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23
February 1997 Rotary
Club It sounded
a soft option but, as SIMON WILLIS discovered, in Canada heli-hiking can have
its heart-stopping moments. There was,
the guide informed us, no way down from our position on the mountain. The
radio, which he was tapping against a rock, showed no sign of working. The
weather was worsening and we knew that meant the helicopter would soon be
unable to reach us. At the time, we thought this was the most worrying moment
of our helicopter hiking holiday, but of course, that was before we had been
tear gassed! The
American travel experts categorise Heli-hiking as "soft adventure"
but I assure you, there's nothing soft about being stranded on a Rocky
Mountain ridge, quietly praying for a big yellow machine to sweep you to
safety. The sport is the summer version of heli-skiing, and while travelling
through the Canadian National Parks, my wife and I spotted an advertisement
which promised an opportunity impossible to ignore. Crescent Spur helicopters
would collect us from a luxury ranch each morning, drop us off at one end of
a mountain ridge with a guide, then pick us up at the other end, and take us
back to the ranch for good food and a comfy bed. One day later, we took the
Canadian Pacific Railroad to a small dot on the map where Mark and his
pick-up truck were waiting. While
bouncing down the rough track which ran for miles through a forest the size
of Greater Manchester, Mark explained that he and his wife Regina were
fanatical skiers. After years of chasing downhill thrills all around the
world, they set up a heli-skiing business in the town he called home.
"When there's no snow, I work for the timber companies. They're far and
away the main employer here. We eventually got enough money together to buy
some land where I could build a ranch. Now I'm trying to develop the summer
heli-hiking business so I don't have to rely on the timber.....". The
sentence finished in a squeal of breaks and he pointed to the side of the
road where a dark shape, the size of a large dog, was disappearing into the
trees. "A black bear." Mark said, "Just a cub, so Mom won't be
far away." Over an
excellent, home cooked dinner in a large open plan ranch, we introduced
ourselves to the three others who'd booked a heli-hiking holiday. Our small
group were quickly chatting like old friends at a house party. We were still
swapping mountain stories in the morning, sharing tales of daring adventures,
each trying to out do the last, when Ron arrived and eclipsed us all. In this
part of the world, distances are so great that, if you want to get to your
neighbours in a hurry, you don't telephone a taxi, you radio a helicopter.
And if you want to get there very fast, you call Ron. A man who has flown
combat missions in Vietnam, survived thirteen mid-air engine failures, and
lived to tell all the tales is a man to listen to. Open mouthed. He's also
just the type of chap I want at the controls when the ground disappears and a
flimsy flying machine starts hurtling towards very large, very pointy lumps
of rock. I confess;
I do not like helicopters. I'm fine on big aircraft. Tiny private planes make
me just a little jittery, but put me in a helicopter and my subconscious hits
the panic button. I don't know why, perhaps it thinks there's something
fundamentally abnormal about hovering. My wife, on the other hand, loves
these machines and just as we reached the mountains, to my utter horror, she
announced as much to Ron. I made a grab for the intercom button, but it was
too late. Ron had a lady to impress. Had that
bear cub been walking along the mountain ridge he could have hopped on board.
We skimmed along the granite edge like a flat stone spun out to sea. A yank
on the controls and we twisted up, right and then plunged down over the crest
towards the trees. A delicate flick of Ron's stick, and we shot over them.
But I swear we touched a branch. Mark
pointed out the start point of our walk where the others were waiting. Still
in combat mode, Ron mounted an assault approach, hugging the contour of the
hill, popping up over ridge at the precise spot. The sudden thunder of rotor
blades and hurricane of down draft startled our three friends and announced
our arrival. I've been
fortunate to hike in many mountain areas, but nothing prepared me for this. With
the machine gone, our small group stood alone at one end of a roller coaster
ridge that switch backed through the clear blue Canadian sky. Delicate Alpine
flowers clung to the ground during their brief summer awakening, while
marmots scampered away nervously, chattering their displeasure at being
disturbed. They were used to seeing bears up here, but strange two legged
creatures in Goretex were something they'd never encountered before. And that
was a part of the special beauty of this place. The chances were, few people
had ever been here before us. The ridge is inaccessible from below and Mark
deliberately visits different areas to minimise the impact on the fragile
environment. It's this isolation which is so exciting, and we discovered, so
potentially dangerous. Sitting by
a lake, we were finishing lunch when the sky began to darken. Low cloud
rolled in, so it was time to leave. But this was when things started to go
wrong. First the radio failed. Then we realised the cloud was so low the
helicopter couldn't fly. The rain turned to hail, and in the space of fifteen
minutes this adventure had stopped being quite so "soft". From his
sack, Mark produced a large sheet of plastic, which we secured to a rocky
outcrop to make a shelter, and then one by one we squeezed underneath.
"Should we call this 'Heli-huddling?", I volunteered, hoping to
raise a laugh. No one smiled. The
inaccessibility which made our hike so special had trapped us. "Can't we
walk down", someone suggested? "I'm afraid we can't" Mark replied,
and explained that the trees which cover the flanks of these mountains are so
dense it's impossible to pick a way through. "Even with a pair of chain
saws we'd be at it for two days", he sighed. I was starting to wonder
how cold it got up here at night, when in true Wild West tradition, the
cavalry arrived. Creating his own aerial storm, Ron's machine rose through
the cloud, over the outcrop and touched down beside us. It took more than bad
weather to ground this veteran. Within a few minutes we were sitting on the
ranch porch, sipping beers and watching the horses stare back at us from the
coral. Perhaps it
was because we knew we'd had a narrow escape. Perhaps it was the beer.
Whatever the reason, it was here, safe warm and dry, that we did the daftest
thing of the day. I'd been looking through the emergency equipment in Mark's
rucksack, when I pulled out a black can with a red top. "It's bear
spray" Mark explained, "just in case we meet a grizzly up
there". "Have you ever used it?" I wondered. He hadn't.
"So how do you know it works?" Well, that was it. A test firing was
required, then and there. The
printed instructions explained that the can could shoot a high pressure jet
of pepper liquid several meters through the air. It was designed to severely
irritate, and therefore disable, an attacking bear long enough to escape. One
of several empty beer cans was propped on the coral fence as a target, while
the very sensible horses retreated, shaking their heads. Mark took aim and
fired. The jet of
pepper liquid shot from the can and, for a second or two, all was well. Then
the wind hit it. The fine jet dispersed into a vague mist, collected itself
into a cloud, and then drifted straight back in our faces. We leapt to our
feet but within seconds the pepper had us on our knees, coughing and
spluttering, tears streaming down our cheeks. Had a grizzly bear happened to
wander by he'd probably have pawed us and thought "Oh good, lunch. With
seasoning". Twenty minutes later, red eyed and rather red faced, the
black can with the red top was dropped into the garbage. Our second
day heli-hiking was less eventful but truly wonderful. No clouds, no rain,
and no bear spray. Wearing t-shirts and shorts we made quick work of a seven
mile hike along a route which rose and fell like the backbone of a petrified
prehistoric monster. At its head we climbed to a snow covered summit and
stared across a panorama which stretched for ever. Pulling on waterproofs, we
took the swift way down, sliding through the snow on our backsides almost all
the way to where Ron and his helicopter were sunbathing. Drinking spiced tea
and eating flapjack before take off, watching the last of rays of the sun dip
below the Rockies, I had to concede that perhaps, just perhaps, this was soft
adventure after all. Travel
Brief Crescent
Spur Helicopter Holidays Ltd can be contacted at: PO Box 10, Crescent Spur,
BC, VOJ 3EO, Canada Tel: 001 250 553 2300 Fax: 001 250 553 2301 There are
no fewer than thirty one companies offering heli-hiking in British Columbia.
Here is a brief selection: Mike
Wiegele All Season resort at Blue River 001 250 673 8381 Fax 673 8464 Clearwater
Adventure Resort at Clearwater 001 250 674 3909 Fax 674 3916 Headwaters
Outfitting Ltd. at Valemount 001 250 566 4718 Fax 566 4528 Canadian
Mountain Holidays at Banff 001 403 762 7100 Fax 762 5879 For more details contact the Visit Canada Centre at
62-65 Trafalgar Square, London WC2N 5DY. They have a premium rate phone line 0891
715000 for brochures or other advice. Alternatively Fax them on 0171 389 1149 |
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