#skiing in canada

[lastfrontierheli22]

Heli Skiing Guide in British Columbia, Canada

Heli skiing British Columbia Canada, stands as the pinnacle of winter sports adventures. The province, celebrated for its stunning landscapes and vast wilderness, offers an unparalleled experience for skiing enthusiasts seeking the thrill of descending untouched powder. With a variety of terrains, from steep alpine bowls to expansive glades, British Columbia caters to all levels of skiers, ensuring a unique and exhilarating journey.

Why Heli Skiing in British Columbia?

British Columbia is a haven for heli skiing due to its consistent and abundant snowfall. The region boasts some of the deepest snowpacks globally, ensuring excellent conditions throughout the season. The remote areas accessed by helicopter promise pristine powder and solitude, away from the crowded slopes of conventional ski resorts. The diversity of the terrain provides endless opportunities for adventure, making it the best destination for heli skiing in Canada.

Planning Your Heli Skiing Adventure

Optimal Timing for Heli Skiing

The prime season for heli skiing in British Columbia, Canada, spans from December to April. During this period, the snow conditions are at their peak, offering optimal powder skiing experiences. Early booking is essential due to the high demand, ensuring you secure a spot in this sought-after adventure.

What to Expect

A typical heli skiing day involves being transported by helicopter to various remote peaks, where you will ski down untouched slopes. Each run presents a unique challenge, catering to different skill levels. The experience is meticulously curated to ensure both safety and enjoyment, providing a seamless blend of adventure and luxury.

Snow Skiing in Canada

While heli skiing offers an adrenaline-packed adventure, snow skiing Canada presents a wide array of experiences across numerous ski resorts. Canada is home to some of the most renowned ski destinations, providing excellent conditions and amenities.

Top Skiing Destinations in Canada

Whistler Blackcomb: Known for its vast terrain and vibrant après-ski scene, it’s a top choice for skiing in Canada.

Banff and Lake Louise: These resorts offer breathtaking views and a variety of runs suitable for all levels.

Revelstoke: Famous for its deep powder and challenging terrain, it’s a must-visit for experienced skiers.

Helicopter Skiing: An Unmatched Experience

Helicopter skiing, or heli skiing, is the epitome of extreme winter sports. This activity involves being flown by helicopter to remote and untouched mountain areas, allowing skiers to experience deep, pristine powder without the limitations of ski lifts. The thrill of descending fresh snow in an unspoiled landscape makes helicopter skiing a coveted adventure.

Safety Measures in Helicopter Skiing

Safety is paramount in helicopter skiing. Participants are equipped with safety gear, including avalanche transceivers, probes, and shovels. Guides are highly trained in avalanche safety and mountain navigation, ensuring a secure experience.

Best Heli-Skiing in Canada

British Columbia is renowned for offering the best heli-skiing Canada. The province’s varied terrain and consistent snowfall create ideal conditions for this extreme sport.

Top Locations for Heli-Skiing in British Columbia

Northern BC: Offers vast, untouched terrain and deep powder, perfect for those seeking solitude and adventure.

Interior BC: Known for its lighter, drier snow, providing excellent skiing conditions throughout the season.

Coastal Mountains: Combine deep snow with stunning ocean views, creating a unique and unforgettable skiing experience.

What is Heli-Skiing?

What is heli-skiing? This term refers to skiing in areas only accessible by helicopter, providing access to untouched, deep powder in remote mountainous regions. It combines the thrill of skiing with the adventure of exploring pristine wilderness, offering a unique and exhilarating experience.

The Appeal of Heli-Skiing

The allure of heli-skiing lies in the opportunity to ski in untouched snow, away from crowded resorts. It offers an unrivaled sense of freedom and adventure, making it a bucket-list activity for many skiing enthusiasts.

Preparing for Your Heli-Skiing Trip

Essential Gear

When preparing for a heli-skiing trip, it’s crucial to have the right equipment. This includes:

Skis or Snowboards: Designed for deep powder.

Safety Gear: Avalanche transceivers, probes, and shovels.

Clothing: Waterproof and insulated layers to stay warm and dry.

Physical Preparation

Heli-skiing demands a high level of physical fitness. Regular cardiovascular and strength training exercises are recommended to prepare for the rigors of the sport.

[maureen2musings]

Supercell, Brownlee, Saskatchewan

herry.with.an.e

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Mammatus Clouds over Calgary shot on film, 2024

[elinerlina2]

Banff National Park, Alberta Canada

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Often imitated, never EQUALED.

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Canada Day Fireworks in Ottawa

Photo Courtesy of Fiona Mitchell

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Canadian Pacific Railway, 1947

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Christmas fic please?

☺️

The Blue Hour This is somewhat of a sequel to my other 18th-century fics 'When the Heart is Full the Tongue Will Speak" and "The Prison Ship," but it also stands alone. Valley Forge was arguably the worst winter of the war. Alfred's having a bad time. Matt tries to help. He has something for Alfred. This was supposed to be longer, but I had to say fuck it and put it in the queue, or it wasn't happening, so I'm so sorry for inflicting it on you. Apple pie reference is from the HC that Alfred's pie recipe comes from a nice Pennsylvania Quaker lady who took him in in the late 17th century when he was little after the Massachusetts witch crazes. This isn't a happy fic, but it is deeply loving. Also on ao3

Valley Forge, Christmas 1777

Alfred’s legs didn’t feel quite real as he approached the clearing. It was silent here. No animals. No people, either. Even the last chickadees, so faithful through the winter, had disappeared behind him as the previous winter sun faded from a depressing grey to pitch dark. He was a bit numb and more paranoid as he rounded a copse of trees and found himself staring at a pristine clearing. He recognized this house, grey stone with a heavy slate roof. There was no glass in the windows, but cheery, flickering firelight escaped through whatever slight cracks there were in the shutters. He hefted his rifle, bayonet attached, closer and approached, wary. The forest held its breath, and the fire crackling became louder as he approached. There was smoke from the chimney but no shadows of movement inside. He gripped his rifle. He should go home to his haphazard tar paper and log shack, but it was dark now, and Valley Forge was 30 miles behind.

He pushed open the door with a bang, rifle to his shoulder, and heard a surprised shout. A figure twisted, axe in hand, poised to hook it into Alfred’s neck and remove an arm at the shoulder like a branch from a trunk. Then, a note of laughter, and he was embraced.

Warmth hit him. First, Matt’s entire body was warm, and his clothes were fire-toasty. Then the smell of roasting meat floated, so solid it was almost visible, into his senses. Then, dizziness. Dizziness struck like a blow to the head. Alfred might have passed out on the floor if Matt hadn’t already had his arms around him.

Matt squeezed with more strength than Alfred had ever known his baby brother to have. The rifle was tugged from his hands, and he was suddenly sitting, sodden clothes and boots pulled off, feet stretched towards the fire. He might have vomited if he wasn’t so hallowed out. Matt was gone for only a moment, but Alfred grabbed a hold of him as soon as he was back.

“Have you changed your mind?” He grasped Matt’s sleeve with a shaking hand. “Did you come to your senses?”

“Have you?” Matt said, derisive even as he pressed a mug into Alfred’s hands. “Drink that, and the world will stop spinning.”

“Matthew---” He didn’t let go of Matt’s sleeve. “You haven’t come to—.”

“Bend the knee?” Matthew’s eyes flashed, and Alfred was all too aware of the axe on his belt and the rifle against the wall. “No. I’m not.”

“What are you doing here then?” He let Matt go and sipped on the contents of the mug—broth, salty and rich beyond belief. Matt was right. The world did stop spinning.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Matt said with a watery smile. “I take it you got my note.”

“Pie at sundown,” Alfred recalled. “I got it. I could hardly believed you remembered that.”

“First apple pie you ever made me. I’ll remember it til the sun goes dark.” Matt was before him with a blanket and a stack of clothes. “Finish drinking that, put these on and then we’ll talk.”

They were his own clothes, what he’d left in the chest of drawers in Boston after he’d slipped his guards and disappeared across the border and into Quebec. He wanted to toss them back. They were the clothes of a crown subject, a boy with a British boot on his neck. Not the free man he wanted to be. That he was, but he hadn’t had a fresh shirt since his baby brother had dragged his corpse out of his shallow grave on the Hudson. He could wash it as often as he liked, but the linen was still wearing thin. His former things were practically new, the linen fresh and clean, the wool still warm. Alfred ran a hand over the fabric, still so chilled he hardly considered his pride as Matt turned away to tend to the bird slowly roasting over the fire and dressed. He glanced over his shoulder when Alfred slipped the shirt over his head. There hadn’t been a mirror to look at himself in months, and he didn’t want to. He knew his ribs were stark; he could feel them. Matt looked that kind of devastated that, if he hadn’t turned away, might have made Alfred cry.

“Have you had a decent meal since I saw you?” He didn’t look over his shoulder again until the shirt was over his head, and he’d buttoned the blue waistcoat over his chest. Everything was so ill-fitting now.

Alfred ignored him. “Does Father know you’re here?”

Matthew snorted. “It’s Christmas; he’s so deep into the officer’s nog when I left he won’t realize I’ve gone unless I’m not there for epiphany morning with tea going. So I shot a turkey and pissed off south to find you. Looks like its a good thing I did too.”

“I’m fine.” Alfred scowled. “There’s a camp of thousands of men 2 miles from here with nothing but rice and vinegar for Christmas dinner. Next to them, I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, and it damn well looked like he meant it, narrow shoulders bowed as he sat heavily onto one of the overturned logs he obviously meant to use as a kitchen chair for the occasion.

“You could feed a lot of people if you stayed. You’re a good hunter.”

“Don’t,” Matt said. “We’ve had this conversation. Look at you. You know I wouldn’t survive another war like this. You’re kissed by God himself and you look like death.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Rice and vinegar, eh? Yeah well. Try some turkey and see if it compares.”

“Why do you keep coming to see me if you won’t pick a side, Matt? You’re committing treason and you know it.”

“You’re my brother.”

His shrug was simple, unemotional. The sky was up, the Earth was down, the snow was cold, and Matt would haul and shoot a turkey and walk four days just to sneak him a decent meal. He teared up. Maybe it was the cold, the deprivation or just how much he missed home and heart and heart. Throat working, shoulders shaking even if he wasn’t crying, he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and squeezed for a third time, kissing him on the forehead about a dozen times and just feeling something so desperately affectionate he had to ride it out like dizziness.

“I missed you.” He said.

“You too.” Matt had clamped himself around Alfred, playing as if he just held on; he wouldn’t feel how much weight he’d dropped since summer. After a long moment, he made Alfred sit on one of the logs and tossed the rucksack while he struck flint and steel and put tinder to kindling. “Have you been sick? You look terrible,”

“Everyone is.” He said. There was no point in hiding it. “You know what it’s like. A moving army is a healthy army. A camped army is a sick army.”

“Why do you think I like the woods so much? I could run from the British as easily as from the typhus.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my people. I can’t leave them.”

“Do you have scurvy yet?”

“Gettering there.” He poked his tongue at his teeth. He had all of them, but he was always so tired. It couldn’t be far away.

Matt pivoted and took an orange in each hand, shoving them at Alfred. “Father... he’s in the habit of buying two.”

“I can’t take these!”

“Think of them as reparations.”

“Won’t you get scurvy?’

“I get lime juice twice a day. Just take anything you want out of my pack and eat it. Take the rest tomorrow. I’ll get a rabbit on my way back if I get hungry.”

“Why do you have to go back?”

“Stop asking me that. Pick something for me to make out of what’s in there, all right? Anything you want tonight, and you can take the rest tomorrow.”

“I want you to stay.”

Matt leaned against the wall by the hearth, arms crossed. “And I don’t want to die. So stop asking. That’s the agreement. Stay alive. Not stay with you.”

“You should be my right hand. It should be me and you against the world.”

“You’re the one fighting with the world, Alfred. I already have. I lost. Pick a vegetable, eat an orange, have some wine and stop trying to sentence me to death because you’re lonely again.”

He was tearing up, and so was Alfred. They looked away from each other, and Alfred went to the pack.

He opened food like he had once opened pewter inkwells at the apothecaries, looking for the blue ink he liked better than the quickly fading walnut; there were cranberries, potatoes, apples, stalks of celery, onions, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, honey cakes, tea, coffee, a jug of wassail and a smaller bottle of Madeira. Smaller quantities of sugar, flour, oats, rice, raisins and rye. There were more of his clothes that he hadn’t taken when he’d fled Boston nearly two years prior. And under all that, a length of blue cloth with shining brass buttons. 

“Mattie.... What is that coat?” 

His brother froze. He’d been dragging his knife down the side of the roasted bird and onto a rough-hewn platter. For one long moment, Alfred thought he might burst into tears. 

“It’s for you.” He said. 

“Whe did you get it?” 

“General Montcalm.” He said. “It was too big so I hid it under the floorboards. Thought I’d wear it too the victory parade someday. It’s... it’s your colour now, isn’t it?”

“It— Yeah it is.” 

“I hope its luckier for you than it was for me.” He said quietly. “I hope Lord Bonnefoy is better to you too.”

“Mattie.” Alfred said quietly. 

Matt was standing there, eyes shut against tears, until he looked up at Alfred with those same big, hopeful eyes he’d always had before all this. Full of all the softness and warmth of Canada that may not have existed elsewhere that winter. Words stuck in his throat, and suddenly, so homesick he wanted to burst, Alfred opened his arms. Matt gave up on carving the bird, put down the plate, and allowed Alfred to pull him in again. If Matt had grown, it was only a little, and Alfred could still easily rest his cheek on Matt’s crown, which he did for a long moment.

“Thank you.” He said. 

“It was meant for you,” Matt replied. “You’re... tall and capable like that. It will fit you, even when you fill it out again.” 

“You’ll grow.” Alfred said. “Someday. And then we'll be fine."

Someday. 

[lewanarta]

8 women for the 8th of March

[elinerlina2]

Peyto Lake, Canada

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Some of the team presentations for the Super Team event in Zao

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@lifeofashmac (ig)

[littlepawz]

Polar bear under the Northern Lights