By Arnie Wilson
I
have never ridden in a tank but I would imagine that trundling up a
mountain with 11 ski companions in a Pisten Bully snowcat is infinitely
preferable. North American "cat-skiing" - which always prompts feline
jokes - is a little like helicopter skiing but a good deal slower (the
journey to the snow, not the skiing, that is) and considerably cheaper.
Skiers climb into a specially designed
cabin that is hitched on to the back of a snowcat, so called originally
because it's a caterpillar-tracked vehicle. Then, slowly but surely,
the driver hauls all of you along a variety of "cat-tracks" - roads,
this time, not caterpillar tracks - to numerous peaks in succession.
At the top, once you have jumped out
of the vehicle (waiting for it to stop first, of course - being
flattened and chewed up by such a machine does not bear contemplation),
the operation is almost identical to heli-skiing: a qualified guide
leads you off-piste, down major snowfields that eventually give way to
forests of fir. Here you'll plunge on, hooting and hollering your way
exuberantly through the trees, floating in the "white smoke" that
envelops you.
Far from interrupting the deep-snow
skiing experience, tree-skiing, which helps no end with visibility in
white-out conditions or freshly falling snow, is considered by many to
be the ne plus ultra of back-country adventure - as long as you "go
gingerly through the snow ghosts" (trees smothered in snow and ice).
And with any luck, the "cat" will be waiting for you at the bottom to
transport you to another exhilarating run.
For skiers in a rush who still prefer
cat to helicopter, Powder Cowboy - an operation run near Fernie, in
British Columbia - has introduced a "Cheetah" programme that uses two
snowcats to serve a group of 12. While one drops the group off, the
other is ready and waiting to pick them up at the bottom of the next
run. This, says Powder Cowboy, is the "fastest cat-skiing on the
planet".
The operation enthuses that it
"combines the legendary powder of Canada's Rocky Mountains and the Wild
West culture of the Columbia Valley, with 6,000 acres of awesome
terrain, equalling the size of many ski resorts. Imagine your favourite
resort covered in deep, dry, untracked powder, all for just you and 11
friends. Call today and saddle up, partner!"
When you think about it, being hauled
up to the finest off-piste in a vehicle designed to groom pistes is a
little quirky. Although it takes a lot longer than a helicopter to
reach the peaks, not all snowcats - rather like cars or tanks - travel
at the same speed. At Powder Cowboy, our rookie driver, Ryan Grootveld,
was slow, steady and reliable. Things moved a little faster at the
Island Lake Lodge operation - a sister company on the other side of
Fernie's Lizard Range, where Martin, a French Canadian, drove with a
little more urgency. "Must be the French blood in his veins," suggested
one of the members of our group.
Certainly the terrain in this part of
the world, along with the luxurious lodges and fine dining (we enjoyed
such delicacies as prawn and crab salad rolled in smoked salmon and
finished with lemon crème fraiche and mango coulis drizzle), along with
the gung-ho atmosphere, is just like a heli-skiing operation, only more
relaxed. Instead of fighting to be heard above the roar of a Bell 212's
engines, we could sit back, snack on sandwiches, cookies and hot cider,
and tell mountain tales. Or you can listen to your iPod through an
auxiliary input - "rather like one of the old pirate radio stations,"
as someone put it. Laughter comes easily in the back of a cat.
Before you start skiing, there's the
inevitable signing of waivers in which you swear in writing that come
what may, you will not sue the company in the event of an accident. At
Powder Cowboy, this seems slightly more intense than usual. "Do you
understand the wording on the form?" asks Brent MacDonald, in his 14th
season as lead guide, echoed meaningfully by Owen Day, the "tailgunner"
guide who acts as sweeper, mopping up any fallen skiers. "I do," I say
earnestly, wondering if someone will add: "You may kiss the guide."
Should you, for any unimaginable
reason, wish to sit out one run (I did on the rare occasion that the
group had to "bootpack" up a steep climb to reach a run called Yeti,
after being dropped off as high as the cat could get to), it's quite
fun to sit in the passenger seat of the luxuriously warm cab while the
driver trundles down the mountain to the next pick-up point. Getting in
is quite tricky - you have to climb on to the cat runners and somehow
get in through the "suicide" door. Once inside, you can enjoy the ride.
Taking pity on me for having missed
this glorious run, the group insisted that I go first on the next. It
was called Lucky Loonie. Were they trying to tell me something?
On one occasion, we shuddered to a
halt (screeching to a halt would be over-stating it) when a female
moose, chewing innocently on a leafy branch, barred our route. Everyone
piled out - something you can't do in a helicopter - grabbing their
cameras. Everyone, that is, except for one silver-haired and
moustachioed passenger who sat and smiled benignly, saying: "I see them
all the time in New York City."