I was high on adrenaline when a thought arced across my mind like a bolt of lightning.
Beside me, our guide Jessie signalled to the stoic pilot behind the window. The thunder in my chest sped up. The chopper’s skids peeled out of the snow. Our huddled group watched as the glistening steel bird reared up dragon-like, backward, away from us, before turning, banking, and speeding away, disappearing over the mountain horizon.
Silence engulfed us like water. Solitude. Then, the strange epiphany: People have been skiing since the time of mammoths and saber-toothed tigers. And now, here you are, using helicopters.
I glanced around at the group as people set up their GoPros and 360 cameras, snapped photos with smartphones, and clipped into their techy downhill bindings with polyurethane molded ski boots. A chuckle escaped me. What a long strange trip it’s been, indeed — from the ice age to CMH Purcell — skiing has taken many forms.
And in that moment, from that ridge high in the Canadian Rockies, I was certain: This had to be its most spectacular embodiment yet. What would the hunter-gatherers think? Hell, what would my great-grandparents have thought?
Powerful notions from the top of the world
I’d come to Canada from the Colorado Rockies. I’d never seen, let alone skied anything in British Columbia. But it had been a fantasy of my father’s since the 70s. He’d been dreaming of heli-skiing in B.C. long before I was even a thought. It was one of his top bucket list items.
JB doesn’t downhill ski anymore. But when the opportunity presented itself to go with CMH Heli-Skiing to the heart of the Canadian Rockies where the sport was born, to fulfill my dad’s dream ski trip (and live my own), I did not hesitate to take it. Whoever said a bucket list item couldn’t be checked off for two?
So I stuffed my ski bag to the gills, slung my ski pack on my back, my boots around my neck, and hopped on a plane bound for CMH Purcell near Golden B.C.
Unfortunately, my expectations had been somewhat tempered. Canada hadn’t had the greatest snow that season, and more than one person I’d told about my trip had frowned, and crossed their arms solemnly.
“No snow,” they’d said. “Better bring your rock skis.”
It had given me some trepidation. But I’ve skied bad snow before. I’ve skied summer lines in the Colorado Rockies that could have been better described as “rock skipping.” I knew if I was on skis I could have a good time, pow or no pow (and especially if a helicopter was involved).
I’ve actually ridden in helicopters a lot. Not to ski but to film caribou much further North than Golden (another story entirely). So I knew what kind of rush it was getting into, riding in, and exiting those strange flying machines. They’re one of the things that instantly trip the switch, push the plunger and mainline epinephrine when you’re around them — like gunfire or a pack of snarling wolves.
Anyway, I knew I liked them. What I didn’t know was anything about the mountains I was headed to. The Canadian Rockies, the sister range to my home one. I’d seen paintings of Lake Louise. I’d seen ski movies filmed here. But I was otherwise completely unfamiliar and in for the treat of a lifetime.
When my plane banked, bringing the glittering, snow and ice-covered Canadian Rockies finally into view, I instantly got butterflies. My heart swelled. The Calgary area was dry and snowless, to be sure. But the mountains beyond glistened in the sunlight, beckoning.
Checking off a must-do trip—for two
This was my first and only experience heli-skiing, so I don’t have any other heli-ski operations to compare my CMH experience against. But I can safely say that I can’t imagine another outfitter doing a better job than CMH did over the three days I spent with them.
The first day opened with safety lessons, rescue basics, and general code of conduct stuff — syllabus day for all intents and purposes. And we still got to ski. After all the preliminary intake procedures were taken care of our eager guides loaded us into the helicopter and took us out for our first few runs.
Despite the grim forecast and warnings I’d received from others, those CMH guides and the heli pilot who shepherded us around knew exactly where the secret stashes were, and how to get us to them. We skied untracked fluffy lines nonstop for three straight days and it never snowed once. Ridge after ridge, peak after peak, and lap after lap the runs somehow kept delivering. Blower turns. Buttery soft Canadian cream. Fresh tracks all day long.
My face hurt from smiling and laughing so much at the end of every run. My voice was hoarse from hooping and hollering. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get emotional a couple of times, thinking of my old man and how much he would have loved every second of it — imagining how rad it would have been to shred those mountains with him, slashing turns, carving perfect uncut lines with the man who taught me how.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get emotional a couple of times, thinking of my old man and how much he would have loved every second of it.
Shivers. Chills. I still get them when I think about it. CMH provided the experience of a lifetime, on world-class terrain. It’s something I’ll remember forever. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to call it the best skiing of my life — certainly, it was the most special ski trip of my life. An 8,000-year legacy of this sport — the greatest goddamned sport in the world — delivered me there, to the top of the Canadian Rockies in a thundering mechanical beast to check off a bucket list item for two. What a strange history, life, activity. I’m still wrapping my head around it.
And that notion that struck me from the top of the world? It still trips me out today. Skiing has come a long way in the 8,000 years humans have been doing this. It evolved from a necessary form of winter transportation for hunting, gathering, and getting around, to the pinnacle form of recreation (in my humble opinion). It advanced with technology, the skis became more capable, and the skiers became bolder and hungrier for the gnar. And of course, our means of accessing the most remote and mind-blowing alpine terrain has improved as well — from pomas to lifts and, eventually, helicopters. CMH was a pioneer in the sport. There’s a legacy with this company, and it’s clear they take great pride in that.
I hold my experience with this company close to my heart for a lot of reasons. Some of them are personal, but the vast majority have to do with the experience CMH Purcell Heli Skiing provided. Their passion for this sport rivals — even (and I do not say this lightly) exceeds — my own. I would not choose another company to ride with by heli in Canada. In my mind, there is only one option.
Editor’s note: Will joined CMH in April 2024 as a participant on a comped trip for members of the media. We invited to him to pen a first-person piece for CMH Stories after witnessing how moved he was by the trip. Thanks for sharing your experience, Will.
About the author
Will Brendza is a writer, journalist, and professional misfit based out of the Roaring Fork Valley of Colorado. He grew up on the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains, and has written on topics ranging from cannabis to local news, the environment and, of course, outdoor gear and adventure. If he’s not banging stories out on his computer, you’ll probably find Will skiing or mountain biking (depending on the season) — or drinking beer at some remote craft brewery.
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