Hut Spot (page 2)
“What?” I exclaim. “OK, the ears look like baguettes but c’mon.”
Maggie runs up shouting, “Snow bunny! Snow bunny!” and, in her exuberance, knocks
it over. “Again!” she bellows. “Make a snow bunny again!” Maggie,
the human howitzer.
HOME SWEET HUT
Getting there The Alpine Club of Canada
operates 23 backcountry huts in British
Columbia and Alberta, with another five in
British Columbia, Ontario and New York
State run by regional club sections. Huts
range in size, amenities and ease of access,
with at least two (including the Wheeler hut)
accessible by vehicle in summer. Visit
www.alpineclubofcanada.ca for details.
Staying there
Call (403) 678-3200 or e-mail
info@alpineclubofcanada.ca for reservations
and information about membership.
Members with a “huts upgrade” pay $25 per
person per night. Regular members pay $30
and non-members pay $36 per person per
night. (Half price for children under 16.) If
the hut is in a national park, tack on $9 per
night for a backcountry wilderness pass.
Playing there
You’ll need food, sleeping bags,
toilet paper, matches, garbage bags, dish
soap, towels, hand sanitizer and flashlights
or headlamps. Consult the website for each
cabin’s list of amenities. Most guests use the
huts as a base for backcountry skiing or snowshoeing.
This is advised only for experienced
trekkers with avalanche survival equipment
and those led by mountain guides.
|
ARTHUR OLIVER WHEELER would have loved this place, had he lived to see it. After six decades
of photographing and surveying prairies and Rocky Mountain peaks, the tenacious, 83-year-old
Irish alpinist died in 1943, four years before the hut that bears his name was built. Days
before breathing his last in Banff, the inaugural Alpine Club of Canada president left these
parting instructions: “Never give in, never, never, never — in nothing, great
or small, large or petty — never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.” Impeccable
advice. Getting out of my sleeping bag at 2 a.m. to take a hysterical child around the cabin
with a flashlight to prove there are no monsters makes good sense, so I give in. But when
it is Dan’s turn to remove a number two from Maggie’s undies and deliver it discreetly
to the outhouse, I feel there’s no honour in doing it myself. I never, never give in.
Night terrors and potty errors aside, the girls rule Wheeler and its magnanimous hat-headed
guests, whose frequent amusement fuels the girls’ conspicuously cutesy performances.
Searching for Daisy one night, I find her flirting by the fire with Craig Paulson, a park
ranger from Smithers, B.C. Paulson, 27, and three friends were ski touring through the mountains
with climbing skins on their skis and avalanche locator beacons in their backpacks. He says
that he’s glad we brought the girls, that rich, indelible memories would form from
these early experiences with nature. I nod knowingly, secretly feeding the mommy martyr who
is wearying of the outdoor-indoor-outdoor gymnastics with boots and snow pants at the front
door.
I return to the cabin with Maggie after one such sojourn to find Daisy devouring fresh popcorn,
courtesy of Gregg Cronn. A 48-year-old teacher and veteran climber from Washington, Cronn
suffered a cerebral edema on Mount Kangchenjunga, Nepal, back in 1985. “I woke up and
said, ‘I’m dying.’” Coupled with the birth of his son and the death
of six mountaineering friends within two years, Cronn gave up hard-core climbing but never
gave up the mountains. He comes here to ski mostly. Last November, for American Thanksgiving,
he cooked a 20-pound turkey with stuffing, drove seven hours from home with the bird in a
rooftop cargo box, then pulled it on a sled to the hut. His friends brought the trimmings
for a backcountry banquet. With gas-powered cooking appliances and fresh water year-round
from a nearby stream, there’s no reason to deny yourself a gourmet meal.
But it’s the people you meet that make these huts so memorable. Carl Hannigan is a
prime example: a barrel-chested Scot in a snug, black, full-body fleece onesie who entertains
us with tales both intrepid and droll as he tips whisky into our mugs. Before years of climbing
eroded his knees and ankles, Hannigan, now 65 and a veterinarian by trade, was a welcome
ad hoc physician on climbing teams. While waiting for the weather to improve at Mount Manaslu
base camp in Nepal 25 years ago, he performed reconstructive surgery on a Nepalese girl who’d
been gored in the throat by her father’s yak. She recovered nicely, he says, but the
weather never did. The climb was eventually cancelled.
After our Saturday night prosciutto and mascarpone ravioli, we gear up to walk frothy paths
with flashlights. The girls are giddy with illicit delight. When we return, the heat from
the wood stove, the high-carb supper and the fresh mountain air are scheming in a lullaby.
This is calculated parenting. And it’s not as if we have to worry about noise tonight.
There are nearly 20 of us here, and the girls are the loudest ones. A group of fit, retired
Americans gather in one corner, reading books and magazines. Young men on an avalanche safety
course pore over topographical maps by lantern light in another. Two drowsy couples sit in
the kitchen, engaging two toddlers. Daisy falls off a chair and declares, “It’s
OK. I’m a tough customer,” which draws a round of laughter. It’s a fitting
curtain call. Within the hour, the four of us have climbed upstairs to the spacious loft,
where thick floor mats and sleeping bags coax us into slumber.
I dream it’s 1920: I’m a lady mountaineer in woollen knickerbockers, virile
and resilient. Hours later, I’m awake, bitterly indignant about the lack of indoor
toilets. I drag my butt outside. It’s snowing. The angels we made tonight have been
erased. I hear a soft “poof” and picture a nearby pine branch dumping its load.
Or was it something else? “What, like a yeti?” I chuckle to myself. Pause. Headlamp
on. Dash inside.
Lisa Gregoire is a frequent contributor to Canadian Geographic Travel. Photographer
Patrice Halley lives in Cranbrook, B.C.
|
