Crouching under chopper blades, a hurricane of rotor wash sparkles before my eyes. A raging sea of snow spreads out from the eye of the storm. Three separate levels of noise assault the ears—first, the threshing sound of blades hacking air, then the motor’s deep guttural rumble and, finally, the upper register whine of the chassis. Then the seven-seater 407 Bell lifts, almost unexpectedly, leaving a palpable vacuum in its wake.

 

In the silent moment that follows, I marvel at the corrugated expanse of peaks, pine and powder. In all 1500 square kilometres of the Robson Helimagic (robsonhelimagic.com) leasehold, my fellow skiers and I are the sole occupants. Due southeast, Mt Robson’s summit slices the sky like a rough grade boxcutter, glinting against thin blue air.

 

My G3s are piled amongst the rest of the arsenal, poles and skis strapped together with a small Velcro cinch. Still overwhelmed, I stumble through deep snowy drifts, pick them up and step in. As the bindings click, the chopper mist finally clears from my head. I turn to my friend Joe with a huge grin and wide eyes. He’s busy snapping photos like an overzealous tourist.

 

Lead guide JC Trespannier picks up on the excitement. With the comic timing of a weathered backcountry expert, he says, “OK, sorry guys, we’re done for the day.” The irony—that we’ve only just begun—breaks the mystique, snapping us into action. 

 

With a few short instructions on safe travel, we’re let loose on our first of nine untracked powder lines spread over three separate mountains, adding up to 5000 vertical metres on a bluebird day in the Selwyn Mountains. 

 

That morning at the Valemount Best Western, I was on my way to check out when a stranger greeted me. “Going skiing?” asked the man as he eyed my boots. He had a short bristle of white hair and spectacles, looking wizened and fatherly. Not the type I would immediately peg as a backcountry aficionado. 

 

But this is Valemount, and only two types of people visit in winter: alpinists and sledders. Then there’s the mixed breed—sled-assist skiers. This guy was the latter and he clearly knew his stuff. “If you get the chance, check out Dixon Glacier,” he said as we parted.

 

The moment was pure Valemount. Inside tips exchanged between connoisseurs. Fitting for a town that just launched a rebranding strategy, starting with a new slogan: “Let the mountains move you.” 

 

People here move among the mountains quietly, unaffected and at ease. There’s none of the hustle and bustle of “the show” and yet some of the best scores in the world lay just minutes from the town’s back door. 

 

In its 19th year of operation, Robson Helimagic attracts visitors from far and wide, says manager Christine Dolbec. The operation draws a large percentage of its clientele from Europe and the US, but since taking over as manager in July 2008 one of Dolbec’s primary aims has been to boost local visits. 

 

“We get skiers from all over the world,” she explains, “but there are a lot of people [in Western Canada] who don’t know what’s in their own backyard.” 

 

One way she’s trying to build a local following is by fashioning the company into a boutique-style operation. Day skiing—a rare commodity in the industry—starts at $599, three-day packages from $2899 and five days from $4799. 

 

Based on a “smaller is better” philosophy, the operation limits its maximum group size to eight skiers per guide and two groups per machine. The emphasis is on shorter shuttle times and greater individualized guiding attention. On our trip, we are six (not counting the pilot)—four guests, two guides … and plenty of wide open space.

 

Michel Clair and Jean Pierre Blein hail from Lyons, France. For over 20 years, Clair has been flying overseas to interior BC to go heli-skiing, usually for a week or two at a time. At 61, he’s amassed over three million feet of heli-skiing vertical with some of the bigger outfits in BC. He only found Robson Heli a few years ago but he’s hooked.

 

“Since I discovered Robson,” he says, “I’ve quit ‘the firm.’” 

 

Clair explains that bigger companies he’s visited often run three groups to a helicopter, with 11 skiers per group. By comparison the pace is considerably more hectic, with guides rushing skiers in and out of helicopters, he says. He prefers Robson’s approach—still efficient, but less stressful.

 

Like yachting or polo, heli-skiing is a sport in a class of its own. Commonly considered the domain of the wealthy, lucky or very talented, the average week long heli-skiing vacation generally runs upwards of $6000 per person in high season. Unlike all-inclusive beach resort debauchery, tips and booze aren’t included and additional surcharges may apply.

 

Many strong skiers and boarders who fall somewhere between the intermediate to advanced class never even consider it because they assume, incorrectly, that they won’t meet the requisite skill level. Those who do have the skill and know it are often deterred by price, leaving only a very few elite.

 

It may cost exponentially more than a lift pass, true. But it’s worth it. At Robson Helimagic, a day of heli-skiing surpasses all previous resort experience. It starts with unlimited access to 1500 square kilometres of terrain spread over several alpine ranges. That’s only slightly smaller than the entire state of Rhode Island. 

 

The terrain itself encompasses alpine saddles, ridges, valleys and glades. Rollers, pillows, sweepers and the odd boulder serve up nature’s perfect terrain park. Lower down, tight tree lines force discipline—but only within limits—and soft snow enables speed and control at the same time.

 

Between epic lines, the short heli rides are a living IMAX experience, sweeping through mountain valleys, cresting alpine meadows and buzzing mere metres from etched rocky peaks.  

 

In the wide alpine bowls, we space ourselves out. We progress one at a time, cutting pristine lines across a blank canvas. There’s no jarring, no skidding, no rocks scraping underneath as we float over 50 centimetres of soft snow on a solid, settled base. Run after run.

 

At noon, with a bright sun overhead, we stop for a modest but hearty catered lunch. Clair, the heli veteran, sinks his skis in the snow tails down and lays his poles across the bindings to build a makeshift chair. Trespanniers heads down below the ridge to dig a snow pit while tail guide Ron McAllister doles out hefty mountain sandwiches, hot juice, apples and cookies. A simple repast on a plateau looking out on mountain ranges and blue sky bending into optical infinity.

 

Snow sublimates from the tails of our skis, so light it passes between solid and gaseous states as it sprays up behind us, resettling again in our wake. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, there will be no marks left to indicate our passage. Typical snowfall in the region averages 4.5 - 7 metres annually. 

 

A temperature check reveals it to be -10 C, but the sun is so warm it seems as though we enjoy a perfect equilibrium. The term for this phenomenon, according to McAllister, is “apricity”: the warmth of the sun on a winter’s day. 

 

The sun lingers obligingly, but slowly the shadows creep out. Down low in the trees, the air is cooler. Sweeping tight arcs around thick fir trees, I come around a thicket to see several bare, skinny grey branches sticking up from the snow. As I eke between two branches and launch into the air, it dawns on me that I’ve just skied over a massive, downed tree. A grandfather of a tree. I punch the final pillows as the slope peters out, wishing it wouldn’t end.

 

Six sets of skis go back into the box of the helicopter. The six of us pile in, ending the day with the same grins. The blades start spinning, the machine begins to levitate. At first just a few inches above ground, then a few feet. Weightless. Tsunami snow washes away our traces.