The Luxury Network International Magazine Issue 03

We’re flying at treetop elevation and the windows are thick with
condensation. It’s minus 22 degrees outside and dumping.
storm system, but at Last Frontier you average four
out of five days on the hill. That’s an unbelievable
strike-rate for a heli ski operation.
With each lap it seemed we would ski into snow
that was even drier and even deeper than the
last. At one point we skied the left side of a long
bending bowl. I watched as the others dropped
into the bowl and disappeared somewhere into the
tree line, long-veiled ghosts leaving monochrome
vapor trails lingering in the frigid white air before
me. I filled my lungs with cold air, and dropped.
The next part was something I’d never experienced
before. All you could really do was just point
your skis fall line and let the snow – now up
to your chest just below armpit level – engulf
you completely. It was like being at the eye of
your own personal snowstorm, catching only
momentary glimpses of the run before the next
turn washed over you. And with snow so light it
got in everywhere; in the seams of your hood, in
between your goggle lenses, through the powder
skirt in your jacket and up your back and up and
inside your beanie – while you were wearing it. It
was just unbelievable.
“You think you have something to write about
yet?” said Watling as he handed me a sandwich
and a cup of coffee back at the helicopter. I sort
of nodded and smiled. I wasn’t settled and didn’t
really have anything to say. I had only just stopped
and I hadn’t caught my breath. Part of me was still
up in that bowl somewhere. I took the sandwich
into my hands and saw that it was squishy and real.
I spilled some coffee onto my gloves, pulling me
back into the present. “You ready for Bell 2 now?
It’s completely different all over again, you’ll see,”
Watling said as he piled the backpacks into the ski
box. “The weather’s really coming in so it’s time to
move.” And so it went, feeling like I had only just
returned to Earth, now it was time to leave it again.
We’re flying at treetop elevation and the windows
are thick with condensation. It’s minus 22 degrees
outside and dumping. Visibility is low. Through
the front window I watch as the Alaska Highway
files out ahead, trucks carrying natural gas and
logs pass underneath. It’s our map from Ripley
Creek to Bell 2 Lodge. “We go by the IFR
principle here,” yelled Mike over the drum of the
heli, “I Follow Roads.” Roads (and rivers) are the
lifelines when the weather gets bad in the area;
they are what the pilots use to stay oriented when
the clouds really come in.
We soon land at Bell 2 Lodge, located 360km
north-west of Smithers and deep into the Canadian
Wilderness. Originally a service station for
travellers of the Stewart-Cassiar Highway on their
way to Alaska and the Yukon, Bell 2 Lodge is now
the beating heart of Last Frontier’s Drop City – a
smattering of log chalets surrounding the main
lodge. While I spent the day skiing, the crew at
Last Frontier were busy transporting my luggage
from Stewart to Bell 2, and it was already packed
away in my cabin by the time we landed.
Bell 2 is remote but with satellite communication
and state-of-the-art environmental facilities, it offers
the comforts of a first-class hotel with a rustic touch
of the Canadian wild. The dining room, lounge and
bar act as the focal point for skiing stories to be
shared, while the hot tub, massage rooms and yoga
studio offer all those other modern comforts one
would expect from a fancy hotel.
But it’s no hotel. It’s much more personal than that.
Because Last Frontier is foremost about skiing, the
lodge looks like it’s been tinkered on over time.
There is no overall design scheme, it’s not like a
designer rolled out a floor plan and went, “Let’s
build a customer experience.” Each room in the
lodge is different. When you walk in through the
entrance the first thing you see is a sign that reads,
What would Johnny Cash do? I’m not sure what it
means, but I like it. Bell 2 has something distinctly
personal about it, perhaps a materialisation of who
Watling is as a person. “This has been my life, this
place,” he said. “I’ve put everything into it.”
The next day there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The
early sun shines bright, blocked only by crisp
white peaks casting soft morning shadows
across the valleys. As the helicopter lifts off from
our first drop it whirs cold snow into a cloud above
us, glittering in the morning sun. We are feeling
humble after yesterday, and today the mood is pure
gratitude. This is a harsh and unrelenting part of
the world, but today the mountains are kind. We
ski bluebird pow till dusk, stopping only to collect
a chunk of glacier ice for the bar – it’s Watling’s
thing. “It’s dense so it lasts incredibly long in the
glass,” he says with a grin as he shoves it into the
rear hatch. I guess he who owns the place can do
what he wants. But before we head back, Watling
has one last run he wants to show us.
“This isn’t a place we usually take guests,” he says,
“but it’s the coolest area I’ve seen around this whole
place.” We land atop a long, steep ridge where the
alpine meets the treeline. The early evening light
catches it beautifully, casting everything in a pinkish
alpenglow. “I’d usually let the guide and guests
drop first, but it’s my birthday today,” says Watling
LEFT TO RIGHT: NORTHERN BC HAS BEEN LABELED ‘THE NEW KOOTENAYS’ BY SOME FOR ITS CHEAP LIVING AND CORE SKI COMMUNITY. FLYING IN SNOWSTORMS HAS A
REALLY DISTINCT FEEL ABOUT IT. NOT SURE IF IT’S UNNERVING OR JUST REALLY EXCITING. WATLING IN HIS HAPPY PLACE ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
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