In Norse mythology, Valhalla is the place where slain warriors dwell under the leadership of Odin. The Einherjar blissfully hang out in the netherworld, patiently awaiting the arrival of Doomsday. Not my idea of a fun place to winter. Luckily, the Valhalla we visited, a quaint mountain lodge tucked away in BC’s Selkirk Mountains, is rather less bleak—and a lot more heavenly.
Every guided backcountry ski tour begins with terrain orientation, where the guests gather outside in the snow to practice avalanche training, mountain rescue techniques and use of a transceiver beacon rescuing a dummy hidden in the snow. We had packed all the necessary gear, but some was borrowed and outdated. Dan, our lead guide, politely asked me to hand over the ancient probe, which was ineptly attempting to assemble. “This is a good example of something not to use when attempting to locate a submerged body; probably more suitable for British mountaineering in low snow-pack.” I nodded, but failed to mention that I had indeed obtained the feeble tool from a British acquaintance who had proudly lauded its efficacy.
My wife Florence and I are relative newbies to ski touring and, although we had put in a respectable amount of pre-arrival training, we were pooped by the end of day one. So after another remarkable
meal—Annie’s signature lamb chops—it was early to bed, where we slept the sleep of the dead. I assume you’re familiar with the adage, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’ Well, the maxim certainly applies to this sport. I pride myself (erroneously, as is now apparent) on being in pretty good shape for my vintage. As we gathered gear, donned equipment and shot the breeze in the breezeway on day one, I noted the advanced age of some of my fellow guests and inwardly smirking thought, “I hope that old fella doesn’t hold us all up.” And… no, he did not. As it turns out, neither did I. Utterly exhausted, I begged off the last climb of the day and trudged morosely back to the lodge, watching my geriatric friend tirelessly scurry uphill for another run down the pow. Day two dawned with a mess of fresh snow. We devoured breakfast, packed our pre-made lunches, strapped on skis and strode out across frozen Shannon Lake. As we exited the lake and began a steep ascent to the mountain summit, a kilometre above us, Dan stopped, shushed us all and steered off the intended track. A huge, yellow-white mountain goat was demanding the right-of-way. The big billy regarded us for a moment, then diverted directly uphill, striding tirelessly through the deep, untouched powder. We watched mouths agape as the mighty creature slowly became a speck far up the mountain.
A great solo travel tip spotted this week on Must Do Canada.
