike dinner. Time for a beer. We both pass out before our heads hit the pillow.

Much to our surprise and delight, we wake to a blue bird day. The phone rings, and we are off to the airport to meet Drake. This is what we’ve been waiting for, ever since Drake—the ex-race car driver—described the experience of plane-access skiing. Drake’s story is a book of its own, which we won't get into. Get up to Alaska and find out for yourself. We show up at the airport, check out the Cessna and pretend to hide our excitement.

Drake carefully loads our skis and packs into the tail of the plane. After checking a few things around the plane he tells us to get in. We strap into the seats and Drake jumps in. He’s a little agitated and jumps in and out of the plane a few times looking concerned after flicking some switches. We’re definitely more worried than he is, but we mask it with our attempts at hiding our excitement. Drake pops his head in and says, “one of the speed brake micro switches is broken." He then fiddles around with a screwdriver inside a panel under the wing for a bit, then jumps in and fires up the plane.

“Its ok we’ll just fly without them, we just won’t be that speedy," he says with a laugh. They sound important to us but he is the pilot. Our nervousness grows as we taxi down to the runway and try to turn into take-off direction. It doesn’t work, too much wind and the plane is pushed sideways on the ice runway. Drake hops out of the plane, and with the prop whirling, grabs the tail of the plane and spins it around by hand. Now we’re very nervous. However, as soon as we leave the ground it becomes apparent that Drake is in his element. He cranks Van Morrison over the headsets to calm us down. It has the opposite effect—now we're amped.

We fly over a huge snowfield and see jagged peaks, glaciers and blue sky in all directions. Drake swoops down and touches the skis in the snow and then quickly pulls up.

"What were you doing?"

"Checking the snow," replies Drake. “It feels good, we’ll land here." The plane loops around under the skillful guidance of Drake and we find ourselves back on the earth with three ski lines in the snow behind the plane. As the engine shuts down, we realize where we have landed—in heaven. Not a person or even the sign of a person other than us for miles. There is no noise, only endless skiing, my great friend and my new friend.

Much to our delight Drake says, “I wanna come skiing with you guys." We gear up and start moving away from the plane which looks evermore lonely and out of place as we climb higher.

We skin up wind-affected snow in windless air and have a great chat at the top while overlooking a giant valley; the plane is a speck in the distance. The skiing consists of wind- and sun-affected snow leading to silky turns in the valley. After a rough start down the slope, we get into a good rhythm. Our second lap is a slightly steeper and narrower chute. I never imagined it was possible to have such peace, quiet and serenity with aircraft-assisted skiing. Reunited with the plane we have a snack and take off as smoothly as we landed. This is when the wild ride really begins. Drake has our hearts in our throats for most of the flight back. We skim by ridges, stall on the backside of a col, fly straight into alpine faces and bank around peaks. The chilled-out Van Morrison in our headsets is a perfect and somewhat ironic soundtrack for this soul-feeding adventure. We are both, at once, scared and perfectly calm. The trust in our guide and the flight this day exists as an experience that would later be described as "lingering in the pit of my being."

As we near Haines, Drake chills out and flies us over the town, the harbour and the surrounding landscape. If you go to Alaska and can only do one thing, plane-access skiing with Fly Drake in Haines should be it.

If you can do two things while in Alaska: go heli-skiing in Haines.

By a stroke of luck, there are two spots available with a group from Arizona here on a week long trip at SEABA. With a gesture of generosity, the Arizona crew and the SEABA staff extend an invitation for us to join. The energy level is off the charts as we load our skis into the basket with the rotor spinning overhead. It's bluebird again and the lighting is unbelievable. Time slows down as the chopper takes off, leaving us atop our first run. Over 1,200 metres of rolling landscape and a plethora of features stretches beneath our ski tips. Our guide, Scott, gives us the green light. Deep turns, hips, drops, open snowfields, the run lasts forever.

Our first taste of heli-skiing in Haines is awesome, but we want to step it up a little. We chat with Scott about some steep narrow chutes we spotted from the air. We run it by the group and it's on. The bird drops us off and we’re ready to rip. About 300 metres of open convex rolling snow with a blind entrance into 300 metres of 45-degree chute to a huge 300-metre fan to the middle of the bowl stares back at us. This is what we came to Alaska for. I set off and start making turns. All I can see is the snow horizon rolling in front of me. More turns, silky turns and it's getting steeper. I must be getting close and BAM, I’m in the chute. Shorten up the turn radius. The chute is steeper but wider than it looked and the rock walls are huge. I exit into the fan and open it up for a last few giant mach 10 turns.

We pack up the truck. Having said good bye to Drake and to the great people at SEABA, we are now off to Juneau. Life is a process of coming and going, not starting and stopping. This trip to Haines is in us...it always has been and it always will be. We are physically leaving this place knowing that its energy will always live in us. We trust that we will one day return.

We have chosen to take a ferry to see some of the amazing coastline of Alaska and northern B.C., and also to remove a long stretch of treacherous road. The ferry ride to Juneau is quick and painless and we are pleasantly surprised to learn about the local ski resort called Eagle Crest. We get to the resort expecting the little local hill to provide us with some fun skiing to tie us over until Terrace. As we are carried by one of the two chairlifts, we are relaxed preparing to enjoy the down day of skiing. But as we get to the top of the lift, the whole resort becomes visible. In turn, we freak out. We elect to go for a hike and when we summit, the view takes our breath away. We find ourselves starring at inlets of the ocean on one side and steep, gnarly, super-fun terrain on the other. The only down side is that Eagle Crest is a coastal resort, when it’s not snowing, it's bullet proof. All in, we still had a great day and can only imagine the possibilities with some fresh snow. We'll be back.

After the two and a half days of ferry travel, and a short stop in Ketchikan and Terrace looking for snow, we find ourselves making a decision to leave our friend Jeffy G and Terrace because they are in a high-pressure system and are not expecting snow. We spend a few minutes on the internet looking all over B.C. to find a place that is getting dumped on. Powder King is of course getting some. Faithful Revelstoke pulls through. We drive from Terrace to Revelstoke in one shot, a 1,305-kilometre drive that seemingly takes three days because of whiteout conditions the entire way. Snowy drives are both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because you know you are driving to get good turns, but a curse because your not always sure you are going to get there.

We arrive in Revelstoke after an unforgettable night drive from Terrace, and ski 30 centimetres of fresh for two days. As we turn the truck home towards the Bow Valley, we jovially reflect upon the journey through sleepy eyes and excited spirits.

Such road trips, such adventures, create bonds with people, places, and things that are ineffable. Some people seek and trust roads paved with gold to lead them to happiness...we have discovered that roads paved with ice often lead us to our happiness.

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