Icefall Traverse

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Dedicated to Margaret Brennan, whose kindness and patience opened me up to a whole new world of adventure and unforgettable memories. Thank you for including me in your alpine family.

It's time to "show up and throw up".

Summary

An outstanding hut-to-hut traverse defined by expansive alpine views, big days with light packs, warm meals and desserts, and rewarding descents. Over seven days, the route crosses multiple glaciers, links five huts, and features the longest continuous run in North America (when conditions allow). Aside from one flat section on day six en route to the final hut, the traverse proved to be notably splitboard-friendly. Midway through the trip, the main lodge offers a welcome reset with a sauna and shower, heated cabins, and catered meals. Skiers comfortable on single and double black resort terrain in variable conditions should feel capable on the descents. Days often exceed 1,000+ meters and require solid fitness. For those comfortable in the backcountry, it's an amazing week that balances effort and reward with memorable skiing and scenery every day.

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"True friends invite you to suffer"

The previous spring, my plans to join Ben's invitation on the Icefall traverse fell through when I catastrophically broke my wrist snowboarding. A year's worth of training and dreaming of the adventure flashed through my mind as I removed my mitten to find a u-bend at the base of my left radius. After an arduously slow physical (and mental) recovery from my surgery, I told Ben later last year that I was planning to sign up for a redemption lap at Icefall. As much as my wife likes to tease that the first time Ben invited me was so he could have his own personal photographer, no one can deny how generous he was to sign up for a second year in a row to accompany me on what he extolled as a once in a lifetime adventure.

When describing the trip to Allen, a friend who has paddled massive waterfalls and countless multi-day river missions, he chuckled and said that "it's a privilege to be in the pain cave". The phrase was both intuitive and carried that weird blend of mountain logic where long slogs and suffering somehow transmute into wisdom. That being said, after a year where any sort of mindfulness felt insurmountable, the idea of willingly suffering for a week with Ben felt like a gift.

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Day 1 | Mons Hut (7.0km, 730m)

I arrived at the staging site to find Ben already unpacked and introducing me to our first team member Joe, a retired biochemistry professor who somehow found a way to fit everything he needed into a 26L Hyperlite. We then headed inside to pack our lunches and trail snacks for the next three days while we waited on the machine to arrive from Golden. Thankfully Ben brought an oversized pack for the trip to help schlep extra camera gear and any overflow from my now rotund 32L Descensionist.

Due to a few last minute cancellations, the second half of our group from Montana was able to add a couple members from their motley crew to round out the party. Their fellowship origin story started when two of them came across each other while trail-running and realized they shared an appetite for trad climbing and various other alpine pursuits. The friendly atmosphere erased any initial awkwardness and their excitement to see me with my camera gear helped me feel less nervous about hovering around with a lens all week.

However, it also soon became clear I was both the least experienced and least fit out of the group as they regularly crushed 2,500m+ days. As a splitboarder especially, I felt compelled to prophylactically apologize for my performance but they reassured me not to worry and that "guide pace" is much more sustainable.

After arriving at our first home away from home, we unloaded our overnight gear and headed outside to review some avalanche safety with our guide Ali (ohmyguide). After his parents moved to Montréal from Iran in 1978 they made every effort to develop Ali's passion for downhill skiing until he was competing with the mogul team internationally. It wasn't until an online ad for a ski guide from Utah came across Ali's desk at his computer science office job that he realized "wait, I can make a living doing what?". He proceeded to overcome a difficult journey before becoming an ACMG, settling down in Revelstoke, and leading countless adventures in the backcountry. I was already looking forward to all of his stories over the coming week.

Once we had successfully probed and rescued Ali's backpack, we excitedly threw on our skins and harnesses to head towards Mons Peak for our first ski of the week. For some reason I had this impression that we would only need our harnesses for certain sections of the traverse, but we ended up wearing them around 90% of the trip. Looking back, I felt vindicated in my choice to spring for a glacier harness (despite Basia's eye-rolling) instead of slumming it in my climbing harness.

An unexpected struggle since going full-time freelance 6 years ago is how lonely it can be (Baloo isn't the best conversation partner). Little did I know how much my conversational skills had atrophied over time despite regular board game nights and hanging out with friends. Grappling to find words and to overcome the inertia of silence, I found myself tripping over my own tongue trying to start conversations. Luckily Brenda (The Adventure Concierge) was hot on my heels and got the ball rolling with stories of her incredibly unique globetrotting backpacking trips (which she can also plan for you!).

Growing up with the internet, the modern state of search engines is inundated with horribly low quality content propped up by the SEO space race of the 2010s and the new age of short-form videos for everything. When I asked Brenda how she plans such detailed itineraries, especially when so many online resources regurgitate the same things, her reply surprised me - primary literature. She explained how many people forget that travel books still exist and often contain pre-vetted information. Combined with her skills as a librarian, her trip planning mind palaces often took her to more remote areas of the world. Before I knew it we had gained a series of benches and prepared to rip skins on account of worsening wind affect.

Lisa and the rest of the group came floating down the first buttery pitch with big grins all around. From there, the view stretched across the border to the Saskatchewan river crossing in the Icefields Parkway, with Glacier Lake far below in the valley. After regrouping around Ali, the group opted for a second lap over a detour to the Mons ice cave and skinned back up. Ice buildup on my base made the start of my next lap sluggish, requiring a fair amount of butt-scooting just to get moving. For the rest of the trip, the others would lend me their handy credit card sized ice scrapers during transitions.

Back in the warmth of the Mons Hut, we enjoyed some instant noodles and chips with hummus as we got better acquainted with each other. I learned that our second guide Shasta was childhood friends with Margaret (who introduced me to touring along with Ben) shortly before she casually referenced d20s, a heavy metal cello quartet, and a Mortal Kombat move in conversation. While we bonded over our shared nerd interests, the others were busy catching up with each other.

As Ali and Shasta brought a hearty meat sauce on rice dinner to the table, Giacomo (our resident Venetian and bike guide), quickly demonstrated that this wasn't his first rodeo by whipping out a bottle of wine. Knowing we wouldn't need to carry the trash with us, he brought some extra comforts just for day one.

It wasn't long before the sun had set and the group was getting ready to tuck in. As the only person who snores, I raised my hand to volunteer as tribute and exiled myself to the bench while the others slept upstairs. Even under multiple blankets and my puff, I found myself shivering in and out of sleep through the night and dreading what would be a very groggy 6AM start.

Day 2 | Mons to Lyell (9.4km, 1,100m)

The following morning the crew stumbled down the ladder in a haze and pointed out that while I hadn't snored, a ventilation flap had been clapping against the sheet metal walls until someone figured out how to close it in the dead of night. By then, the damage was done. While we tidied up around the hut, Shasta made a large pot of oatmeal and set the table for us to fuel up for the day.

Outside the hut, we threw on our skins and harnesses and prepared to head north. Within minutes of skinning, Ali vanished as he unknowingly walked off a wind lip. A thick pea soup had swallowed the landscape while Ali tied some rope to the end of his pole and began slowly fishing our way down. He joked that old ACMG whiteout training on sunny days involved smearing vaseline over their glasses and attempting to navigate their destination. GPS has thankfully made modern whiteout navigation much safer. What should have been a quick pitch turned into an hour before it cleared enough to rip skins and pick our way down a wide gully.

After stopping for lunch, we made our way across the broad amphitheater, pausing often to take in the panoramic scenery. Below us lay a seldom-visited cirque, a quiet paradise for ice climbers. Towering in the background, the colossal 500+ meter Cerberus falls is just one of many multipitch routes hidden in the basin. Suspended above it was an icefall with a curtain of cubic ice formations spilling from the Lyell glacier, formed by the perfect marriage of slope angle and it's own crushing weight.

The final stretch became a mental grind. We could just make out the shoulder where the Lyell hut perched, but it never felt any closer as we crossed the open glacier. I appreciated the sense of shared suffering when Brenda admitted she also had Darth Vader's Imperial March song stuck in her head as we trudged along the skin track reassuring me I wasn't the only one who felt that way.

As the only splitboarder, it was particularly brutal. My split skis were too wide to fit in the skin track, leaving one foot higher than the other, awkwardly off-camber and dragging through the snow. After a long two hours, we finally reached the base of the shoulder.

To avoid snaking our way through a cliff band, we ended up skinning to the top of the shoulder and booting back down. Despite the howling wind blowing our skis sideways, it was a sight for sore eyes after nine hours on our feet. We now arrived at the highest elevation ski touring hut (and outhouse?) in Canada.

As Ben settled into his corner of the bunk, his procyonid visage glowed back from the shadows. He was already sporting racoon eyes, courtesy of his baffling decision to forgo sunscreen. Below us, Ali and Shasta prepared a savoury curry with rice, followed by butter tarts for dessert. While we waited for dinner to heat, Shasta dusted off her high school theater chops with a dramatic reading of a hilariously awful smut novel abandoned in the hut.

A conversation about japow drifted into Japan’s culture of ikigai, a lifelong pursuit of one's passion, and Giacomo and I realized we'd both had a similar experience. Years ago, my wife and I visited a small cheese shop in Sapporo during the Yuki Matsuri where the owner explained how he’d quit teaching high school science after 20 years to pursue his love of cheese. He learned English, French, and Italian so he could travel Europe and personally select what he imported. He joined us over a charcuterie board and eagerly described his plans to import sheep from New Zealand and start producing his own cheese. Giacomo recalled a similar moment at a small Japanese pizzeria where he enjoyed the best pizza in his life.

Meanwhile, a coral sunset glowed through the windows as winds over 60 km/h shook the hut. The cold was unforgiving. Stepping outside for the outhouse took me an hour warm back up. I regrettably lacked the courage to brave it long enough to photograph the full moon behind the hut. Inside the hut was also substantially colder than the Mons hut. No one slept well that night.

Day 3 | Crampon Col (10.5km, 500m)

Our hopes of skiing the Wild West or the Deep End down to Alexandria hut evaporated as Ali huddled over the radio for the morning guide briefing. Between the poor visibility and wind slabs from last night's storms we were forced to pull the plug. Ben was gutted; he had been oddly as stoked for me to experience the ski down to Alexandria as he was about my suffering on the 'horrendous' climb back towards the Portal the following day; the same ascent that pushed Michał to his mental breaking point during the trip last year.

Breakfast came with a side of adrenaline as Shasta mentioned her previous days in ski patrol and forestry management involved explosives training. One of her favourite morning rituals was finding a quiet spot in the alpine to soak in the sunrise while casually assembling sticks of dynamite for avalanche control. But the job wasn't without its close calls. One morning as she prepared to pitch a lit stick, a boulder behind her had absorbed enough sun to rot the snowpack beneath her footing. She fell backwards and landed square on her back with the live dynamite on her chest. Adrenaline wiped her memory of the next few moments. All she remembers is hurling it away and taking out an innocent tree in the process.

Fast forward to the summer, Shasta also used explosives for 'carnivore mitigation'. When horses died on backcountry trails (falling off cliffs, broken ankles, etc), her crew had to dynamite the carcasses to scatter the remains, preventing predators from concentrating in one area. Just an average nine-to-five.

Outside the hut, we strapped our skis to our packs and started booting up the shoulder. Peering southwest across the vast Lyell Glacier, we could barely make out our revised destination in the flat lighting: Crampon Col. We were lucky to have enough snow to skin our way to the top. Other years, the ascent can be more technical with anchor building and sections on rappel. As we scanned the jagged, stegosaurus-like horizon, that narrow gap appeared to be the only breach in an endless wall of rock. As we neared the col, it felt like we'd hiked into a giant greenhouse. The heavy cloud cover trapped the heat, trading our nice, fluffy snowflakes for heavy sleet and turning the snow under our skis into a sticky mess.

Going into the trip, I was mentally prepared for tight survival skiing and some degree of split-skiing. What I didn’t anticipate was the unique misery of doing it while roped up. I hung back on the shorter rope with Ben and Shasta (whom Ben inexplicably dubbed 'Team Ramrod') while the other seven clipped into the adventure version of a kid's walking rope. I hadn't even finished shouldering my pack when Shane went flying backward in a flurry of expletives, yanked clean off his feet by the momentum of his group. I think it's safe to say no-one enjoys skiing on a tether.

When I talked to Michał about his experience last year, he mentioned being surprised by how much unroped glacier travel they did. Just a week after their trip, an American guide stepped off the skin track to pee and took an inverted fall into a crevasse a little north of where we were now. He succumbed to hypothermia and suffocation before a rescue could be completed. Whether this particular tragedy prompted his decisions or not, I appreciated Ali's calls to rope up.

Backcountry wisdom dictates that a great splitboarder is a great split-skiier, and for that, hard boots are non-negotiable. The proof came during our descent towards Icefall lodge. Two fellow splitboarders had come up to ski-cut the approach to the col for us, and then joined our crew for the descent. As we geared up to drop into a steep 50° pitch, I noticed one of them didn't even bother transitioning his board. From the bottom, I watched slack-jawed as he smoothly telemark split-skied the entire pitch with more fluidity than most of the actual skiers in our group. That single run made me question when and how I might make the jump to a hard-boot setup.

The sun finally peeked out through the clouds as we navigated the last rolling gullies towards Icefall Lodge. By the time we pulled in, I was mid-bonk and running entirely on peanut M&M fumes. After getting settled into the group's two-story cabin and splitting a bunk with Ben, we headed down to the sauna to thaw out. Ben and I relaxed in the near-pitch black as he shared a story where the same dim lighting accidentally caused a girl to sit between the legs of a stark-naked guy last year. Overheating and dripping with sweat, I fumbled my way out of the dark and took my first shower from a watering can. The ceiling hook was so high Shane joked he didn't know he needed to pack a stick clip to wash up. I hung his can for him and rallied at the lodge for dinner with the rest of the crew.

Revitalized by the shower and a much needed hit of sugar, we kicked off dinner with bruschetta and soup. The main course was a feast of glazed roasted vegetables, parmesan-herb crusted chicken, a fresh salad, and a fluffy garlic bun to soak it all up (hats off to Chef Jeff!). As we ate, Ali pointed out these deep backcountry trips are living on borrowed time as glaciers continue to retreat. He mentioned how drastically the terrain around the Fairy Meadows hut had changed. The melting ice exposed large boulder fields that bake in the sun and torch the snowpack. He shared a sketchy story from another trip where the receding glacier had stranded the previously designated outhouse. Faced with a full bladder in the dead of night, he decided to hold it in rather than risk his life trying to pee off a howling 100 foot cliff in the dark.

When the alpenglow finally faded, we took it as our cue to head back to the cabin to swap a few more stories. Giacomo started getting a fire going while I subjected myself to the pure torture of rolling out my IT bands. I eventually gave up on the wincing and opted to just snuggle up on the couch with Ben and Lisa instead. Shasta tapped out early since her boss had locked her into a long day for tomorrow. Pretty soon, the heavy eyelids and slow blinks caught up to the rest of us, too. Climbing into a real bed with a proper blanket was pure luxury. I was out cold in seconds, catching one of the deepest sleeps of my life.

Day 4 | La Clytte Peak (13.5km, 1,650m)

Shasta had already hit the skin track by the time we waddled our stiff legs down to the main lodge. The tables were loaded with a massive lunch spread. Cold cuts, cheeses, wrap and sandwich supplies, cookies, and candy were ready for us to pack into our day kits before sitting down for a hot breakfast and our morning briefing with Ali. It was shaping up to be a bluebird day but with the freezing level jumping from 300m to 2,200m by midday, things were going to heat up fast. To find the good snow and even better views, we set our sights on a north facing glacier.

The morning skin track out of the trees was miserable. Slick, frustratingly off-camber, and capped with a rock hard crust, getting my edges or skins to bite was almost impossible. I finally gave up and whipped out my crampons. Giacomo jumped in to help put them on, giving me a friendly reminder about the trip being a team effort and not to stress about delays. He also pointed out a rare splitboard victory: our climbing wires still press down on the crampons for full traction, whereas skiers lose bite when their risers are engaged.

Getting used to the stride was a bit clunky. They can catch when sliding downhill and send you forward or if you don't angle your foot perfectly on the glide, but minor awkwardness aside they salvaged my morning. Just like Shasta had promised, slapping them on felt like activating a 4x4 superpower. Seeing Sarah bust hers out too made me feel way less guilty about needing them.

Admittedly, this was my first time touring in the spring, so I was incredibly glad I heeded Ben’s warning to dress light. I bought my first sun hoodie specifically for this trip, and I am officially a convert. Minus the aggressive raccoon eyes on my face, I came out of the mountains without a hint of a tan on my arms. The fabric breathed well and miraculously didn't stink after five straight days of wear. My bottom half was a disaster. I wore a pair of Lefroy shorts I’d gotten from Ben in the summer (which met their demise later this year), and learned never to wear synthetic shorts for spring touring. They got hot, swampy, sticky, and downright uncomfortable. I think even my lightweight baselayer bottoms would have wicked moisture and thermoregulated better. Next time, I'm trying out a pair of merino shorts instead.

Thankfully, the temperature eased up as soon we traversed a sketchy gully and onto the glacier proper. Despite being so hot the katabatic wind was deceptively cold, forcing me to throw on a thin windbreaker. With Shasta MIA, the rest of us tied onto a single rope as we headed for the large bowl at the far end. As we started climbing I learned you have to actively manage the rope and flip it to the downhill side after every switchback (it felt like a lightbulb moment to this gumby). We eventually crested the bowl and bootpacked up to the skier’s summit and soaked in some gorgeous views before gearing up to drop into the main face.

Pure bliss. Looking back, this was easily my favourite day of the week. It's hard to beat that combination of stunning views, creamy powder, and floaty turns. It was a rare treat too. Last year, the snowpack was too spicy to touch it, and the only other time Ali had ridden it, a small sneaky bergschrund right in the middle forced a hard traverse that killed the flow. After ripping the 300m uninterrupted fall line, we inhaled a quick snack at the bottom and hurried back up for lap two.

A late-afternoon storm crept in from the west as we picked up the pace and skied back toward the lodge passing a hidden ice cave we hadn't noticed on the uptrack. Honestly, my one lingering regret from this whole trip is that I didn't speak up and voice my interest to detour to the Mons ice cave. But I felt better about it when Ali admitted he has a healthy fear of how sketchy and temperamental they can get. Plus, the rest of the crew had explored enough of them that the novelty had worn off for them anyway.

After another great day, we dropped our gear in the increasingly fragrant drying room and hit the sauna. The dining room was pretty quiet that night. One group had already taken off for Rostrum, and another had managed to thread the needle through a lucky weather window to reach the Alexandria hut for the first time this season. Over our meal, Ali told us a wild story about a massive near-miss on Mount Bryce. His crew was mid-transition when a cornice collapsed above them, setting off a heavy slide. They saw it coming just in time to literally run for their lives, dodging the slide by just a few meters. The avalanche completely swallowed his partner's skis, leaving them stranded and forced to call for a heli-rescue to retrieve their gear from mid-camp and fly back to town.

Mid-conversation, the group erupted in cheers and applause as Shasta finally returned from her monster day. She and two others skinned back up Crampon Col, skiing the Deep End down to Alexandria hut, grinding their way back out of the valley to the Portal, and finally descending back to the Lodge. It was a 3,000m day, her biggest ever. With her knees weak and arms spaghetti, she collapsed for a well-earned rest and caught up with Sarah.

I’d love to think I was just as exhausted after my own (biggest) 1,700-meter day, but that felt ridiculous in comparison. We capped off the night with a gooey, chocolatey dessert, swapped a few more stories around the fire, and turned in early to prep for another alpine start.

Day 5 | Mount Kemmel (11.5km, 1,300m)

As we finished packing our snacks for the day, Ali returned from the morning briefing with a weather update. The forecast had shifted and showed a storm rolling in tomorrow. Armed with that knowledge we set our sights on Mount Kemmel. Ben had already bagged this peak on his trip last year, but was looking forward to doing it again.

Thankfully, we departed the lodge in the opposite direction this morning, trading yesterday's miserable tree slog for a smooth ascent up an open bowl. Nearing a plateau, we traversed beneath a massive rock band. Looking at the texture Shane said it looked familiar. I mentioned it reminded me of the super-grippy but painfully spiky chert we get back home in the Bow Valley. He nodded in agreement and said, 'Oh yeah, I forgot you're a limestone guy.' I immediately thought to myself, 'Oh my god...am I a limestone guy?!' as if that incredibly niche title actually meant anything.

Talking photography with Shane being able to confidently answer his questions made me realize how much I’ve actually learned over the years. He mentioned that he used to shoot constantly but had fallen out of the habit. He’d actually been hemming and hawing over whether to even pack a camera for this trip, before eventually repairing an old point-and-shoot at the last minute. He told me that watching me actively work a scene inspired him to pull it out and shoot way more than he would have otherwise, which felt amazing to hear. Sarah mentioned she was thrilled to see him back behind the lens too.

Shane kept me company in the rear as we hung a right at the Ice Pass saddle and pushed toward the ridge with Alien Peak towering behind us. We routed our climb just left of the Springboard, hugging looker's right to give the cornices a wide berth. Since yesterday, the warm temps had become an issue and a few folks started suffering from glopping on their skins, especially Giacomo. I shared my block of Pomoca wax to help out, but felt relieved that I’d pre-treated my own skins with Nikwax at home. My skins managed to stay glop-free the entire week.

A couple of hours later, we topped out to far-reaching views into Rogers Pass, with Mt. Sir Donald’s head in the clouds as usual. At dinner the night before, Ben had been flipping through my camera and realized he hadn't been heeding his friend Ethan's advice: "the best ski shots happen when you ride directly at the photographer". He clearly remembered it today and picked a line that charged right at me, and to be honest it often works.

Having Shasta back in the mix was a treat; her sense of humour always makes the uptrack fly by. She later told us it was the most fun she’s had guiding because it just felt like a week of riding with friends. I made a point to get her dropping in for photos too instead of always sweeping the rear, though I'm sure joking around with the others and her heart-to-hearts with Lisa and Sarah did a lot more to make her feel like part of the crew.

Following a quick lunch at Ice Pass, we pushed up the shoulder of Alien Peak to link the Zen pocket glacier with Home Run. Massive cornices loomed overhead, so we spaced out and skied the exposed 100-meter section as quickly as possible. After crossing a flat spot with a quick tow from Ben and some awkward butt-scooching, we hit the final pitch. We spread out across the face, farming fresh powder all the way back to the lodge.

Back at the lodge, Ben, Shane, and Giacomo slapped their skins back on for a second lap of Home Run. I opted to call it a day with the rest of the crew and relax inside the lodge. Watching them from the lodge window, it became blatantly obvious how much Giacomo had been holding back all trip. He effortlessly dropped Ben and Shane on the uptrack. As the sun finally popped out, I ran back outside to catch the show and watch them ski down.

Once the guys made it back, the rest of the afternoon was a 'suns out, guns out' patio session. We refueled on pita chips with guac and queso artichoke dip; Ali cheerfully announced sloppy joes for dinner as I passed him on the stairs during a quick beer run. But while we were living the good life, the valley bottom was a furnace. The crew that successfully dropped into the Deep End suffered a brutal 12-hour death march back to the lodge. The valley's halfpipe shape cooked everyone alive. They arrived way behind schedule, absolutely roasted and already peeling from the sun.

Dinner took a hilarious turn when our table of sci-fi nerds stumbled onto the topic of 'romantasy' novels. I had the ladies in tears of laughter explaining the plot of a series Basia had been recommended; human women crash-land on an ice planet and fall for giant hunky blue aliens. Of course these aliens just so happen to conveniently possess a biological 'spur' on their pelvis that rubs or inserts itself perfectly during various positions. Purely 'for her pleasure' obviously.

Later, the tone shifted to a more serious discussion about the realities of the guiding industry and how discrimination often takes the form of subtle distrust. For example, clients in a two-guide group will frequently defer to the white or male guide for the final assessment, regardless of who actually holds the most experience. In an industry that is still so homogenous, POC guides constantly face undue surprise from clients and the unfair assumption that they are less qualified for the job.

By the time the sun started setting, the mood in the room had pivoted back to pure laughs, capped off by Shasta joking about prescriptions for 'concrete pills' to 'harden the fuck up.' I ran outside to grab the tripod I'd originally brought for some astro photography (too cloudy) and corralled everyone around onto the balcony for a group shot. We finally called it and trickled back for our last night at the cabin.

Day 6 | Icefall to Rostrum (9km, 800m)

After days of being completely spoiled by our light daypacks, I reluctantly jammed all my gear back into my Descensionist and waddled over to the lodge. We handled our sandwich prep for the next couple of days before being treated to a feast; crêpes with flambéed bananas and a blueberry reduction, plus a filling omelet and bacon. Bellies full and bags heavy, we geared up and set our sights back on Ice Pass to start the trek toward Rostrum Hut.

The climb back up to Ice Pass was mostly a silent affair. Since I was probably the only one who was actually tired, I chalked the quiet up to everyone else being lost in the meditative sauce of the rhythmic shuffle of the uptrack. At the saddle, we prepped for a bonus powder lap off Zen Glacier, but Shasta opted to rest after catching a cold the night before. She dug herself a snowpit, bundled up, and tried to take a quick nap.

If there was one part of this trip that (briefly) sucked on a splitboard, it was this. The low angle descent tapered out to a classic, frustratingly flat section; too short to bother transitioning to skins, but long enough to make me miserably wallow my way across while Shasta waited. Down below, the skiiers were also struggling with the grabby wind crust catching edges and causing a few tumbles in the group. Once the terrain finally pitched down into the gully, we regrouped and cruised the luge track straight to the hut.

We quickly settled into the hut, scoped out the adorable spiral staircase, and cracked some patio beers while swapping stories. Ali recounted a trip where he was guiding a crew of professional snowboarders who had built a massive, movie-scale booter. They asked if he was into jumps, and he casually replied, "Sure, I like the huck stuff." He had just watched one of them lawn-dart into the landing and pop up whooping, so he decided to drop in. It wasn't until he launched off the lip and looked down at the tops of the trees that he realized how massive it actually was. He blew up in the powder landing and immediately knew he’d shattered both of his ankles.

That story naturally bled toward the double-edged sword of satellite communicators and what the actual threshold for a rescue should be. On one hand, you have hikers in Jasper regularly abusing the SOS button like a taxi service to skip the last 4km of the Skyline Trail. On the other hand, you have Sarah and Shane, who once found themselves dangerously cliffed out but didn't want to be a being a nuisance to SAR, so they risked their lives downclimbing a wet cliff face in ski boots instead of calling for help.

Golden hour arrived, bathing the valley in a burst of pastel hues. Tempest Glacier and the neighboring Porcupine Saddle glowed in the fading light. Ali peered over my shoulder as I flew the drone toward the blue glacial ice; he mentioned he was excited to see the final photos and asked about getting a print made, which left me with warm fuzzies as an amateur photographer.

As darkness fell, we retreated inside for dinner and hung out for the rest of the evening. Shasta had sequestered herself upstairs to avoid spreading her cold, so I brought up an extra-large helping of dinner and some brownies for dessert while Lisa kept her company. At bedtime, Shasta kindly volunteered for the downstairs exile spot, which meant I actually scored a bunk. Since it was our last night, I popped a Benadryl as a little treat and knocked myself out.

Day 7 | Rostrum Moraines (5km, 500m)

Still groggy on my way back from the open-air outhouse, Ali patted my shoulder and chuckled, "Did you have a good sleep?" under his breath. Oh no. I’d done it again. Pushing open the door to the hut, the rest of the group giggled and echoed Ali’s question, eager to fill me in. Apparently, in the dead of night, I had unleashed a full-volume scream of gibberish that ripped everyone from their sleep. It startled Shasta so badly that she let out a secondary scream of her own from below. Joe, a fellow sleep-screamer, had an out-of-body experience when he realized the yell wasn't his, while Ben just gleefully enjoyed that everyone was subjected to one of my classic night terrors.

Unfortunately, by the time the sun finally broke through the clouds, it was already too late to tackle Ali’s original objective of skiing Tempest Glacier. We had packed all our gear just in case the visibility allowed for a full descent to the valley bottom, but the brutal whiteout and crusty snow forced us into ski crampons mere minutes after walking out the door. Giacomo pulled the plug early and headed back to the cozy hut, while the rest of us pushed on just a bit further to salvage the morning with a couple small laps.

Thanks to the morning whiteout delaying the Mons Hut supply run, our heli pickup got pushed back by a few hours. When the time finally came, we handed out hugs and said our goodbyes. The Montana crew jumped on the first flight to make sure they didn't miss their plane home, leaving the rest of us to hang out and trade a few more stories. As it turned out a woman from another group just after us bit off more than she could chew and needed to charter a private helicopter to evacuate her on day 3 into the traverse.

Flying back to the real world, it was hard not to feel a little bittersweet. It's amazing how much you can learn about (and from) total strangers in just seven days, and how quickly that shared experience turns into friendship. It was a week packed with endless laughs, incredible lines, and this unforgettable crew. The trip was everything I had hoped it would be and more. My legs were completely trashed, but my cup was entirely full. Here’s to the next adventure.