Why Heli-hiking is the Most Exciting Way to Explore Canada’s Remote Wilderness
Rapture and reverence come in equal measure on a heli-hiking adventure in the remote Canadian Wilderness.
Strung between two enormous spines of rock at the pinnacle of Mount Nimbus, the suspension bridge looks like someone has been playing around with Photoshop. It could be a scene from a fantasy movie (cue hobbits) but it’s thrillingly real. My heart thumps as I step gingerly across one slender wooden plank at a time, trying not to be distracted by the cinematic 600-metre drop below.
Spoiler alert: I’m in no actual peril. On a CMH heli-hiking holiday there are helicopters, certainly, and enough physical challenges to become reacquainted with muscles long thought lost. But this is mountaineering for regular people.
“It’s hiking without the normal grind,” says guide Jordan as we wade through a tumbling stream under the stern watch of a millennia-old glacier. “You’re taking the express route to the good stuff.” The way there involves via ferrata – “iron roads” composed of steel cables and metal rungs hammered into rock – and safety harnesses that allow our group of 10 to scale steep cliffs and cross nosebleed-high suspension bridges. They help turn the 3297-square-kilometre wilderness in the Purcell Ranges (next door to the Canadian Rockies) into a giant playground.
As I conquer Mount Nimbus, North America’s longest via ferrata, I feel an affinity with Sir Edmund Hillary but for one small point of difference: the harness that clips me to a steel cable during my 2500 metres of scrambling, sweating and occasional swearing. For a neurotic lowlander like me, the experience illustrates why mountains are metaphors.
CMH pioneered heli-skiing in British Columbia 60 years ago and expanded to summer itineraries (from July to early September) in the late 1970s. About a four-hour drive and a short chopper flight from Calgary, the brand’s Bobbie Burns and Bugaboos lodges are inaccessible by road for much of the year and feel gloriously remote. The lodge-to-lodge experience I’ve joined will see our group spend three nights at Bobbie Burns (right) before being transferred (via a hike and/or helicopter) for another three nights at Bugaboos.
An alpine vision of timber and stone, the two properties could have been plucked from an ad for Swiss chocolate. Legend has it that CMH founder Hans Gmoser tried to encourage guests into the communal lounge area by installing low lighting in their rooms but these days there’s no need for inducement thanks to stone fireplaces, baronial chandeliers and plenty of comfy chairs. Each lodge also has a deck with a spa positioned to soak up the strikingly different views. At Bobbie Burns it’s the pine-forested peaks; at “Bugs”, granite spires soar dramatically into the heavens like nature’s own Gothic church.
Heli-hiking draws a slightly different crowd to heli-skiing. It’s still geared towards the adventurous but our diverse band is made up of couples and friends spanning their 30s to their 80s. There are first-timers and others who come annually to explore the terrain, including an octogenarian gent. Even for those less agile, the helicopters ensure access to the epic environment. CMH takes this seriously, addressing the carbon footprint of the expeditions by offsetting its operations.
Each day of the trip begins with an optional stretching class and a hearty breakfast – eggs, bacon, granola – before we split into groups according to our abilities, whether that’s strolling in a field of wildflowers or testing the laws of gravity on a cliff face. We lift off in the lodge’s 12-seat aircraft and loop giddily over forests bisected by milky-white rivers, skirt craggy grey-blue ranges and glide above silent, ancient glacial icefields. The pilot aborts a valley landing when a grizzly bear is spied close by but less fearsome creatures lurk in the wilderness: fluff-eared lynx, earnest grouse and marmots, which resemble a cross between a ground squirrel and a fold-out couch.
We’re whisked in minutes to places so remote they would otherwise take days to reach on foot. One morning at Bugaboos begins on a via ferrata known as the “sky ladder” thanks to its near-vertical 213-metre climb. At the summit, we stop to eat the lunch we each carried in our packs (mine’s a mortadella and pesto roll with a chocolate chaser) before hiking along a windswept ridgeline to a lake that’s the artificial-looking colour of a Blue Heaven milkshake. Later still we climb through a meadow, springy underfoot with heath and bright with red paintbrush flowers. “It’s such a privilege to be here,” says guide Johnny. “It’s humbling to think this has been here for millions of years while we’re just a blip.”
The company’s operations are designed to have minimal impact. A micro hydroelectric system is in the pipeline at Adamants, another of CMH’s 11 destinations, and preliminary feasibility studies are being done for similar infrastructure at both Bobbie Burns and Bugaboos. Any such projects include extensive consultation with the Traditional Owners, in this instance, the Ktunaxa Nation and Shuswap Band.
Arriving back at our base means being coddled in comfort. The après-hike scene features charcuterie and cheeses one evening, caramelised pork ribs and slaw another. The well-stocked bar is big on Canadian wine – I quickly fall for British Columbia’s luscious take on riesling – while our family-style meals are hearty yet sophisticated. There’s tuna tataki using albacore caught in local waters. Angus beef tenderloin from sustainable ranchers. Berry mille-feuille. The house-baked bread changes often and is not to be missed, whether it’s ciabatta, honey whole wheat or zopf. It’s a friendly atmosphere, guides mixing with guests, stories being swapped. Mountain-dictated circadian rhythms see everyone retire early; I sleep with the curtains open to the night sky.
For all the in-lodge indulgence and the undiminishing thrill of taking a chopper like you would an Uber, I find the best parts of my week concern less quantifiable metrics. Inching duck-footed across a spindly wire Burma bridge in the spray of a roaring waterfall (“There are no points for style,” reassures Johnny). Edging sideways along a rock face next to the jagged spectacle of the Conrad Glacier. Stepping into big air to rappel down a cliff. Our group loves a chat yet after this dramatic descent, feet safely on terra firma, we’re just individuals alone with the landscape, an unspoken consensus to let the moment breathe. It’s a feeling almost as beautiful as the mountains.
