Heli-Hiking Canada's Rugged and Remote Columbia Mountains

It's little wonder the Columbia Mountains see so few tourists. They are a long way -- from just about everywhere. Travelers with Canadian Mountain Holidays come by way of Banff, where they stay for a night at the Fairmont Banff Springs hotel, a sprawling Victorian fantasy that opened in 1888. They travel another two hours by bus until finally they are met by helicopter to take them to one of the six lodges it operates. It’s a lot quicker than the alternative – a slow drive over logging roads – and about a million times more thrilling. We swoop through mountain valleys and thick green forest, until we see our lodge nestled among the pines.

For the tent-averse, one of heli-hiking's greatest attractions is that every day ends at the lodge, with a multi-course dinner and maybe a massage or a dip in the hot tub. Still, the Bugaboo Lodge, which is named for the nearby group of mountains and is where I stayed, was more rustic charm than five-star luxury. Hearty meals are served at long, family-style tables in a dining room overlooking the Hounds Tooth, a dramatic granite spire ringed by a glacier. And the cozy, spare rooms exude an Alpine-spa feel (who needs amenities like phones, clocks or TVs when the air is so pure and the sky so clear?), with unpainted wood walls and soft duvets. Beyond the picture window, hummingbirds flit in the trees.

Heli-hiking does not really require any great skill – though it helps to be reasonably fit. Still, everyone who does it learns something about helicopters – mainly how to safely get in one. First we are advised to use earplugs. And because the two-engine Bell 212s can kick up quite a bit of dust and gravel, our pilot, Chad Nichol, a Saskatchewan sporting a soul-patch and a flight suit, instructed us to throw our packs in a pile and crouch around it, keeping our heads low while the helicopter neared. When we received the signal, we would dart inside, moving low along the ground. Getting out was the same drill in reverse. By the end of our four-day trip, it would become rote.

After all the traveling, it's relief to be outside, moving. We got off to a gentle start with a few hours' hike along a ridge with panoramic views of the Bugaboos. That’s when the vastness of the landscape hits you – that and the noticeable absence of people. A day out of urban life and it feels almost eerie. This is when you might ask, as I did, about the bears. Because you have heard there have been grizzly sightings. Grizzlies. You will be assured that traveling in a group is enough to keep them at bay. Even better, you will learn that the pilots always scan the mountains for bears before landing. The downside to this is that the helicopter also scares away some of the less intimidating wildlife, like birds and deer. Still, chances are good you'll see a big, fluffy marmot. I decided the tradeoff was worth it.

The Bugaboos (so-named for a failed gold rush) are distinguished by striking granite towers (more Gaudi than Gothic), that were exposed and sculpted by glaciers. We see evidence of the glaciers everywhere, in the shale-walled cirques, turquoise tarns and gleaming ice fields. But one of the joys of hiking in the Bugaboos is that the terrain is always changing. Over the course of the four-day trip, we will meander across meadows aflame with bright red and pink wildflowers, a stand of slender larch and snow-covered slopes.

At some point during the first day’s hike, flush with enthusiasm, I expressed an interest in trying some climbing and mountaineering. Later, I would think about this moment when I found myself whimpering on a rock hanging over what was more or less a sheer wall of granite some several thousand feet high, wondering exactly how I wound up there to begin with. But by then it was too late. (I know because I asked if the helicopter could swing by and take us back to the lodge, preferably the bar.) It was for the best. My traverse across Pigeon Feather Ridge – an all-day hike over glacier and rock at an altitude of about 10,000 feet that required crampons for walking on ice, a helmet, ice pick and harness – was unforgettable – a rare chance to experience the kind of landscape that I had only ever seen from miles away. It was also incredibly challenging, mentally as much as physically, requiring a laser-like focus from start to finish.

For hours, I literally followed in the footsteps of my guide, Hans Hortenhuber. (Not only was I connected to him by rope but he knew where the footing was surest – and where we would avoid tumbling into a crevasse.) Despite his long history of climbing, starting in the Alps, Hans was possessed of a preternatural patience, which came in handy when he coaxed me into rappelling down that pile of granite. For days after the hike I was so sore it was difficult to walk up and down stairs. I never felt better.