Steppin’ up
By David Leach with photography by Andrew Doran
Forget the sushi bars and snow-bunny-packed slopes in Whistler, B.C.
Strap on some snowshoes, and hip-hop to a mountaintop
in Canada’s winter playground.
We have been snowshoeing for only an
hour when Guillaume Otis drops to one knee and traces a line
in the frozen crust. This mark, explains our 31-year-old alpine
guide, represents the path of an avalanche. And that one, he says,
is the "deposit zone," where, should we get caught, our unlucky
bodies might be - to use the bloodless euphemism - deposited.
"Especially in the spring," he says, "we’re dealing with massive
melted-snow avalanches." In mid-May, we’re standing in a clearing
in the subalpine forest, a 1½-hour drive northwest of Whistler,
B.C. The Coast Mountains are still topped with Dream Whip swirls
of deep white. "All that snow wants to come down," he adds.
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Otis buries his avalanche beacon, and with mine switched to
“receive” mode, I learn how to follow the “getting warmer”
beeps until I zero in on the signal. Photographer Andrew
Doran, who shoots heli-skiing trips every winter, is an old hand
at alpine safety. I am the mountain greenhorn of our trio. In an
emergency, neither of my companions wants me fumbling
over my beacon like a monkey with a cellphone.
They aren’t trying to spook me. Otis triple-checked the avalanche
forecast. After 10 years as an accredited guide, he can read
the snowpack like a paperback novel. The chances of getting
caught by a big one in this area, he says, are a million to one —
but there is always a potential risk. He simply wants us to play
safe and to tutor me in the subtleties of alpine travel. I remind
myself that I’m here to discover the wild side of Whistler. Despite
the warnings about potentially fatal “deposits,” it is too late to
make a noble withdrawal from my trip into avalanche country.
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