Check out the clever adaptation of the opening lines from Apocalypse Now. Note the veiled reference to The Deer Hunter in the title of this piece.

Two of my all time favourite films—but what do movies about the Vietnam War have in common with backcountry skiing in Canada? Uhhh… well … it’s a stretch, but how about this? Over the last couple summers I’ve aspired to join the ranks of a legion of elite hardcore ski commandos. Their mission is to ski year-round, at least once every calendar month. Some of the most decorated soldiers in the force rack up consecutive-months-skied streaks which go on for years.

Because there's a conflict in every human heart between the rational and the irrational…

Yeah, those guys are really out there—just like Colonel Kurtz.

Yes sir, very much so sir. Obviously insane.

I’m talking about red-blooded North American earn-your-turners who contend with the heat, the scree and the puzzled looks from tourists in June, July, August, and beyond.

Oh sure, if you’ve got the time and money there’s always the southern hemisphere where the seasons are all backwards. I’ve never been, but the skiing in Argentina and Chile looks awesome. Apparently there are even parts of Australia that get decent snow and people down there who like to ski (when they’re not hungover). But my approach to travel is similar to my skiing style—both feet as close as possible to Mother Earth.

So I must earn my stripes closer to home. Living near the fabulous Canadian Rockies helps. Glacier skiing is a good way to go when looking for summer turns. But there are issues. On warm days you have to be aware that those crevasses are lurking just below the surface, like charlie, crouched in the jungle. Aha...another excellent war movie analogy!

Don't you think it's a little risky for R & R ?!
If I say it's safe to surf this beach, captain—it's safe to surf this beach!

That’s why this summer I expanded my horizons to include lingering snowpatches. The crevasse hazard is eliminated but you still have to be careful not to slide off the end of a steep one and onto the rocks—“death by cheese grater” in technical mountaineering jargon.

I’ve also developed a new method for scouting summer snow (depicted in accompanying photo #2). At home, I’ll flip through hiking guide books and scan the photos. Looking beyond the lakes, trees, kids and dogs; in the gullies and bowls high above, there they are—the lingering snowpatches. The summer trail descriptions usually point the best way to get close to the objective. A bike can sometimes speed up the process. Most times though, the approaches are long.

Invariably, when I’m alone on these outings or when I get tired of talking to whoever I’m with, the mind wanders. Random stuff—such as images and dialogue from Apocalypse Now and The Deer Hunter. Maybe these thoughts are triggered by parallels or similarities. Yeah, that’s it, I’m like a soldier out there, overcoming insurmountable mental and physical challenges for every turn.

That’s one way to look at it. But before I get to feeling that I’m Joe Hardcore, I remind myself that these challenges are self-imposed and pale in comparison to what real soldiers and civilians lived through in the shit show that was Vietnam (or any other war). Thankfully, I live in a place and time where being shot at is not on the list of objective hazards.

*****
I wanted a mission. And for my sins they gave me one…

The last time I skied was in mid-August. It was a clear, windless day. The temperature in the valley was climbing towards 30 degrees Celsius. A couple weeks previous I hiked by a good-sized snowpatch. I was back to check it out, but it had dwindled to pitiful proportions—a dozen turns or so, tops.

As I got close I stopped to rest and ponder the situation. I took off my sunglasses and that’s when I saw him—sitting on a nearby rock; a hulk of a man, shaved head, hands resting on his knees. I squinted in his direction, my eyes stinging from a mixture of sweat, sunscreen and DEET. He didn’t look at me but he turned his head slightly as if to acknowledge my presence.

At that point I realized who he was—the ghost of Marlon Brando, resurrected as Coppola’s infamous Colonel Walter E. Kurtz.

He spoke:

Are you an assassin?

“I’m a skier,” I replied.

You’re neither. You’re an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill.

*****
The Lingering Snowpatch Hunter Montage

*****

Tim


Other articles by Tim Bester:

Parks Canada's Backcountry Avalanche Risk Review—Cool Heads Prevail
The Highwood Pass Tradition
Observations from the CAA 2003 Backcountry Avalanche Workshop
Post-Apocalyptic Powder Pigs
A Photo Report From Mount Joffre
Beating the Rush to Rae
The Incredible Shrinking Glaciers Tour