Up Here on my Own
Solo dawg Pat Lynch found what he was looking for, and more, at Sunshine
I’m three beers in and halfway
through a tender fillet of Arctic char
when the crackle of the fire is
overtaken by a cackle from the bar. Looking up
from my dinner, I instinctively drop my head,
shudder and avert my gaze. A half-dozen
dolled-up cougars have perched themselves at
the bar rail, their squinty peepers scanning the
lounge from beneath the brims of well-wworn
straw cowboy hats.
It’s mid-week in late April. aside from an
elderly German couple sipping Gewürztraminer
in the shadows of the stone fireplace, I’m the
only human being in the room, and therefore, a
target. The hairs rise on the back of my neck as
the battle cry is sounded at the bar.
"We need some shooters, honey!”
The young barmaid speed-pours a round of
draughts and fumbles with a bottle of Fireball.
Then she does it gain.
This is a troop with an appetite, if the
strained seams on their jeans tell the tale.
Keep ’em coming and while you’re at it,” drawls the pack leader,“where can we find
us some MEN up here?!??”
Stealthily,I reach for my beer, hoping to
hide behind the glass.It’s an action that
doesn’t go unnoticed.
Her gaze hits me like a sausage-hunting
tractor beam.
Our eyes lock. She cocks her head, lips
pouty. And I start to giggle - uncomfortably.
It’s awkward! I know! but this is not why I
came to the Sunshine Mountain Lodge, ladies!
For me,this place is about escape, quiet and
sweet, sunshiney solo riding.
I drain my brew, the creepy spell broken,
leave some dough on the table and slip out of
the Chimney Corner Lounge. No bite marks, no
scratches.
There’s snow falling outside the windows,
and this lone wolf’s gonna be on the first chair.
Solitude. First felt at the moment Sunshine
Village’s gondola swung to halt, my bags
sitting in a snowbank as I peered through the
darkened windows of the Mad Trapper Saloon.
Liftees wrestled with a race fence on a nearby
run, the only sound to be heard aside from the
hum of the Lodge’s massive outdoor hot tub.
I’d just arrived for four days solo, and with the
gondola done for the day, it felt as if I were
on a private island, some 2,000 metres up in
the Rockies. Nothing to do now but focus on
the task at hand. No distractions. Just hope for
snow. It was, after all, almost May.
And here was that sense of detachment
again, a day later and halfway up the face of
Lookout Mountain, legs dangling from a chair
all my own, the sun sparkling off 10 cm of fresh
pow blanketing the North and South Divides.
Four patrollers were getting first tracks under
a bluebird sky, leaving braided lines down
the face of Bye Bye Bowl. Having escaped
a mauling the night before, I was feeling a
certain joie e vivre . Until the gondola brought
the hordes up to the village, the rest of the hill
was pretty much mine, and I intended to seize
it, alone. I was gonna be a salty solo dawg.
I slipped off the Divide chair and glided
past the gate to Delirium Dive, a 600-vertical-
metre drop into one of Sunshine’s two freeride zones. Its rules were already raining on my solo
parade—no entry without a transceiver, probe,
shovel and an experienced partner. Harrumph.
It could wait.
Instead I pointed it down the North Divide,
leaning back with a grin as I tore into an
untracked field of fresh, making deep, long
turns at high speed, hopping over a cat track
and carving around an outcropping. The village
lay below, quiet, its lifts virtually empty.
By noon I’d ripped four or five speed runs
off the Continental Divide, dipsy-doodled
over short steeps off the Standish Express, hit
stands of sun-filled trees off the Wawa quad
and had yet to even move on to The Eagles or
Goat’s Eye, Sunshine’s other distant peaks, both
starting to catch the early afternoon sun.
That’s the bonus of travelling solo, I told
myself. There’s no one to wait for. No one
to bicker over runs with, no one challenging
you to a more-macho-than-thou run through
nipple-high moguls. I was the captain of this
ship, sir! On my own!
I looked at my crumpled trail map. I looked
up at the untravelled peaks in the distance. I’d
barely covered any of this hill, and, if I was to
be honest with myself, I didn’t know if I’d even
hit the good stuff yet.
I folded my map. So much for the salty solo
dawg act: If I was going to do this right, I was
going to require some assistance.
“All right, the beacon’s down there somewhere.
Fire up that transceiver and find it.”
Okay, boss. I set my beacon to receive and
start to walk down the pitch. I could see Andy’s
bootprints and a hastily covered-over lump of
snow next to a small tree. Making a beeline for
it, I pretend to use my beacon to locate the
hidden one. I also pretend I wasn’t peeking
through my gloves while the New Zealander,
my recently acquired guide, was hiding it there
minutes ago.
“I’m getting closer…closer…listen to this
thing, Andy! I think I’m almost over top of it.”
He knows I’m taking the mickey out of him.
“Right, mate. Have a dig. It’s right there.”
“No kidding,” I thought to myself. “Let’s hope
I don’t have to dig you out in 20 minutes’ time.”
Andy grins when I hand over the “lost” beacon.
“Well, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about
a slide anyway. The snow’s been stable these
past few days. You ready?”
Am I ready? “Dude,” I thought to myself, “if Delirium Dive didn’t require a partner and
avalanche gear, I’d have already ripped it. By
myself!” But that was foolish pride talking,
arrogance with no root in reality. In truth, I
need Andy’s help finding the good stuff. The
REALLY good stuff. And, based solely on his
goggle tan and good humour, he’s already
gained my unfettered trust.
Fifteen minutes later, after a short hike from
the top of the Continental Divide chair, that
trust gets tested. Andy takes me to the lip of
the Dive proper, gives me a quick debrief on
how he’s going to run it and drops into the
bowl. This pitch is almost 50 degrees in places,
especially near the top. Hello adrenaline-drenched
concentration!
Hello hop turns!
Hello
turd in my underwear!
I catch up with Andy, who’s tucked behind
a cliffband a couple hundred feet down—sluff
etiquette.
“Feel good?” he asks.
“Bit choppy near the top, but I think it’s
getting softer down here.”
My heart’s pounding, but I’m playing it cool.
“Yeah, the sun’s warming things up,” he says
before pointing out the next stretch and taking
off ahead of me. He’s leaving sweet lines in the
deeper, lower-altitude snow.
I slide out from behind the rocks and start to
chase. His hoots are flying up the hill, mingling
with the sound of the wind in my ears. I’m in the
midst of a long carve when the snow changes.
It’s sudden and it’s welcome. My feet are buried
in soft, deep powder and I’m floating at high
speed, kicking up a roost with every turn. My
whoops join Andy’s as we race to the bottom of the bowl, and for a moment, regardless of how
fast I’m going, time slows down.
“Ho-leeee shit.” I’m breathless, standing
next to Andy, who’s looking back uphill.
“Ah, it was good, eh, mate?” He looks
at his watch. “I think we have time to do
another if you’re up for it.”
We high-five and I chase him down to the
base of Goat’s Eye. I’m still grinning halfway
back up the gondola.
So much for solitude. If I hadn’t swallowed
my pride and admitted I needed a guide, I’d
never have run the Dive twice that day. Nor
would I have gone to the top of Goat’s Eye
and charged black diamonds and blues, or the
steeps on The Shoulder and the fast burners
off the Wolverine chair. Left to my own
devices, I’d probably have spent most of my
trip hunting smatterings of pow in the small
bowls near the Sunshine Mountain Lodge.
Instead, I got a taste of local knowledge
and a feel for a hill that can be hardcore or
mellow, depending on what you’re looking for.
And so I’m sitting in the sun on my last day
here, sipping pints on the rammed patio of
the Mad Trapper, the village transformed into a
flurry of activity. Racers charge past the bar as
part of the Bozo Cup, a memorial celebration
that seems fuelled by beer and adrenaline in
equal measures. My legs are toast. My face is
sunburned. And when I look up, I see her. My
cougar. She’s walking onto the deck, selling
raffle tickets with a pair of feline friends.
“You got any sunscreen, honey?” she
asks, eyeballing my lobster-like face. It’s a
rhetorical question. “There’s a big bottle of it
downstairs if you wanna grab some…and, um,
I think you should.”
She smiles sweetly and I’m struck by her
friendliness. She’s no predator. She holds
no malice over my weird slight at the bar a
couple of nights ago. She’d probably have
been fun to hang with. I buy $10 worth of
raffle tickets and head down to the main
floor to slather on a layer of SPF 840. I grab
a pitcher and two glasses at the bar and drag
my sorry ass back out onto the deck.
She’s already gone. I can see her down
by the finish line, laughing with friends. A
woman and two jovial-looking dudes plunk
themselves down next to me.
“Mind if we sit?”
They’re Italian, with thick accents and ill-fitting ski suits. All three are grinning from
ear-to-ear. I think about the salty solo dawg.
“Of course not,” I answer. “How was your
day?”
“Ho boy!” laughs the older gent before
telling me how he’s lucky to have survived
a somersault over a small cliff. He’s
gesticulating wildly in the late-afternoon
sun, and soon he’s got us all laughing.
I flag the waitress and ask for two more
glasses.
“Salute!”
We raise our pints and drain my jug,
strangers bound by good times and great
places.
A salty solo dawg would know none of it.
So I leave him behind. ❄
WHERE TO STAY
Solo or as part of a group, a stay at the
Sunshine Mountain Lodge offers entry
into what feels like a private club. It’s
the only ski-in/ski-out hotel within Banff
National Park, and once the gondola
shuts down each day it’s just you, the
mountain staff and the rest of the guests
chilling out at more than 2,100 metres.
A large outdoor hot tub offers chances
to meet the masses and heal the body,
while the Chimney Corner Lounge and
Eagle’s Nest restaurants (casual and fine
dining, respectively) are where to go for
a locally sourced meal and a chance to
unwind. Rooms start at $143/person/
night (includes next day skiing).
WHERE TO SKI
Start your morning in the sun off the
Wawa quad, a good place to ready the
legs for a run up the Divide before
lunch (all advice to be hucked if you’re
up there on a powder day, for which I
can only say “give ’er!”). Goat’s Eye and
Delirium Dive catch the sun later in the
day; the forests off the Wolverine chair
offer a more sheltered break from the
high alpine of Sunshine’s main peaks
and lots of spots to dip into the trees for
a taste of untracked deliciousness.
WHO TO SKI WITH
Trust me, if this is your first trip to
Sunshine, don’t go all stubborn salty solo
dawg on me. Suck it up and get a free
tour from a snowhost or pay for a guide
to take you into the freeride zones. Local
knowledge can’t be trumped.
MORE INFO
Ski Banff
Ski Big 3
Travel Alberta
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