Marion and Al Schaffer, the co-founders, at Blanket Glacier Chalet, circa Easter 1988. Before our morning flight, Al’s son, Marty, met us for a caffeine-fueled start to the day in Revelstoke. Though his par-ents are still a huge part of the business, his dad calls him “the boss.” Marty put the Blanket on the map for freeride-inspired backcountry skiers with his company Canadian Powder Guid-ing (CAPOW) and uses the chalet for camps such as Pillow Talk that vows to “throw you into lines that make you want to weep but you’ll come out stronger.” The tall, blonde, younger Schaffer greets us with a genu-inely massive grin. His parents bought the chalet in 1986—the same year Marty was born. “I think it’s a kid’s dream come true to have this arena of snow-building opportunities,” he says between sips of coffee. “We get about 60 feet of snow annually so that’s what really stands out. I remember being super young and having to tunnel into the front door. In my eyes, the A-frame was just a big snow cave.” But more than the white stuff, Marty remembers the people. “It was a cool community to grow up in. Being discon-nected brings the best out in people.” This bond formed by isolation is what we came here for, too. It’s the last week of November and Tobin Seagal and I are about to make our first turns of the year and spend time reconnecting with winter and the people that come along with it. As we dig deeper into this joyous annual reckoning with our favorite season, Marty recalls the general feeling of well-being that has permeated the Blanket since the beginning. “It didn’t matter what age people were. We would build luge tracks going through tunnels and over jumps. It was very youthful, like Never Never Land. Anyone who goes up there chooses never to grow up.” Now 30 years old and an ACMG certified ski guide, he’s definitely not growing up anytime soon. “I still just try to fill my winter with really fun things,” Marty laughs. We’ll hear more about CAPOW later, he promises, usher-ing us out the door toward staging. It’s still fall in the Co-lombia River Valley, and a damp brownness has settled over the farmyard where we meet the heli. Marty wishes he was coming with, but can’t miss guide training at another outfit where he also works. “My parents are cooler than me anyways. You’ll have a blast!” He grins and snaps the door shut behind me. Rotors whir deafeningly and we leave the wilting fields behind, rising straight up into winter. We settle in under heavy snowfall, but by afternoon the precipitation warms to pummeling rain. Runnels streak down the hillsides, turning the snowpack to saturated garbage. Ski dreams postponed, we grab shovels to help clear the steep metal roof, scoop buckets of drinking water from the creek, and get to know Al, Marion, and the three diggers preparing the chalet for the coming season. “We were one of the first to offer packages like this,” Al says. “Four days of telemark instruction and powder skills in what was then a new sport. After a workshop with an avalanche expert from Switzerland, we brought back what we learned and started weekend courses in avalanche training.” He brews a pot of the the “best coffee you’ll ever have.” I flip through a guestbook with duct-tape binding. One guest writes, “Welcome to Al’s bootcamp! Prepare to be worked to the bone.” It details an arduous week at the Blanket, though it’s clear the author thoroughly enjoyed himself. Al’s a fan of hard work. “It’s part of the backcountry livin’ lifestyle,” he chuckles. “Splitting wood, carrying water. One time, a group got stuck in a storm for three extra days. They ran out of food and had to dig down to the lake and catch rainbow trout. It was stuff that just wasn’t done in their normal life!” By late afternoon, Tobin and I are antsy to stretch our legs and determine wheather the conditions are as bad as they look. As we skin up, our jackets get the best washing they’ll ever have. On the descent, we kick off roller balls and squish through sloppy turns back toward the chalet. As it grows dark, the temperatures drop to freezing and I carve my first real turns of the season in fresh snow. Over Marion’s hearty dinner, more stories come out. “There was one time when Marty was 4 that we were up here, Al and myself were busy digging stuff out, and kinda forgot about Marty. He had fallen headfirst into a tree well and was there for about an hour before we realized he was missing,” Marion giggles. Al chimes in, “And we had a Polk so Marion could take him skiing with her. Marty would be bundled up and she would park him in the woods while she took laps.” Blanket Glacier Chalet 057
The Ski Journal Volume 12, Issue 3: Page 57
