Hole in the Wall

A little inspiration can go a long way. And nothing is more inspiring to me than an aesthetic ski line, like the one I saw in a photo one day. Two parallel couloirs joined by a natural arch, right in the middle of nowhere. Hole in the Wall. While I had skinned past it several times on the classic Fench-Robertson Tour in Canada's Kananaskis Provincial Park, I never noticed it until a friend showed me the photograph. I was instantly enthralled. It looked like you could ski right through one of the couloir's walls and right into the other. I'd never seen a line like it. I knew I had to go. But like a lot of the hundreds of couloirs in the Canadian Rockies this mission would take patience.

It would take most of the winter before all the factors – snow conditions, avalanche danger, a willing partner, and time off – came together to make an attempt possible. When it finally did, it was one of the most memorable trips of my life. The Canadian Rockies snowpack is notoriously fickle, thin, cold and avalanche prone. Jumping onto a steep line with no escape routes is not something you do until the warmer days of April when warmer temps create more predictable avalanche danger. With the snowpack finally fat and well-supported spring is prime time for chasing steep lines in the Rockies. So, several months after first seeing the picture of Hole in the Wall, it remained on my to do list, my motivation to tick it off growing stronger by the day.

Finally a week of sunny and cool weather rolled in at the same time as photographer Ryan Creary and Fraser Sprigings had time off. After distracting ourselves with some of the easier local couloirs for a few days we decided to give it a try, hoping it would be in good condition, but not really knowing what to expect. In classic spring alpine style we pulled up to the Burstall Pass Trailhead in the dark and skinned by brail and headlamp up French Creek. Mostly we followed old ski tracks, but an hour from the car the unmistakable footprints of a grizzly bear crossed the trail. Obviously we weren't the only ones motivated after a long cold winter.

Hoping to leave the bear in our dust we pushed on hard gaining elevation slowly but steadily, the forest soon thinning and spitting us out into the open alpine just shy of the French Glacier's tongue. A little contouring landed us on the small ice sheet and then to the base of the couloir. Dwarfed by the surrounding mountains, parallel slivers of snow rose like hallways through the slate grey limestone. Towards the top the main one narrowed slightly, but most of the way the symmetry looked perfect. Adding to its natural beauty, part way up two adjacent lines joined. Through the thin shared wall some force of erosion had left a massive and spectacular semi-circle of space. It looked like someone had taken a bite out of it.

Creary couldn't put his camera down. "As a photographer, I was drawn to the aesthetics of this line," he said afterwards. "It's not the longest or most committing line, but it is by far the most unique." At the time nothing so profound broke our lips. We just stared in awe. Finally we started the work, boot packing in the firm north facing snow, a skiff of wind blown dust on the surface. Leapfrogging trail breaking we were soon beneath the arch. Creary snapped away happily as we climbed right through it, thousands of pounds of rock miraculously hanging in space. Once in the other couloir we continued upwards, the walls slowly closing in as the snow steepened, adding just a taste of tension to the unique situation.

Nearing the top, the day continued to unfold perfectly. The sun began cresting above the ridgeline giving us low-angled light into the dark confines of the chute. The soft rays creeping further into our line as each minute passed. Finally we reached the top. We high-fived, a little bit of seriousness falling away as we settled into a comfortable stance, enjoying the crisp morning air and a view down through the arch to the glacier below and out across the grey ridgelines of the nearby mountains. Though the break felt good, we couldn't sit still for long. Like a junkie expecting his next hit, we wanted to feel our edges dig into the snow, jump through the air and carve under the arch. We craved the adrenaline.

And we didn't want to wait another minute. We all clicked into our bindings, Fraser and I on telemark skis, and Creary on his board. Again we leapfrogged, this time with gravity spraying the chalky snow with every turn. Above the arch we regrouped. The sun now shone right through it making it look like a portal into another world. As I skied through the arch and into the other couloir, everything changed. The satisfaction of achieving a long-held goal, of accomplishing something, washed warmly through my body; then that feeling faded, replaced by another emotion. An emptiness took hold inside me. I couldn't understand it. Shouldn't I be incredibly happy, proud of the success? But as I came to a stop next to Fraser, I felt restless and wanted more.

Skiing Hole in the Wall had been a dream for so long, and now it was fulfilled. What now, I asked myself. But not for long. We stood there quietly, watching Creary make short turns down toward us, pushing a big cloud of smoky snow into the air and then charging right through it. Just before Creary reached us Fraser broke the silence: "There's this cool looking couloir on Mount Patterson..."