I wasn’t keeping track of time, but my best guess estimated that we had cleared the treeline well over an hour before. The ridgeline we were following seemed to have no end; only fading into the ever-accelerating shadows of the distant mountains on the other side of the valley. Before even reaching the alpine it was a steep, unmarked slog through giant old-growth firs as our splitboards slumped through the fast-melting spring corn.
The skin up would have been unthinkably longer if we didn’t have the key to the gate at the start of the logging road down below, giving us the ability to sled in a good 20 miles. That leg alone was easily two hours of rough riding having had to cross a dozen or so creeks filled with spring runoff and one giant avalanche that seemed to have the entire valley above churned throughout its wake.
One day after a particularly good session touring the Duffey my friend Jake and I were celebrating with a couple beers at the Pemberton Hotel, one of the last operational relics of the old west. Our enthusiasm of yet another epic day must’ve been quite apparent, as an old man approached us not long after we sat down. He was well into his 70s, skin worn from decades of manual labour and alcohol consumption.
He proceeded to tell us stories of the good ol’ days — before the region was developed and the only way to climb the mountains was by your own power. We instantly sympathized as we too sought out the same method of transport, especially now that the secret was out about British Columbia. We smiled at his anecdotes and even passed along a few of ours. One beer led to another, which led to a jug. Eventually he told us of a cabin, nearly forgotten, that existed on the logging tenure that his company operated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a giant keyring, sorted through a couple dozen keys, and smiled when he found the one he was looking for.
“If I find out that anyone but the two of you have used this key… well, let’s just agree that you won’t be doing that,” he said. He looked serious; we knew this cabin was the real deal.
We weren’t sure if the old man gave us the key as a drunken lapse in judgment or if it was something more. Perhaps he had a longing for his old bones to live vicariously through our pursuits. Regardless, the sincere look he gave as he handed over the key made Jake and I take his trust in us to heart.
What the old man failed to tell us was just how long the trek was. At the current point, while staring off into the endless ridgeline as dusk was alarmingly encroaching, my frustration ignited the thought that maybe the old man was taking us for one giant ride. Maybe he and his logger pals were sitting at the bar at that moment; laughing about the two young fellas who were out in the middle of nowhere trying to find a cabin that didn’t exist. But my pessimism faded with the fact that it would be dark in less than half an hour. I had more immediate concerns. And for the most part, the old man’s directions seemed to be good so far. The ridgeline was the last piece before the descent into the remote valley where the cabin allegedly sat.
“I see it! We made it! Hurry your ass up and get your skins off!”
Jake was about 100 meters ahead of me when he called out. Usually a calm guy, his childlike enthusiasm was enough to kick my weary legs into high gear. He was literally screaming and laughing simultaneously. I was so exhausted, otherwise I would have joined.
The ride from the ridge top down into the valley was more than just a run. It began a trip back in time to an era that has been all but forgotten in this age of mega resorts, snowmobiles, and six-figure sponsorship deals. For four days we stayed at the cabin, exploring a handful of the adjacent peaks, never touching the same face twice. For four days the only tracks we saw were ours. The only sounds we heard were our elated screams and laughs, and the sound of ravens riding alongside the air currents strumming the tree tops.
A few weeks after returning home, Jake emailed me a news article. It told of the logging industry’s woes — and how many areas once controlled by logging companies were compromising with commercial recreation operators for winter access — namely catskiing and heliskiing. It then dawned on me that the old man, despite his inebriation, did want to connect to the younger generation and pass on a slice of local backcountry history before it was gone forever. He let two locals he saw himself or part of himself in explore a zone that, perhaps even by next year, will be peppered with rich tourists from across the globe. He gave us probably the best gift that anyone could give our kind: pure solitude in a veritable shred nirvana for four unforgettable days.
There have to be other cabins like this out there. But for how long is anyone’s guess. Hopefully we can continue the tradition of building in places that can’t be overtaken by resource extraction — whether that resource is an old growth forest, minerals, or fresh powder. Hopefully we will build one ourselves, further away from civilization this time. And then the day will come where we will be the codgers at the bar, convincing a new set of youngsters to head out into the unknown and become unsuspecting stewards of the fading feeling that comes with being completely alone in the mountains.
Steve Andrews is a freelance writer and photographer sharing his love for the mountains and ocean at points around the pacific. You can view more of his work at whererusteve.com and follow him on Instagram @whererusteve.
