(Video provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
Staring down at a tiny dark speck in the white valley below, I was terrified. The helicopter, which moments ago perched on the ridge of this ragged mountaintop, had noisily (and dramatically) whirred up into the air and disappeared into the endless fields of snow of the Matanuska-Susitna Valley. I was up in the Chugach Mountains, the northernmost of the Pacific Coast Ranges of Alaska, teetering on the western edge of North America and (seemingly) life itself. How did I get here?
Heli-skiing had always been on my bucket list, but I hadn’t planned to actually kick the bucket on my first attempt. And yet, the slope looked treacherously steep, the terrain beneath the powder unknowable. A recent ACL injury had left me a little shaken and — at that particular moment — quite a bit stirred. I looked behind me to my friend, Claire, whose expression mirrored my own (reflected back at me in her neon yellow goggles).
“You’re going first,” she told me.
This part of the trip had been my idea. Fair’s fair. And the only way down is down.
Avalanche-Ready
(Image provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
Let’s start at the very beginning, right at my arrival at this majestic destination in Alaska’s wilderness. A lifelong skier, I knew heli-skiing was the ultimate pursuit — the holy grail. And a surefire way to establish to myself that I was better than ever post-ACL surgery. (In the repetitive depths of physical therapy, I questioned whether I’d ever hit the slopes again.) And yet, here I was!
Claire and I had traveled to Alaska to see the Iditarod, and this heli-skiing lodge was a mere hour away from Anchorage. It was our midway point on the trip, just before heading north to Fairbanks to see the Northern Lights. (If we survived, of course). But at that moment, I wasn’t fearful; I was thrilled. It’s rare to be on a trip and already know that it would be one of the greatest trips of your life — especially as a writer who travels nearly nonstop. But Claire and I already knew this was the greatest of all gifts, a truly unique experience. Alaska in the summertime is for tourists, and Alaska in the winter is for explorers.
A shuttle picked us up at our hotel to take us to the airstrip, where we would fly to the divinely remote Alaska Glacier Lodge. It’s unsurprising that in a state as wild and unpopulated as Alaska, Anchorage would be home to one of the busiest aviation centers in the world.
“Here in Alaska, everybody seems to have a plane,” our pilot told us as we took off.
I would be grateful for their expertise.
The log cabins of the lodge were visible from the air, and when I landed and met my Crown Mountain Guides, the excitement was palpable.
“When you think about surfing, you should think about Hawaii, and when you think about skiing, you should think about Alaska,” said Danny ‘D.C.’ Caruso. “Alaska is the North Shore of skiing, and the Chugach is the best place to ski in Alaska.”
Immediately upon signing in, our safety briefing began. (I would be grateful for my guides’ expertise, too.) We learned about the terrain — the cornices created by the wind, and the seracs, the frighteningly collapsible, giant blocks of ice that are often (and unexpectedly) created by intersecting crevasses.
“Avalanches are predictable; these seracs are very unpredictable,” D.C. told us.
“What’s the deal with avalanches out here?” asked Claire.
“They happen,” he replied.
“We won’t be in a ton of avalanche terrain, but we will be in some,” added Travis Elquist, our head guide, to calm our nerves.
There were stuff avalanches (smaller) and slab avalanches (larger, not preferable), and we learned how to operate our avalanche transceivers, which would sound the alarm in case we were buried in the snow. (“If you go into a bar and someone tries to kill you, you want to know the back door,” D.C. explained).
On a less technical level, there are visual aids that can help you in the case of search-and-rescue. White and blue ski jackets are the worst to wear. (Thankfully, I packed a lime green one, too). White helmets — forget about it. Dark red is bad in flat light. Your best bets are bright orange or yellow or pink — the tastier Starbursts — if you hope to be spotted in that endless expanse of white. Perhaps they could tell we were fearing for our own mortality. How hardcore could this get?
“None of us are extreme,” said D.C. “All the extreme guys are dead.”
“I am one of the first guys to do this in Alaska,” he added. “I started almost thirty years ago.”
His longevity was a source of comfort, and I felt the thrill of anticipation. I had experts to protect me, and I would soon try something entirely new and invigorating. But not too soon, of course — the weather in Alaska is, as I had already learned, entirely unpredictable.
Glacial Explorers
(Image provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
I soon learned that the buildup to heli-skiing is almost as exciting and revelatory as the skiing itself. And either way, you’re in a helicopter. You just can’t necessarily land on a mountaintop when the visibility is sub-par. (I recommend booking five days or more to ensure the weather clears, though we were lucky with just three).
“Helicopter skiing is very weather specific — it can’t be windy, it can’t be cloudy, and it can’t be snowy,” explained D.C.
(Video provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
Luckily, even if it is all of the above, marvels await. We spent that first afternoon fat tire biking across the snow to Knik Glacier, a majestic blue and white structure — riding beneath it, I felt like I was inside a wave. And there was something oceanic about the endless blue and white landscape of the snow and the sky.
“Wear your sunglasses, it’s so bright out here, it’s like the ocean,” D.C. had rightfully warned before we set out on our journey. And, another warning, as I glided upon the snow: “Look out for that crack! Crack kills.”
He knew what he was talking about: “The way you make good decisions in the mountains is you live through making bad decisions.”
Again, I felt lucky to be in the care of such expert guides. Exploring the Alaskan wilderness is not a feat I’d ever venture on my own. (Haven’t you ever read Into the Wild?)
The weather didn’t cooperate the following day, so we set out for a glacier hike to Markus Baker, which looked like a cathedral. The colors of the interior shone like a diamond — but it would vanish in a year.
“The general rule is ice is always moving — whether it’s a glacier or a serac,” said Travis. We helicoptered to an overlook in the valley for a bonfire lunch, where one of our guides played the guitar.
At night, we dined on delicious gourmet food, drank wine, and listened to more guitar while participating in a couple of competitive rounds of ping pong in the equipment room. Claire got a haircut from D.C.’s girlfriend, and I played with said girlfriend’s Pomeranian. It felt kind of like an adult sleep-away camp, except extremely rarified and luxurious. (Did I mention this is a bucket list trip?) The intimacy, the small-group setting, and the general excitement brought me back to high school, except better.
I decided the build-up to heli-skiing was as exhilarating as the skiing itself. In fact, I had accepted that maybe the forecast would remain overcast and that maybe we wouldn’t ski at all. So when they said the weather would clear by tomorrow (our last day), I didn’t believe it. But I’m not a professional skier, and I also don’t live in Alaska, so of course, I was wrong.
All Downhill From Here
(Image provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
And this is how I ended up at the top of that mountain that bright and cold March morning, staring down my very first run on Colony Island. Claire and I had set out on the helicopter that morning, accompanied by our two guides, D.C. and Travis, our pilot, and Clay, a local from Anchorage and a tremendous skier. When we’d landed atop the peak, we stepped out of the helicopter and crouched down, covering our heads as the helicopter made the loudest noise above — this is what’s called a ‘hot landing.’ There was no choice now but to ski down to it.
I was surrounded by the vast Alaskan wilderness: Snow-capped mountains and valleys of snow. There was no one else around. (That entire day, I never saw another human). No cell service. No WiFi. And certainly no chairlifts. The ridge felt narrow as I balanced and clipped into my skis. Travis went down first to clear the path, followed expertly by Clay. I was next, with Claire behind me and D.C. following last. I looked down the white slope, but the helicopter’s silhouette wasn’t visible in the distance. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I can do this. Again, the only way down is down.
I set off, following Travis and Clay’s tracks, and my nerves wore away as I eased into a more natural rhythm. I’d love to say this happened on the first run, but it certainly happened by the last. I loved it. The surrounding shades of blue and white reminded me of Antarctica or of heaven. It’s hard to tell the difference on a clear day in Alaska.
When I reached the bottom unscathed, I remembered Travis’s words on the first day: “A good heli-skier is someone who can listen. Someone who can ski and someone who can listen — that’s the most important thing.” Luckily, I thought, I’m (somewhat) capable of both those things.
(Video provided by Katherine Parker-Magyar)
As we continued to explore different peaks, I got more used to the flow of the terrain. The snow was deep, but nothing like the powder I experienced when cat-skiing in British Columbia when the snow was to my waist and turning was an immeasurable effort. When the snow is heavier, you’ve got to go faster. And on the one time I got stuck (having stopped too quickly), I managed to dig myself out of the snow on my own. (The same could not be said about me in British Columbia, so maybe I was improving as a skier? Maybe ACLs work better once they’ve been torn.)
We had a beautiful picnic lunch on an island beside the Harriman Fjord, and watched glaciers melting in a cascading waterfall into the Prince William Sound. We’d skied 3,000 feet of elevation before lunchtime, and I collected striped rocks as a souvenir.
After lunch, we did two more runs, hitting 20+ inches of snow in different spots. I spotted a moose traversing across the land and a circular rainbow in the sky. (Did I already compare this place to heaven?) On our final run, Claire was tired, and we helicoptered up to rescue her mid-run.
“If you can’t see it, don’t ski it,” said D.C.
“Better to end on a good note than to blow your knee on a tired run,” added Travis.
In all, we did six runs, with our highest elevation coming in at 6,000 feet. But the day was about more than just the stats; it was about the experience. Of challenging yourself, immersing yourself fully in nature, and learning to trust and rely upon those around you — who, at this point, had truly become a lifeline. It’s a day I’ll never soon forget. And one I recommend every nature-lover or ski-aficionado try at least once. Preferably in the Chugach Mountains, with Crown Mountain Guides at Alaska Glacier Lodge. I’ll see you out there.
