Our pilot has just told us, in very hearty Canadian slang, that the helicopter's access door should be opened and closed carefully, as it is the equivalent of a small car. We look at each other sheepishly as we stand here in front of the hangar in the morning sun with our professional snowboard equipment and brand new, 3-layer outdoor clothing. Clearly the first low blow - and we haven't flown a single meter yet. But we came here because we feel ready to fulfill the big dream. Ready for the last big challenge in every snowboarder's life. Ready for really big mountains and steep slopes. Ready for the wilderness and raw nature - and of course ready for helicopter flights and epic powder runs in the finest "Champaign powder". That's why we made the long journey here to Atlin, British Columbia, Canada, and not so that we could come out as greenhorns before our first flight.
Atlin is a small, former gold mining village with only 400 inhabitants, just under two hours' drive southwest of Whitehorse. Right on the border with Alaska, it is located on the side of the Coast Mountain Range facing away from the sea and therefore offers much more stable weather conditions and therefore more chance of effective flying time - and therefore also powder runs. The area we can fly to is largely wilderness and as big as Tirol. As Atlin is still something of an insider tip for heliboarding, we are the only winter sports enthusiasts on site and have the mountains to ourselves. And what no one had even dared to hope for: it had snowed heavily just two days earlier and today, on our first day of flying, the sun was shining out of a deep blue sky. After Jean-Marc's tirade is over and we have received another thorough briefing, we finally get going. The steady flapping of the rotor blades increases to a loud rattling, the turbines begin to whistle loudly and a tremor runs through the whole machine before it takes off with a loud roar, but still very gently. In seconds, Atlin's handful of wooden houses are transformed into a small, colorful toy village far below us and, with a wide sweep, the vast ice sheet of Lake Atlin spreads out as an evenly marbled surface all the way to the snow-capped peaks on the horizon. That's where we want to go!
Almost unreal, the first foothills glide towards us and a whole collection of boldly shaped rock and cornice formations pass beneath us. The spruce and birch trees become smaller and sparser and gentle snow ridges and steep walls rise higher and higher into the steel-blue sky in front of us. Jean-Marc elegantly steers the helicopter along the terrain and skillfully uses the updrafts. He learned this from gliding, he explains succinctly: "Saves a lot of kerosene and makes a smooth flight." That's true about the smooth flight, but it's not so easy to keep in touch with the surroundings in order to spot potential departures. Of course, everyone is already trying to spot their lines. But you can't really tell how big a slope is or how steep. If the helicopter is leaning towards the mountain, everything seems incredibly steep and high; if you turn in the other direction, the slopes appear gentle and flat. Suddenly, a high rock face with a jagged ridge crest appears in front of us and approaches quickly. Framed by two rock towers, a small notch opens up in the ridge at the very top of the picture. Jean-Marc pulls the helicopter tightly upwards and heads straight for this far too small opening. Can't he see that there's no way we're going to fit through there?
It's likely that our "smooth" flight, and therefore the whole adventure, will be over in no time... And that's before we've even set foot in the snow. The gap gets closer quickly, but doesn't really get any bigger. Instead, the rock towers towering to the right and left of it now prevent us from moving sideways. We collectively stiffen up in our seats and pull our shoulders up until the harness straps tighten. Then we race through the narrow gap in the ridge with pinpoint accuracy and it suddenly becomes quiet. There is no sound of the rotor blades shattering and no flying debris. There's no time to wonder, because now we're heading down the other side of the mountain at an insane speed. Gravity stops and we float weightlessly above our seats, held only by the harnesses. We fall faster and faster and the ground is rapidly approaching. We're about to hit the ground! But all of a sudden the rotor starts up again with a loud roar and gravity returns with a vengeance as Jean-Marc grins and pulls the helicopter back into its normal flying position. All right - that was probably payback for the incident with the heli hatch in the morning. We should be even now! As soon as we've digested this "little joke", we have to get ready, because a small white crest is slowly creeping underneath us. We feel nothing of the touchdown, but when the door is open and everyone leaves the cabin in a hurry but in an orderly fashion, we are met by a veritable inferno of noise, wind and flying snow and everyone hurries to find a safe place to duck away. Just don't get too close to the rotor! Thumbs up, everyone is out and now hold on tight to your snowboard as the helicopter takes off with a roar of a storm, initiates a small left turn and then plunges vertically into the valley nose first. As soon as the helicopter has disappeared, it is suddenly quiet and there is not a breath of wind.
We are standing above a huge, untouched world of rocks, ice and snow. Behind us, the gleaming white expanse of the Juneau Icefield stretches for miles, filling entire mountain valleys with its hundreds of meters of ice and marking the border to Alaska. In front of us, our landing hilltop widens into a steep ridge, thickly covered in powder snow, which opens up in a wide arc into a large basin and flows over another steep slope right down to the valley floor. It's hard to believe that we're really here now and that it's all just for us! There is so much space to ride that everyone can easily ride their own line without crossing another track. Initially cautious, we quickly regain our confidence on the board and let the powder run its course in meter-high clouds of dust. Cutbacks, drops, small gullies or long turns - the terrain offers something for everyone and when we arrive at the bottom of the helicopter, the broad grin on everyone's face speaks for itself: all the cost and effort have been worth it for this descent alone! And that's just the beginning.
We get used to the luxury of a helicopter shockingly quickly and after a few runs, we find it almost as natural to get in here as a chairlift. Over the next few days, the dream descents follow each other seamlessly and we explore the entire expanse of the flying area. No one has ever set foot on many of the peaks and the answer to the question about the name of a descent is often: "Take your pick!". In the meantime, the guides have also gained full confidence in our abilities, letting us choose the descents ourselves and only pointing out danger spots and line choices. As a result, we sometimes take it in turns to fly down our "own" mountain. This is a very special experience, as you have to memorize the exact nature of the descent from below and during the short flight. Of course, everything looks completely different from above: For example, the small cornice at the start turns out to be a huge windlip that has to be carefully broken off before you even reach the chosen slope, or the small two-meter drop that you just want to take out of the ride turns out to be a serious stunt with a multiple of the expected height, or the whole slope is simply much steeper than you thought.
And so you often find yourself standing, all alone and with wobbly knees, on some snowy peak in the Canadian outback, carefully peering over an edge into a steep slope and wondering whether this is really the line you've chosen. But although we push the boundaries a little further every day, we remain aware of where we are and that an accident here would have more serious consequences than at home in the Alps.
So the barbecue today is also a very special experience. We want to take skidoos a few kilometers from Atlin to a small lake in the forest and grill moose meat over a campfire, lumberjack style. The spot is only a few meters away from the place where a large bear was spotted just two days earlier. But bears are generally very shy, we are reassured, so we don't need to worry. As a large group, the bears would hear us soon enough anyway and leave.
To protect against the cold and flying sparks, everyone is given a disused, oil-stained ski overall and, at dusk, we move to the snowmobiles wearing masks like a ragged ski extreme team from the nineties. Unfortunately, most of the ignition keys are missing, so we have to shuttle people and equipment into the forest in several trips with two ancient sledges. For the return trip at night, we will probably have to decide who will be the last one to stay by the fire until the pick-up and enjoy their bear fear to the full... But for now, it's time to celebrate. When the last group arrives at the barbecue site, there is already a big fire burning and a large pile of canned beer waiting in the snow. One of the ancient snowmobiles is actually equipped with a music system and soon the first songs are playing through the Canadian wilderness, while the best descents of the last few days are talked through again. What a trip, what incredible mountains and unbelievable runs! As the cold slowly creeps into our bones from behind, our faces glow more and more in the firelight. On the one hand from the alcohol, which is starting to take effect, but mainly from the excitement of the experience here in Atlin, one of the last outposts for the really big snowboard adventure. Text: Jan Sallawitz, Holger Feist | Photos: Richard Walch
