the Adventure Lifestyle magazine

STEEP AND THE POWDER SO DEER I FLOATED DOWN, MY MIND CLEAR AND BLISS RUNNING ~ lr[H] ~ (Q)l~ (@ [H] MV [85 (QJ(M [E:~ '. 0 are blessed with what is affectionately known as a "snorkel day," when there is so much snow that you need a snorkel to breathe --~::.:: and must be over five feet tall to go on the mountain. ... equally thrilling: Highway 3, across the southern interior of British mbia, rides like a bobsled track with more turns and as much ice. The capper is Kootenay Pass, about eight hours east of Vancouver, which has permanently mounted avalanche control cannons to bomb the hell out of the avalanche-prone 50-degree slopes. , Once out of the snowcat, we strapped on our boards and followed the guide as he traversed to a fresh spot in the snowbowl. A quick lesson typically goes like this: "Ski down to treeline, break left at the ridge, avoiding the path to the right, and don't ski past me." Off we go, one by one, into the deep white. The sharp, Thirteen hours later we arrived in Fernie, where the northern Rockies meet the Lizard ~':· ragged peaks of the Three Sisters are majestic against the blue sky. and Flathead ranges to carve out the Elk Valley, and some of the finest skiing and riding ; , On each cat ride up we are fairly quiet. Each run brings a new in North America. Fernie was established in 1B97 as a coal mining town but now survives mostly on tourism and recreation. There's a tacit distrust in Fernie between the old miners and the new skiers, mostly because the skiers are transient. "It's good and bad," said Kendra, a Fernie local. "There are new cappuccino shops and clothing and stuff, but most of the skiers are seasonal and don't give much challenge: to carve a better turn, to catch bigger air, to feel more alive than ever before. Our next stop was the town of Invermere, a few hours to the northwest and home to RK Heli-Skiing. We were greeted by Christy Madson, who's part of the family-run business. Christy had one of those healthy mountain glows that only come from these to the town." She's referring to the clever, albeit dubious, niche many of the young riders ' parts. "But what about the city?" I asked her. "The city can be have created for themselves. From May to November, they pick up work with one of the large tree planting companies. Through the winter they collect welfare and ski. "They live off government money and spend it all on the ski mountain," said Kendra. "The townies hate this." Just out of Fernie is Island Lake Lodge, one of the finest snowcat businesses fun," she said to us. "But after a few days, I'm ready to come home, and I wouldn't want it any other way." She paused, and doing her best to curb a smile, said, "Look, you make your own reality. That's what counts." I thought about my life in New York and the paths that led around. David and I arrived to find ourselves staying with a few locals and the Vans me there. I knew I was an urbanite, but I also belonged to the Snowboard Team. Tyler, the friendly barkeep and ripper originally from the east, clued us in on Fernie's snow. "We're right in the middle of a snowbowl," he said, leaning into the bar, his eyes wild with delight. "Storms get trapped in the Elk Valley for days and there's a washing machine effect. It really dumps." Jeff, a local snowboard shop owner, revealed more secrets about Fernie's snow lore. "There's a magic tunnel outside of town. On one side nothing." He paused, his hands wide, "On Fernie's side, it just keeps on snowing." The next morning, under minus 2S-degree crystal-blue skies, we met the guides, got our transceiver lesson and piled into the snowcat. Riding a snowcat is a bit like riding a bucking bronco, but with a roof, heat and other people. ACMG guide Mark Stewart gave us more insight on the region's snow ecology. "Island Lake receives as much moisture as the coast but it's drier, lighter snow." The Pineapple Express carrying moisture from Hawaii and the Pacific meets the jet stream from Canada and funnels large storms along the Canada-US border all the way to Fernie. It can snow for days on end. On rare occasions, the folks around here mountains. My own reality was a convergence of the two. This healthy-looking woman from a tiny town in BC made me think back to the woman in New York with her face in the newspaper. The two realities could not be more different. The next morning, the reality that confronted us was a delightful one: skiing 2,000 square kilometers of sweet powder in RK's playground in the Purcell Mountains. Reaching over 11,000 feet, these mountains attract moisture from Pacific storms and get 40 feet of snow annually. Although not one of these 40 feet fell on our appointed day, RK managed to find us fresh tracks all day long. Rod, our certified mountain guide, gave us the ritualistic avalanche beacon lecture and a warning to avoid leaning on the Plexiglass windows of the helicopter unless we wanted to become a permanent part of the mountainscape. I later learned that of RK's 120-plus runs, over glaciers and through gladed forests, few are

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