Words: Erme Catino 2020-09-15 14:50:15
The sign at the bottom of the snow-covered dirt road had warned of active logging up here, but our radio wasn’t picking up the frequency. I hesitantly turned my truck uphill around each blind corner, ready to stuff it into the snowbank at a moment’s notice. I figured it was better than a head-on collision with 40 tons of wood and steel. “There’s just one truck left up there,” said the driver at the base of the road that morning. His braided ponytail was tossed to the side as he removed the chains from his fully loaded rig. “Yep, you should be ok.” We were just hoping he got his numbers straight. It was a bit of risk, but we were searching for something better than the overcrowded early season experience back home. Though draft dodgers once arrived to this neck of the woods in droves during the Vietnam War, photographer Louis Arevalo and I were in the midst of our own exodus, escaping skiing’s status quo to heed the call of the Monashees. Utilizing plowed logging arteries to rise over 4,500 feet from the valley below, we climbed toward an early season powder stash west of Revelstoke, B.C. Bobbing, weaving and white-knuckling in 4-low, we finally reached the end of the road where the alpine cirques glowed a welcoming white. We had found winter at the beginning of December; it always seems to arrive a little earlier in the Monashees. The Monashee Mountains run north to south from Valemont, B.C. practically to the U.S. border. Spanning 329 miles with the highest peak, Mount Monashee, standing at 10,741 feet (British Columbia is known more for its vertical relief than its altitude), the Monashees are located on the westernmost flank of the Kootenay region. However, the area—sandwiched between the fertile Okanagan Valley to the west and the Selkirk Mountains to the east—is particularly known for commercial ski operations via cat, heli and touring lodges. When storms traveling across the province run into the Monashees, orographics take over, blanketing this zone with deep snow. I first experienced it five years ago, and I’ve made a point to visit every early season since. For me, perfectly spaced trees amid dark, stormy days are an excellent way to kick off a ski season. A few days before our logging road extravaganza, we had pulled into Revelstoke after pushing 1,000 miles up from Salt Lake City. Our last leg included a ferry ride across Arrow Lake, where, obscured in the distance and directly across the bow of the ship, the Monashees loomed. The idea that a lifetime’s worth of skiing lay in all directions inspired an eagerness to explore, a notion that led us to the logging roads in the north central Monashees. When we arrived that morning at the end of the road, Arevalo and I shoveled out a spot for my truck as three off-duty patrollers from nearby Revelstoke Mountain Resort pulled in behind us. “You guys get anything via the radio?” We asked. “Nah, it hasn’t been working lately,” one of the patrollers answered. We shook our heads. Still jittery, I was relieved to click into my skis, feeling the rhythm and a sense of quiet stillness as we glided through winter’s early coat. We skinned up into the subalpine, avoiding the windswept, exposed terrain higher up, and found sheltered powder through open slots in the forest. The next day, a forecasted two inches of snow turned into eight, and we still had another day before flying into Sol Mountain Lodge—a touring lodge that sits next to Monashee Provincial Park in the central Monashees just south of Revelstoke. The storm shut down both sides of Highway 1 for avalanche control work—a blessing in disguise that kept us from thrashing into touring zones that weren’t quite ready yet. We hunkered down, drank coffee, then got in line with outbound traffic to watch avy crews annihilate a few slides, before driving around to the western flanks of the Monashees toward Cherryville, a lumberjack village that, like many other small towns in the western Kootenays, was a haven for American draft dodgers in the late 1960s. “There probably wouldn’t be a lodge if it weren’t for Vietnam,” says Aaron Cooperman, owner of Sol Mountain Lodge. The 51-year-old, who lives in nearby Clearwater, discovered this area in 2000 while looking for more land for his then-employer, Monashee Powder Snowcats. The tenure, a lease on Crown Land, wouldn’t work for the mechanized outfit given its proximity to Monashee Provincial Park. But it did give birth to a new plan: Cooperman was going to start an operation of his own. He began working on the current lodge in 2004 after passing the ACMG Ski Guide Exam. Still, he credits his family’s impromptu northward migration in 1969 for his life in skiing. “[My dad] was right there in the height of it in Berkeley and Haight-Ashbury. He burned his draft card and came across the border,” says Cooperman in a quintessential western Canadian accent, adding a healthy helping of “eh” to each sentence. Aaron’s father, Jim Cooperman, was part of a revolution dedicated to peace and environmentalism. He helped organize protests at the University of California, Berkeley, rolling across campus with a loudspeaker atop a panel truck to rally anti-Vietnam War activists. It was the same truck he took to Canada with his friends and family a few years later. Like many others who fled the United States in the late 1960s, they bought property and created a back-to-the-land agrarian lifestyle. The exact number of war resisters who immigrated to Canada is unknown. Estimates have ranged from 20,000 to upward of 100,000. It was a large movement that objected to a divided America’s march toward what they believed to be an immoral and unjust war. Truckloads of young objectors like Jim and his family settled throughout Canada, but the mountains, lakes and enclaves of the interior became a haven for the peaceful lifestyle draft dodgers sought. Considered immigrants, many war resisters were welcomed into Canada, an influx of educated young people that dramatically altered the population. In fact, U.S. citizens accounted for the highest number of immigrants into Canada in 1971 and 1972. Uncovering this history on my own type of pilgrimage, the move north during the crisis in Vietnam seemed utopian, and it was hard not to draw a parallel to today’s troubled times. The Kootenays provided an opportunity for a better lifestyle—with some hard work—and while some locals complained about the “hippies” infiltrating their communities, eventually it was this current of immigration that helped form a new Kootenay culture. “Many of the war resisters who came to B.C. during the Vietnam War have had a fairly influential and positive impact on local culture, politics and the environment,” Jim says. Their ranks included Paul George, a Wilderness Committee founder, and guitarist Tom Lavin of the Powder Blues. Even former New Democratic Party cabinet minister Corky Evans had roots in the United States. Jim himself contributed to local theater and music productions, in addition to helping protect 25,000 hectares of new parks and writing the first book about local geography and history called Everything Shuswap. His sense of appreciation for the local environment was passed along to Aaron in the form of backcountry skiing. Coupled with Aaron’s sense of humor, wit and friendliness, it’s reason enough to return to Sol year after year. That, and the fact that you’ll likely be skiing powder at his lodge in December. Aaron’s goal was to build a lodge that was somewhere between a rustic hut system and the over-the-top heli ski luxury lodges that dot the interior. With a logging road running near their proposed site, he and his wife Sabine could put up a spacious structure—practically a winter cabin you could live in year-round—without worrying about summer airlifts for materials. Plus they’d have a vast range of terrain—easy options nearby for the less keen, with steeps, and loads of north-facing shots for the adventure savvy—all accessed on foot. Sol sits on the border of the provincial park, and where we were skiing is untouched wilderness—a contrast to the patchwork of cut blocks across much of British Columbia. A bubbling creek churned at the base of our run. The water was crystal clear as it rolled around the rocks, and on each subsequent lap I found myself gazing into its peaceful lullaby. Arevalo and I had one of my favorite zones, Crystal Vision, to ourselves and were walking back up for our fourth lap. Perfectly pitched avalanche runs and tree chutes ramped downslope. I arced through the openings, dragging my powder turns a little longer. Summer heat washed away while my skis porpoised through the foot of smooth pow, launching into the next turn. Small fir trees, one storm from disappearing for the season, dotted the slope as I tracked down toward beautiful old growth cedar, spruce and hemlock trees, the undergrowth providing playful natural airs. “I think it’s a really good model, having a backcountry lodge near a provincial park boundary,” Aaron says. “Most of these parks permit non-mechanized recreation. The impact of backcountry skiing is very low.” Sol is one of a few operations with such a strategic location. Ice Creek Lodge in the Valhallas and the chalets at Wells Grey Adventures also have proximity to protected wilderness. “The goal of these parks is to protect ecosystems,” Aaron says. “We’re fortunate here. The forest types are old even outside of the park. That style of terrain—wide open glades, big trees, steep and featured runs—that is very characteristic of the Monashees.” It’s true—these mountains are set up for skiing. The snowbelt of this range is technically an inland temperate rainforest, so when pickings are lean—like last December—you’re probably skiing powder while other locales are still waiting for sufficient coverage. Perhaps it’s the romantic in me, but I love the tranquility of breaking trail in the Monashees—a range that translates to “Mountains of Peace” in Gaelic. While all hut trips allow an opportunity to step back from life’s chaos, I’ve found that beginning the winter at a place like Sol carries positive momentum through the entire season. I could go on handfuls of trips and have incredible days, but I’ll still recall those first turns in the Monashees. After all, it’s hard to forget cold smoke up to your neck and celebratory lodge beers under December’s early twilight. Throughout the week, Arevalo and I linked several tenure zones in a day, blasting powder and exploring new areas. Toward the end of our week we even tested our luck farther down valley, skiing and sussing out a burn and wind-sheltered forest. “I didn’t know you had volcanoes in the Monashees,” Arevalo snickered to Aaron one night after we raced the setting sun from Bill Fraser Lake to the top of Shiraz—a beautiful south-facing run that beckons from the lodge’s kitchen window. It was as if the mountains had transformed into an active Ring of Fire. Accompanied by a stiff wind and billowing snow plumes, the sun and moon battled for dusk’s favor. Off to the west, Sol Mountain and the lodge basked in gold, while to the southeast the Slocan Valley, obscured by fog, looked like a sea dotted by island peaks. A contrail shot across the rising moon, as though the day had entered one more psychedelic trip before falling into slumber. The Mountains of Peace grew extra quiet. Arevalo and I watched as the sun faded, a season’s worth of turns still spread out in front of us. Photo Caption: Mount Odin looms over the central Monashees. Photo: Ryan Creary
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