Sun Peaks remains one of British Columbia’s best kept secrets. Summer stays on the down low without long lineups and excessive raditude. The bike park rivals any in North America with 84 kilometres (52 miles) of singletrack, jumps, berms, roots, and winding XC trails through lush wildflower-covered meadows. With two chairlifts and 595m (1,952ft) of lift-access vertical across two mountains–plus a whole bunch more outside the park—this might be the biggest secret in all of mountain biking.
Photographer: Sterling Lorence Athlete: Matt Miles Secwépemc Territory
Photography by Blake Jorgenson
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#livebeyondland
ICONIC Stay
Nestled amidst breathtaking mountain peaks, our iconic twoMICHELIN Key hotel offers an elevated alpine experience. Enjoy seamless ski-in, ski-out access to world-class skiing at Whistler Blackcomb, Condé Nast Traveler’s #1 Ski Resort in North America.
Off the slopes, immerse yourself in the social heart of the mountain, rejuvenating at the mountainside spa, indulging in any of the five hotel restaurants, or exploring the vibrant pedestrianonly village.
MICHELIN
UPFRONT
TABLE of CONTENTS FEATURES
DEPARTMENTS
P.16 THE HUMAN FLAG
Sonnie Trotter Stretches It Out
P.19 GUT FEELINGS
Squamish Canyon Walk
P.34 MOUNTAINS IN MY MIND With Zero Precip in the Forecast
P.48 YUKON HO Six Days Hiking the Tundra
P.74 BLACK WOLF DOWN Packrafting the North
P.22 BACKYARD Squamish Grand Slam
P.83 ARTIST Eileen Kiyonaga
P.84 BEYOND Rewilding
P.90 GALLERY Cream of the Crop
ON THIS PAGE
Jake Byrne, Squamish. TIM BURROW
ON THE COVER Reannan Shay is part of a Sea to Sky gang called the Rollababes. Mostly they just roll around making friends, taking photos and having fun for fun's sake. True freewheelin' at its finest. Pemberton Meadows. BLAKE JORGENSON
1066 Millar Creek Road, Function www.camplifestyle.ca
Mountain Life Coast Mountains operates within and shares stories primarily set upon the unceded territories of two distinct Nations—the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh and the Lilwat7úl. We honour and celebrate their history, land, culture and language.
Steve Andrews, Leslie Anthony, Bryanna Bradley, Jessy Braidwood, Paul Bride, Tim Burrow, Mary-Jane Castor, Chris Christie, Abby Cooper, Charlie Doyle, Cameron Fenton, Brian Finestone, Joel Fuller, Ben Girardi, Rich Glass, Maxime Gouyou Beauchamps, Robert Greso, Mark Gribbon, Ty Holtan, Lani Imre, Alex Joel, Blake Jorgenson, Jazmine Lowther, Stu MacKay-Smith, Elodie Martin, Jimmy Martinello, Mason Mashon, David McColm, Oisin McHugh, Paul Morrison, Mikey Nixon, Celeste Pomerantz, Cooper Saver, Andrew Strain, Jeff Thomas, Anatole Tuzlak, Joe Wakefield.
Mountain Life is printed on paper that is Forest Stewardship Council ® (FSC ®) certified. FSC ® is an international, membership-based, non-profit organization that supports environmentally appropriate, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests. Mountain Life is PrintReleaf certified. It measures paper consumption over time automatically reforested at planting sites in Canada.
INSPIRATION
Every moment in Aspen is an opportunity to create your masterpiece. Pause and immerse yourself in a world of colorful curiosities that ignite conversations and bold ideas that awaken wonder in your soul. Curate your perfect getaway at AspenChamber.org.
FEET FIRST
Freewheelin’
There seems to be a tendency amongst us outdoorsy mountain folk to push for—and celebrate—the next big thing. The first this, the faster that. The higher peak, the deeper zone. The bigger, badder, better.
And that’s not the end of the world. That thirst to be first fills magazines and inspires dreams and sells energy drinks and feels pretty damn incredible when you pull it off.
But this summer, maybe it’s worth taking a break from all the achievementdriven, metric-tracked, personal-bests we’ve tangled into so many of our forays into the mountains. Maybe it’s time to just coast a little? To lean into dumb fun and wild ideas with no real plan or discernable finish line? Maybe we try doing things the wrong way, just to see what happens? Just to find out?
It may not all work out, this rocking of the boat, but what kind of summer will you have if you step outside of your own expectations (and are those expectations purely your own in the first place)? What fun awaits when we stop thinking about the photo op at the summit once we arrive, and instead just focus on going?
This summer, why not disengage the engine of the mind from the curiosity of the spirit? Go pop a wheelie. Go shoot the duck. Go crank out a lap or two without the app turned on. Go for rip, a paddle or a spontaneous road trip. Create dumb fun with good people. Take a long wander or a short jaunt, but no matter what, lean into the inertia that builds from enjoying things simply because you’re here and you can… Freewheelin’. – Feet Banks
“Shooting the duck” is what Jessy Braidwood and Névé Petersen are doing in the pic above—it’s a roller skate trick. Please don’t shoot any actual ducks this summer BLAKE JORGENSON
The Human Flag
photography :: Paul Bridge
athlete :: Sonnie Trotter
location :: Siyám Smánit, Squamish
Paul: “Sonnie is like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster; he just kinda shows up and disappears at random. Colin Moorhead originally put up this route, Gravity Bong, a 5.13a, and then one day Sonnie appeared and did the second ascent. I didn’t want to shoot it from above, so I rapped down to get this angle and Sonnie just did this human flag move in a very airy spot. We didn’t plan this at all. And watching through the lens, it blew my mind—like 5.13a isn’t hard enough when you’re 1,000 feet off the ground. We wanted to have good light, and it was summer, so this is like 8:30 or 9 at night. I got a few shots from here that really capture the feel of the location and then Sonnie just kept climbing. Maybe he’s not like Bigfoot, maybe that guy is from another planet. I still wonder that every time I see him climb.”
Sonnie: “I found a big flake in the middle, and sure, it’s an unnecessary party trick, but the flag is always a fun thing to do when you find the right spot… That’s an amazing place to play.”
Sonnie Trotter’s book Uplifted: The Evolution of a Climbing Life came out in May and features stories of his adventures climbing in Squamish and beyond. Find it anywhere good books are sold or at patagonia.ca.
There’s a theory out there that ideas are contagious. That creativity doesn’t come from inside us, but from some cloud-like collective unconsciousness and we are just the vessels. And if an idea chooses you and you don’t act on it fast enough (this theory posits), the idea will find someone else. On the other hand, exposure to one great idea or burst of creativity will help open your tunnel for the next one.
“We were watching the Sea to Sky Gondola being built and we started thinking about how Squamish was evolving. Ideas started flowing.”
A ski guide and member of Squamish Search and Rescue at the time, Robin began exploring the river canyons and second-growth forest near Mamquam Falls, a 19-metre (62-foot) direct-drop waterfall that had been seeing more and more public access and attention.
"Basically, I wanted to build the coolest tree fort ever in the canyons and forest behind my house.” – Robin Sherry
It could all be malarky, but it certainly seems to fit the origin story of Squamish Canyon, a 1.4-kilometre immersive rainforest boardwalk set to open at the start of August.
“The idea started in 2013 as I was sitting on the Squamish Spit after a good kiteboarding session with some buddies,” says project visionary/founder Robin Sherry.
“The idea wouldn’t leave me alone: something fun, that would let people safely experience and connect to the natural beauty of this landscape,” says Robin. “A sustainable, environmental-focused business that could help alleviate some of the popularity and pressure I could already see Squamish facing. I wanted to inspire
people to play, give them space to do it, and also create awareness of how to do it safely and with respect for the incredible lands and waters we have here. Basically, I wanted to build the coolest tree fort ever in the canyons and forest behind my house.”
Robin says the dream of a forest/ canyon boardwalk kept growing: “Every time I wasn’t pushing the idea forward, I’d get anxiety.” But putting an idea—any idea—into action almost always comes with unexpected hurdles. For Robin, the first big one was navigating land rights in a region with multiple stakeholders (the Squamish Nation, provincial and municipal governments, logging tenures, residential zoning, a hydroelectric powerplant) that was also a “hidden gem” favourite local hike.
“There were times when I thought, Maybe I am actually crazy,” Robin admits, “but we worked it out. I had to learn to say no to other people’s nos, because government officials are not incentivized to say yes to something they are not used to.”
One of the trickier sections to build, also one of the most scenic to walk. MATT MADDALONI
Eventually, after years of paperwork and design plans that included seemingly every type of engineer that exists, Robin’s team put the first shovel in the ground in October of 2023. The proposed elevated boardwalk would wind through the forest and along the steep canyon ridge of the Mamquam River before going under the existing vehicle bridge for the power station (putting the walkway directly above the edge of Mamquam Falls) then pushing through some towering secondgrowth forest to a large communal meeting place with vendors, a playground and a stage area for live performances.
“The entire area is topographically aggressive,” Robin admits, “but the first big challenge was creating foundations for a 1.4-km boardwalk. This coastal rainforest root system grows shallow and wide—how do we build 800-plus foundations that meet commercial weight/snow load requirements without removing a single mature tree from the site?”
Working with renowned construction experts Axis Mountain Technical, the solution was spider excavators—specialized machines that can “walk” on four legs through forested terrain and work on angled slopes to drill small, deep holes and lift/transport supplies. Mostly,
Robin says, it took a lot of manual labour.
“For sure it cost us four or five times what regular foundations would,” Robin says. “But—other than the mandatory fire road to our Forest Lounge area—we didn’t remove a single mature tree from the site. That’s pretty amazing.”
So is the engineering behind the canyon walk and waterfall bridge sections. One of the primary span bridges is 39 metres (130 feet) long and is designed to support more than 47,000 kg (104,000 lbs). Another
The public washrooms installed by Squamish Canyon will certainly do that. As will the Forest Lounge/Playground area that can offer cold drinks and entertainment separately from the canyon/forest walk experience.
“I learned a lot of lessons,” Robin says. “Would I do it again? I don’t know, but at the time I felt—in my guts—that I had to. There’s a children’s book I love called What Do You Do With an Idea, and it talks about the power of an idea and finding your inner strength and pushing on no matter what anyone says.
The solution was spider excavators, specialized machines that can “walk” on four legs through forested terrain.
visionary feat was Robin’s insistence the project not degrade the public experience already available in the area.
“While designing the boardwalks, I would get guys to stand on the edge of the canyon holding out a reflective vest taped to an extendable pole so I could determine what is and isn’t visible from the current public viewing areas and not disrupt other beautiful sightlines. We wanted to add to the overall value of the area, not detract.”
For me, this was an all-on-the-line idea and it’s unreal to see it so close to completion. It’s a work of art that will allow people to experience the art of nature.” – Feet Banks
Squamish Canyon currently has more than 50 local tradespeople on site, banging this idea out in time for the August 1 opening. squamishcanyon.com
Tree fort vibes (under construction). Save for a mandatory fire road, no mature trees were removed for the construction of the boardwalk and decks. ROBIN SHERRY
SQUAMISH GRAND SLAM SQUAMISH GRAND SLAM
Riding every trail in town
words & photography & captions :: Ben Haggar
The idea was simple: ride every trail in Squamish in a single season—the good, the bad and the overgrown. I craved a challenge, and this one provided a reason to break my routine of comfortable favourite rides and become a tourist in my hometown. On a rainy April afternoon, I began my mud-splattered mission.
First and foremost, there needed to be ground rules. “Every trail in Squamish” doesn’t quite mean every trail in Squamish (there are many “off the map” bike trails, along with spiderwebs of moto and trials trails). Thinking it prudent to stay in my lane for something repeatable by anyone, I decided to ride every mountain bike trail on Trailforks. It wasn’t a static objective, as new trails are added and others removed from the mapping app throughout the season, but it was at least quantifiable.
Rule number two: No vehicle assist. No shuttles, no driving to the trailhead, every pedal stroke starting from home.
Rule number three: Don’t die. Squamish holds a mix of every trail type imaginable across five distinct riding areas. So I’d be staring down a mix of flat and janky XC; fast flow; steep,
old-school tech; slabs; alpine singletrack and innumerable one-off video-segment features built for top professional riders. (Luckily for me, most of those pro features aren’t on Trailforks.)
Also, the goal was not to clean every inch. I’d try, I’d bail, I’d try again. But I wasn’t going to wreck myself to claim every awkward climb or vertical rock roll. Finally, access roads and trails simply named “connector” didn’t count, but each actual trail must be ridden in its entirety.
Rules set, away I went. Despite spreadsheets being involved, my approach was more of a shotgun blast than a sniper shot. I started off by riding whatever I wanted and—given the wet spring—I kept it relatively
Rule number two: No vehicle assist.
No shuttles, no driving to the trailhead, every pedal stroke starting from home.
conservative, knocking off moderate trails in Brackendale and Alice Lake. By linking creative routes through the valley after each ride, I was clocking big numbers early on. From home, Valleycliffe is a 40-minute spin just to get to the trailhead, so dedicating big days to maximize my time was a necessity. One beautiful June day, I knocked off 32 trails and 57 kilometres with 1,623 metres of elevation and got to check out a new Mexican restaurant and share post-ride beers with friends. Hometown tourist goals achieved.
One of the easier trails to tick off the list, Half Nelson.
Double-ups were inevitable. I rode Jack’s Trail 17 times, but made sure the eroded trenches and broken woodwork of Grin and Holler were ridden only once. Dry mid-summer conditions brought the opportunity to tick off slab trails both familiar and new, with most rides providing a mix of excitement and trepidation exploring unknown terrain. Even the gravel rides in the valley provided welcome relief from stressful double blacks. Some days the sheer pleasure of turning the pedals through fields of purple lupines or guilt-free mid-ride lattes made these mellow trails luxuriously satisfying.
But I paid for my procrastination in leaving a high concentration of notorious double-black trails until the end of the season. The autumn rains returned early, so a day sliding down Larvicide, Pleasure Trail and Deliverance was not ideal—but it was survivable. I made sure
Double-ups were inevitable. I rode Jack’s Trail 17 times, but made sure the eroded trenches and broken woodwork of Grin and Holler were ridden only once.
to save one of the best for last: Angry M. This was the ride of the year on a favourite trail, and the familiarity felt effortless as the euphoria of finishing a big project ignited my tired legs.
The only trail that wasn't on Trailforks that I included in the project. It's not technically against the rules, but when you're the builder, you get to take some liberties.
Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the stats. Completing 348 trails over 50 ride days, I clocked 1,376 km (the equivalent of riding from Vancouver to Regina in a straight line), 39,207 vertical metres (4.43 Everests) and spent 146 hours 23 minutes in the saddle (including ice cream breaks), all atop a bright gold Revel Rascal. My average ride was 2 hours and 56 minutes, 27.5 km, 784 m of elevation, with seven new trails scratched off my list. All from my doorstep.
A lot of those trails I’m more than happy to never ride again, but the experience and perspective shift gained from visiting new lookout spots, riding at odd times of day and knowing I can make it from my door to gorgeous alpine lakes in less than three and a half hours has been liberating. The benefits of riding every
Some days the sheer pleasure of turning the pedals through fields of purple lupines or guilt-free mid-ride lattes made these mellow trails luxuriously satisfying.
trail in your hometown are numerous: fitness, creativity and an appreciation for the vast trail resources we can sometimes take for granted are the obvious ones, but the greatest reward for me was the renewed child-like sense of exploration, pedalling past comfort zones and heading deeper into new parts of a familiar forest.
What will I do this summer? I’m not sure, but whatever goals you want to check off, I say get out and go for it. You won’t be disappointed.
Boneview 2.0—not recommended, not at all.
P: Chris Christie
BLOWING UP THE SPOTS
Givin’r in Northeast BC
words & photography :: Abby Cooper
There’s an unspoken code of silence in the outdoor world: If you find a really good zone, you don’t talk specifics, you don’t post, you don’t geotag and you definitely don’t write an article about it.
But some secrets are just too good to keep. And honestly? The northeastern region of BC has been hoarding gold. So, after a few hefty weeks of rubbing elbows with the locals and exploring some of BC’s way-lesser-known mountains, we’re breaking all the rules and blowing up the spot… Hold my beer.
PACKING LIST
Bring bikes, boots, carefree attitudes, big trucks and snack-heavy day packs.
AGENDA
Take a multi-day blitz through Tumbler Ridge, Mackenzie, Dawson Creek, the Northern Rockies and a few detours that made us question everything we thought we knew about BC.
CREW
Invite any curious minds who like hiking, mountain biking and uncrowded adventures, but make a point to make new friends and find scattered pals en route.
HOT TIP
Pack chicken wire for the remote trailheads—porcupines think brake lines are gourmet. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.
No southerner would ever give up the name of a spot this incredible. But up north, it's just, "Oh yeah, Kinuseo Falls—there's a sick campground there too!"
One nice part about blowing up a spot is that you may as well voice an unpopular opinion at the same time: That network of resource extraction roads from forestry, mining and gas? A gift. A golden gift for recreational access. Tumbler Ridge has mining and forestry roads everywhere, aka easy access—we can drive to the alpine in spots. In many cases (up north and down south), a hiking trail or bike route wouldn’t exist without the access those industry roads provide. And we’re here for it.
We kicked things off at the Tumbler Ridge UNESCO Global Geopark, a full-blown prehistoric playground where dinosaurs used to party—and one of the only places you can walk up and touch fossilized trackways (which is the fancy term for consecutive dinosaur footprints). Fun fact: One of the Geopark’s main dinosaur trackways (they have ten) was discovered by two kids floating the river in 2000. Just kids being kids, and it led to a globally significant scientific discovery. That’s how wild the north can be.
But it’s not all history and geology. Tumbler Ridge sits in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and the surrounding region is littered with waterfalls, mossy corridors and hoodoo-ridden landscapes that look like nature’s take on a punk rock album cover. (The Shipyard-Titanic trail is like Stonehenge with a more chaotic BC vibe.) There are too many hiking options to list, even some climbing/bouldering. This place is easy-access alpine heaven.
And is it really a true northern BC trip if you don’t make a friend with a pirate-themed jet boat? Shout out to Randy at Wild River Adventure Tours for ripping us up to see the 70-metre Kinuseo Falls in Monkman Provincial Park up close. They say the negative ions put into the air from the waterfall smashing into the rocks will cure all that ails you. Maybe so, but it definitely stoked us up to go mountain biking,
The Tumbler Ridge mountain bike scene is young and promising—flowy, well-built, full of character and not even the slightest bit busy. Trail names inspired by bad haircuts (Rat Tail forever) hint at a thriving crew of local builders ready for more bad haircuts and more good times. Notably, the cliquey snobbishness of more populated (southern) bike cultures doesn’t exist up north. No cares what gear you brought, and trails are often multi-use—hike ‘em, bike ‘em, even moto them if you’ve got the nerve. However you do it, you probably won’t see another soul. Introvert paradise.
TOP Bison crossing, Northern Rockies. MIDDLE Dinosaur footprint in the dinosaur trackway, Tumbler Ridge. BOTTOM Easy access on industry roads makes Tumbler Ridge alpine sunsets even sweeter (and easier to experience).
Three hours of driving isn’t bad with the big-mountain views at Pine Pass, fresh cinnamon buns at Azouzetta Lake Lodge (stop or you’ll regret it) and swimmable upper pool at Bijoux Falls. We’re heading west to blow up the next spot: Mackenzie, BC. Best known among the winter crowd as home to the ski resort Powder King, Mackenzie—traditionally a forestry driven region— offers mountain bikers a gentle transition from Jurassic Park vibes to
tacky, singletrack heaven. The trails are smooth, as if lovingly carved with a butter knife and a vision. Alpine shuttle laps are also a thing (bless those roads), and golden-hour rides with Morfee Lake at your feet? Straight-up postcard. Up here in the north, golden hour comes later and feels personal. The setting sun feels like Mother Nature’s rewarding us for venturing off the beaten path.
Mackenzie—traditionally a forestry-driven region—offers mountain bikers a gentle transition from Jurassic Park vibes to tacky, singletrack heaven. The trails are smooth, as if lovingly carved with a butter knife and a vision.
Hello, Dawson Creek! Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway and a town built on grit, highway lore and frontier spirit. Don’t get it confused with that cheesy TV show of the past—this Dawson Creek is still cool in that rough-around-the-edges, tell-it-like-it-is kind of way. Hang out at Hug a Mug’s Coffee House long enough and someone will hit you with a story from the early days—raw, unfiltered and usually about greed and gold hunting gone wrong.
Meanwhile, there’s a new kind of gold to be found in those hills. Bear Mountain, the local ski slope, is quietly transforming into a grassroots bike zone with raw and fun trails and a bright future. It’s definitely early, but the locals are building something real. And they’re properly celebrating it with beers at Post & Row Brewing Co. after the tools are put down.
Marley Anthony and Jessa Gilbert find space to roam on the trails near Mackenzie.
If this road trip were a movie, the Northern Rockies would be the third-act montage—an endless sea of peaks, glistening lakes and wilderness. A good 4.5-hour drive from Dawson Creek, Fort Nelson is the hub here—a small but mighty community shaped by fur trading, forestry and the legendary Alaska Highway. Hot tip for a hot plate: Mow down at Triple G Hideaway and pop into the nearby museum for some regional backstory before venturing out into mountains of epic proportions.
We’re based out of Northern Rockies Lodge on Muncho Lake, which feels borderline unfair in its perfection. Float plane access? Check. Hikes from the cabin door? Check. Fishing adventures so scenic as to seem AI-generated? Triple check. Muncho’s jadegreen water is ridiculous, and watching float planes soaring over glacier-cut peaks is a memory that, once experienced, will live rent-free in your head forever.
Most of the humans in this area are retirees towing RVs to Alaska. They seem happy to cruise past pure adventure gold en route to whatever goals
they have. For us, it’s almost absurdly unpopulated and there’s more wildlife around than people. Bison, mountain goats, Dall sheep, grizzlies, black bears and
Float plane access? Check. Hikes from the cabin door? Check. Fishing adventures so scenic as to seem AIgenerated? Triple check.
caribou gazed curiously as we hike ridgelines, soak in hot springs and go fully, real-deal, unplugged. Phones don’t work here (no bars, no pings!) so we’re left with our thoughts—the good times behind us and the stilllong list of adventure options ahead.
Time to ponder brings us back to the beginning: Are we breaking the code? Should we really be writing about places like this? Maybe, maybe not. Everyone agrees—locals, visitors, us—that northern BC doesn’t need or want 10,000 influencers in matching puffer vests. Instead, this is a region for curious, savvy and respectful weirdos who are down for mud, sweat and maybe some porcupine-induced car repairs. So if you’re reading this and already checking Google Maps—good. Take the trip. Go. Just promise us you’ll leave it better than you found it.
These spots are not in danger of being blown out, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't be respected and cared for.
ABOVE Peaceful paddling (and nice arctic grayling) in the Northern Rockies. BELOW RIGHT Another day, another hike into perfect solitude. The Northern Rockies deliver again.
words :: Feet Banks photography :: Jimmy Martinello
It’s true that no two mountains are exactly the same. However, it’s also true that all mountains are mountains, and the difference is how we perceive them.
When Jeff Hill wanted a change in perspective from the snowy, hometown peaks of the Coast Mountains, he looked south, found some desert mountains flanked on both sides by ocean, and made the move to Loreto Bay, Baja California Sur, Mexico.
“The smell is the main difference in the mountains here,” Jeff says. “Back in Whistler, that coastal rainforest—when you take a deep breath, you smell the entire forest and everything involved in it. Down here the mountains are so dry, it doesn’t smell hardly at all, only after a rain, and even then it’s nowhere close to the same.”
Those arid mountains are exactly what lured Jeff and his then-partner Tracy south in 2007. At the time, they were long-time Whistler locals looking for change and a place to ride their dirt bikes during the winter months. The Baja Peninsula has
“I found a posse of locals to ride with, but I definitely found myself missing the connections and friends I’d made in the Sea to Sky. You can’t build those kinds of friendships in just a year or two.” – Jeff Hill
been known as a motorized adventure and racing hub since the early 1960s, when American motorcyclist Dave Elkins test-drove his Honda CL72 Scrambler nearly the entire length of the Baja California Sur peninsula—a 1,528-kilometre (950-mile) off-road jaunt from the US border at Tijuana to the Baja capital city of La Paz. Elkins completed the ride in 39 hours and 56 minutes, and over the next few years others attempted to best his time—on motos, dune buggies and even off-road sedans. In 1967 the unofficial runs were organized into a single event, which persists today as the infamous Baja 1000. The Loreto region has three shorter-distance motorized races throughout the year.
“We loved it right away,” Jeff says. “The race culture was well established—going as fast as possible on dirt roads—but there was almost nobody riding single track.”
Located on the Sea of Cortez/Gulf of California (east side of the Baja) and about three-quarters of the way down the peninsula (343 km north of La Paz), the Loreto region pushes up against the Sierra de la Giganta range, a dry, shrub-covered series of ridges and mountains rising 1,176 metres (3,858 feet) above the coast.
LORETO BAY
LEFT Loreto Bay and the Sierra de la Gigante range. BELOW The pinnacle of desert travel. JEFF HILL
“There are game trails and random paths into the mountains,” Jeff says, “and I saw a lot of potential for exploration and fun. It feels a bit like a frontier up there; we can cruise around and feel like we’re finding new things.”
Stoked on that sense of outdoor discovery (and the warm, dry climate), Jeff says the main thing he missed from back home were his friends and that sense of community that generally thrives in mountain towns. “I found a posse of locals to ride with, but I definitely found myself missing the connections and friends I’d made in the Sea to Sky. You can’t build those kinds of friendships in just a year or two. It’s always special when someone comes down to visit.”
So, to entice their old friends down more often—while also recognizing an opportunity to put down roots—they bought a hotel.
“Well, not exactly,” says Jeff. “It wasn’t that simple, and I had some key partners helping out the whole way through. But, essentially, we found a property that was never completed because of the 2008 recession, just a shell of a building but in an area that had originally been planned to become almost like a Whistler-style pedestrian village. But all my favourite trails were right there, and there are a couple golf courses, and there’s good multi-pitch rock climbing nearby on good basalt. Plus, the five islands surrounding the bay are a national marine park, so there’s paddling, snorkeling and diving, whale watching, good fishing. It really felt like this area checked a lot of the boxes we were looking for.”
ABOVE Another sunny day, another empty beach. BELOW Out fer a rip. Jeff Hill enjoys his new home trails.
“We probably bit off more than we could chew,” Jeff says of the three-year project, despite his having close to three decades of experience in the Whistler construction industry. “Building is different down here. There are challenges gettingemployees and challenges getting supplies—everything has to come down the peninsula by truck, so what you need is not always available, it usually isn’t. There was also the fact that, at first, I didn’t speak any Spanish at all.”
With patience and grit, however, the project slowly came to shape and, at the end of 2023, the Aventuras Hotel opened its doors to guests. It's a 38-room boutique hotel with a fine dining restaurant on the main floor and a chill lounge/ bar on the rooftop (next to the pool/hot tub) that’s Jeff’s new favourite spot for sunset views and post-work cocktails.
With construction of the hotel complete, Jeff began focusing back on the mountains and started Aventuras Tours. With highperformance UTV buggies, e-mountain bikes, motos and a boat, a tour company offered him a chance to showcase (and keep exploring) the landscapes that lured him to Loreto in the first place.
“Some days I am a captain, out driving a boat, then the next I’m leading a moto or e-bike tour into the mountains. Then maybe I have to serve drinks that night because we are shortstaffed. I didn’t have any experience in tourism before this, so I basically had to learn every job.”
And when a couple of buddies from back home came to visit (Mountain Life co-owner Jon Burak and photographer Jimmy Martinello), Jeff knew exactly where to take them.
“My favourite trip: We take the UTVs up through the mountains and the desert and end up on the Pacific Coast to rip around on the beach then head back. These are highperformance machines, designed for races like the Baja 1000,
ABOVE Whether it's moto, e-bike or buggy, the Cacti are calling and Levi Burak is ready. BELOW Jeff Hill after another fine day in his new home mountains.
and we head out for three days in the desert. It’s just all so totally different than anything we have back home.”
Jeff says it feels a bit like a big multi-day snowmobile adventure back home, “but way warmer.” And without as much wildlife. “There are definitely deer and coyote around and the odd rattlesnake, but they are not that abundant,” he says. “It hasn’t rained here in two years so that affects things I think.”
A two-year drought is not typical. Rainy season—when it happens—coincides with the hottest, most humid months, running from July until September or October. Statistically, September is Loreto’s wettest month, with 4.5 centimetres (1.8 inches) of average total rainfall.
“The humidity in the summer is crazy,” Jeff says. “You walk outside and you are immediately soaked. Those are the months for me to come back up to the Sea to Sky. You never realize how nice it is to dive into a lake until you come back from the desert.”
As he gets a handle on the tourism business (“I didn’t know what search engine optimization is…How was I supposed to learn that on a construction site?”), Jeff says he plans to get back to BC soon, but for now his “retirement” career and location keep him busy, happy and keen to keep exploring his new home.
“My soul loves to explore, and the way I see it one of the secrets to life is to experience a lot of different places and things. I know how easy it can be to have a really incredible life in the snowy mountains of Canada, but I have also loved building a new home base here, and being able to share it with people fires me up. I’m not looking too far ahead just yet, but for sure I’ll keep looking for new places to go.”
And, chances are, those places will probably have some sort of mountains, too. aventuras.tours
ABOVE SUP fever has made its way south and the Sea of Cortez is ready. BELOW What Jeff lost in pow days he makes up for in white sand. BOTTOM The literal GOAT.
Tales From the Trail
Four trail runners offer highs, lows and their best cautionary stories
words :: Alyssa Noel
At its core, trail running combines the steeped-innature serenity of hiking with the adrenaline-fueled mental focus of mountain biking—and ultra running takes the sport to its extreme.
Sure, mountain athletes of all stripes push through pain, but pounding dirt for hours on end, often alone, with a singular goal to run 50, 80, 200 kilometres—it edges on insanity. Mix in wildlife, unpredictable elements and natural hazards and you have all the ingredients for some good stories. We caught up with four avid trail and ultrarunners to glean some of their wildest wisdom and best tales from the trail.
DFL finish
When Hubert Kang watches a race, he waits until the very last runner crosses the finish line— because he knows firsthand what it’s like to finish “dead effing last” (or DFL, in running parlance).
Hubert’s debut race, the Buckin Hell, was a 50-km ultra that climbs 2,500 metres through the North Shore mountains. On long trail races, runners often find themselves racing alone, so as the hours wore on Hubert had no idea he was the last runner on the course. At about the 48 km mark he ran into a course marshal who ushered him down the trail—only it was in the wrong direction.
“The course marshal must’ve been exhausted and confused,” Hubert says. “It was the end of the day, and it was also the [section] of the course on the Mount Seymour highway. Maybe she wasn’t familiar with the roads.” Hubert had no choice but to keep going.
Realizing what she had done, the marshal hopped in her car and chased Hubert down to admit her error. “I didn’t know how far off I was,” he remembers. “I was just so tired. It was like, Okay I’ve got to run this out. It’s not like I can get an Uber.”
In the end, he ran an extra five kilometres. “I technically missed the cut-off time [to be officially recognized as having completed the race], but they gave me back some minutes for the extra kilometres I ran.”
Significantly, Hubert noticed several strangers still waiting at the finish line to cheer number 170 out of 170 runners to cross. “I was really impressed,” he says.
It’s a memory that led to him following suit as a spectator in other races. “The first-place finishers are probably so used to a cheering crowd, but the last place finishers—in my mind, these are the hardest working; they took a chance.”
One month later, Hubert took on the Squamish 50—and knocked two hours off his previous 50 km time, bumping him up to a much less exciting middle-of-the-pack finish.
Last light. Elise Coates and Sam Schonewille (and Echo) on the Stawamus Chief/Siyám Smánit. EVAN WONG
Not Today
Professional trail runner Jazmine Lowther (who’s mostly based in Nelson but lives out of her van) felt good as she set out one day in September 2020 to claim the Fastest Known Time (FKT) on the Rockwall Trail in Kootenay National Park.
Greeted at the trailhead with the first snowfall of the season, Jazmine and her then partner dressed and geared up as light as possible for the 55-km, 2,700-m journey. On the trail, the pair quickly separated, with her boyfriend on a quest for his own FKT.
“It was very, very snowy for sections and I was wearing just a tank and shorts while hikers were in full down and winter gear,” she recalls. “My hands eventually got so numb I couldn’t open my [energy] gels, so my brain was operating at a very low capacity.”
She passed a camping area (earning a few sideways glances from bundled-up campers), headed up a hill and was instantly face-to-face with a grizzly bear. Jazmine—
who grew up in the mountains with a good understanding of bears—slowly backed away, then she noticed three cubs. “I tried to show her I wasn’t a threat, but she charged me,” she says. “All sense gone, I started running.”
Admitting that, “like an idiot,” she had skipped bringing bear spray because of its weight, Jazmine did have some bear bangers on hand. But, with completely
Jazmine slowly backed away, then she noticed three cubs.
numb fingers, the bangers were useless. For a moment, she thought it might be the end. But she quickly gathered herself and slowly started backing away.
Thankfully, the charging mother grizz stopped about 10 feet away from Jazmine just a few seconds later. Flooded with relief
and deep in race mode, Jazmine almost instantly decided to press on and salvage her FKT attempt, but it wasn’t to be— battling the cold and waning energy, she came across a trail sign that confirmed she was off course.
“I wanted to just sit down,” she says, “but I was shivering and needed to keep moving. Giving up on the FKT ordeal, I followed the trail out towards the highway.”
Assuming her partner would be at the car with a win under his belt, Jazmine tried not to panic when he was nowhere to be seen. It turns out his FKT wasn’t to be, either. He had also taken a wrong turn into even more remote wilderness.
“We were both slightly underprepared for the route and perhaps the conditions, and learned some valuable lessons,” she says. Namely, bear spray will never seem lighter than when you’re face-to-face with a charging grizzly.
LEFT Jazmine Lowther, ready to rip JOEL FULLER. RIGHT Get high enough and your summer run might hit snow. Rockwall Trail, September. JAZMINE LOWTHER
A Series of Unfortunate Events
One late-September day, Graeme Budge’s local run club attempted to run the entire Howe Sound Crest Trail, and their motley crew’s morning began with a bad omen: One runner arrived at the trailhead with just two small 500 ml bottles of water. Everyone else was packing anywhere from two to three litres.
He did have a filter nozzle and Graeme says, “He was confident that there would be an opportunity to replenish water along the trail. He even pointed out some snow patches on satellite imagery.”
Any day you take a miss from a giant boulder is a good one.
About four and a half hours into the full-day run, another group member started to feel off and decided to abort the mission, heading down into Lions Bay. Not long after, an off-duty nurse found him having a “mild cardiac event” and contacted the group. Realizing she was not going to finish the run and still make an afternoon appointment, one member left to assist.
As they headed toward the saddle of The Sisters, the group stopped for a moment to watch hikers ascending the West Lion on an improper route. “The sounds of falling rock echoed, and everyone was suddenly alert,” Graeme recalls. “A boulder the size of a microwave broke loose and tumbled across the trail in the area we were about to cross, no more than 50 metres ahead of us.”
Picking their way through that section safely, it wasn’t long before they began noticing their water supply quickly depleting. And that friend who packed way too little water? “He was feeling fatigued and dehydrated to the point of seriously considering calling SAR,” Graeme says.
They weren’t even halfway yet.
Making the decision to bail, the remaining crew headed towards Lions Bay when someone spotted a pool of water—about the size of a dinner plate— under a boulder. “We spent the next 40 minutes rehydrating,” Graeme says.
With the objective aborted, the group strolled into Lions Bay to meet up with the runner who left the group earlier in the day. He was feeling much better, welcoming everyone with soda, chips and a ride to their cars.
“Completion or not,” Graeme says, “a day in the backyard with friends is always good. One for the memory books.”
And any day you take a miss from a giant boulder is a good one.
Small Misstep, Big Consequences
Sometimes disaster can strike even on the most innocuous trail. On a non-technical single track in Pemberton, just out for a relaxed run with friends, North Vancouver ultrarunner Katie Mills stepped off the gravel to cut a corner—just a couple of steps—and landed on a stick.
“Basically, a stick impaled my foot,” she says, “all the way through the bottom of the running shoe.”
With the nearest road just about a kilometre away, Katie’s friends carried her out of the forest and rushed her to the Pemberton Medical Clinic, where the on-call doctor dosed her with fentanyl for the pain, then cut off her shoe and pulled out the stick.
“It took months to heal,” Katie says. “Bits of stick and bark kept appearing in the wound.”
Ultimately, Katie ended up in North Vancouver’s Lions Gate Hospital months later so a plastic surgeon could fully clear out the injury. “This was a few years ago now,” she says, “but it’s still imprinted in my brain.”
Cutting corners might be fine most of the time, but on the trail, Mother Nature’s consequences can be pointed.
All this goes to show, anything can happen out on the trail (let’s just say every trail runner has a poop story that’s better left untold), but that’s part of the appeal. What’s the other option? Log onto Netflix and hit the treadmill? No thanks.
Katie Mills, one wrong step and landed here. KATIE MILLS COLLECTION
Hubert Wang, back in the running. TY HOLTAN
Y U K O N H O
Six days on the tundra learning to make tourism better
words & photography :: Feet Banks
I’m not sure what the secret to life is, but if you stay open to new experiences and do your best to leave every place/ person/situation better than you found it, you might be on the right track.
However, crouching over a hole in the dirt trying not to get crap on my shoes while a 15-knot subarctic wind howls up my undercarriage has me questioning the first part of that statement. And knowing I need to save all my used toilet paper in a paper bag/stuff sack combo so I can “pack it out” on my back for the next 6 days isn’t selling me on the second part either.
Welcome to the Yukon—and the backcountry ethos of Terre Boréale, Canada’s first B Corp certified outdoor tour operator. “I look at the tourism industry the same as mining or anything else,” says Maxime Gouyou-Beauchamps, who founded the Whitehorse-based Terre Boréale with his partner, Miléna Georgeault, in 2013. “Let’s find a way to make the industry better,” Max adds, “for the land, for the community, for the planet in general. Nothing is ever perfect—we use helicopters, we drive a big van—but let’s find the best way to do it that we can.”
For Max and Miléna, this means locally sourcing, preparing and dehydrating all the meals on their guided hiking and canoe trips. It means putting their community first and hiring guides who live in the Yukon rather than flying people in. It means sourcing local teas from local sources and buying gear from local shops rather than shopping online. It means they won’t camp in the same zone year after year, all backpacking trips are zero-plastic (food is carried in specially made reusable canvas bags) and, as mentioned, it means guests like me need to carefully fold our used toilet paper, stuff it in provided brown paper bags and carry it around in a special “toilet kit” stuff sack for the duration of our six-day hike. (Turns out it’s not even a big deal—there’s no smell or anything.)
“Up here we’re on alpine tundra,” explains Max, a biologist specializing in biodiversity conservation. “The soil doesn’t have the same microbes to break down waste like what you get at lower elevations or the rainforest soil you are used to in BC. Up here, that paper would still be there for a long, long time. For us, it’s important to be responsible to the land and the animals that live here. We pay attention and adapt to the space, that’s it.”
That attention to detail—along with months of introspection, paperwork and mentorship— earned Terre Boréale their B Corp status in June of 2023, making them one of the first in the Canadian tourism industry to do so.
Born and raised in France, Max and Miléna ended up in Canada through their biology careers and quickly fell in love with the wilderness and emptiness of the north.
“I remember flying into Whitehorse the first time,” Miléna says. “It was late at night and really dark, and I remember staring out the window and it was just black everywhere. I didn’t see a single light until the very last minute, right before we landed. The vastness of the landscape here, the lack of human infrastructure—I loved it.”
Realizing professional biologists with master’s degrees spent more time indoors at a desk than out in the field, the idea for Terre Boréale grew organically from what the couple were already doing in their spare time—canoeing, hiking and exploring a vast, barely populated land. “We had so much fun showing friends and family around the Yukon,” Miléna says, “it made sense to just keep sharing that feeling. The feeling of freedom.”
To help sustain those freedom vibes, as well as protect the Yukon landscapes that inspired them in the first place, Terre Boréale limits group size on their adventures to six people maximum, with a guide for every three people. Which is how I found myself plunked down in the alpine tundra for six days of hiking on the eastern edge of the Yukon Coast Mountains with Max, guide-in-training Amélie Harbeck-Bastien and two farmers from the Southern French Alps, Fabien and Jerome, all staring down six days and 50plus kilometres of hiking in totally wild, unfamiliar (to me) terrain. Yukon Ho!!!
For us, it’s important to be responsible to the land and the animals that live here. We pay attention and adapt to the space, that’s it.”
TOP Caribou shot through binoculars. An old guide's trick. MAXIME GOUYOU-BEAUCHAMPS. MIDDLE Jerome had the right boots for crossing streams. BOTTOM Lunch, hunkered out of the wind above Primrose Lake.
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The first realization to hit me is the lack of trees—no trees, no shrubs, no nothing—it’s just rocks, lichen, moss, low plants, flowers and the odd bunch of grass.
But the tundra is home to plenty of animals. Hiking on our first afternoon nets great views of multiple Dall sheep— their white fur popping in juxtaposition to the greens, browns and greys of the tundra vegetation or shale rocks. Then a small herd of northern caribou poke over a ridge and stop to stare inquisitively at us, perhaps the first humans the younger members of the herd have ever seen.
The Yukon only has four highways, and two of them are dirt. Our camp is at least 50 kilometres from the nearest road.
“They grow a new set of antlers each summer,” Max explains in both English and French. “To think that a 400-pound animal can survive on a diet of lichens and grasses is astonishing, let alone be able to regrow those huge antlers.”
It’s wild that any mammal can eke an existence from these windswept, barren lands, but Max says we are also likely to see pika, arctic ground squirrels, wolves and grizzly bears over the next few days. Each hiker (and guide) is equipped with bear spray and instructed to always keep it on hand, even during those late-night missions to the latrine hole. Especially then.
“Most of the animals up here could care less if we come around or not,” Max explains. “Our goal is to keep it that way.” To accomplish this goal, Terre Boréale limits the number of groups they take on each hiking route in a year. There are no campfires on the hikes (which makes sense because there is no wood) and all food dishes are rinsed with tea then “drank clean” to reduce any food scraps in the wild. When hiking, we do follow established game trails in certain lower elevations, but overall the Yukon tundra seems more than hearty enough not to be bothered by a footprint here or there until the winter snows cover then erase them each spring.
Dinner that night is homemade lasagne Max and Miléna made themselves and dehydrated. All the food on Terre Boréale’s multi-day hiking adventures comes from their own kitchen, another step towards creating a healthier, more sustainable, personalized experience.
“All our ingredients are as local as possible,” Max says. “With our meals we know we used Yukon beef. What’s in those store-bought meals? Where did the ingredients come from? How much fuel was burned to get them to the Yukon from wherever they originated?”
Valid questions, made more so by the isolation of the region. The Yukon only has four highways, and two of them are dirt. Our camp is at least 50 kilometres from the nearest road. Hunkered down as night falls at 1,700 metres (5,577 feet) above sea level, I learn my first of many Yukon hiking tips: Two sets of gloves is smart, but bring down pants, too.
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Max likes to poke his pole around in the sand wherever a creek flowing from one valley connects with another. “This is the Yukon,” he says. “You might find gold.”
Ilearn my second Yukon hiking lesson sometime late that night: In a landscape with no trees or wind blocks, position your tent with your feet pointing into the prevailing winds, or else some late-night broadside gusts may threaten to flatten your whole gig.
Somehow, my three-seasoner remains standing to see some morning sun and warm granola kick off another day. With camp one established (and my tent repositioned) we hit the trail carrying only daypack weight, which is great because the Yukon terrain seems a fair bit gnarlier than my usual BC Coast Mountain trails. There’s no bushwhacking (yet) but with so much open space distances can be deceiving: “Just over that ridge” can turn into a 90-minute undulating slog. And you never know when you might end up in a two-kilometre valley of shale rock so hard and jagged it can easily cut through the rand of a hiking boot.
“The quality of your boots really matters up here,” Max explains. “On the harder trips we ask our guests to send photos of their gear—boots and sleeping bags—or at least the make and model names. We need to be sure because a lot of people don’t realize what it can be like up here.”
Wait a minute, there are harder trips? “Longer, mostly,” Max replies. “And with no basecamps—on the Donjek Glacier or the Ogilvie Mountains trips you’re carrying your full pack for eight or nine days.”
By evening, the group camaraderie is established— nature and suffering, the great equalizers. Jerome and Fabian share tales of farmer life in the Alps: How you only count mother sheep when talking about the size of your flock. What dogs you need for herding vs. protection from wolves. “With rain gear, we wear green slickers,” Jerome explains. “Farmers wear green, fisherman wear yellow. That’s how it is.”
A light rain blows in and out through the night and most of the next day, never downpouring like Coastal BC, just pockets of mist-like sheets riding the ridgelines on the omnipresent wind.
Trudging downhill under a fully loaded pack, en route to the lower-elevation Bernier camp, I spot my first shrub of the trip and yes, even an actual tree. Then Max spots a grizzly bear hunting ground squirrels on the other side of the valley. For an animal that weighs upwards of 315 kg (700 lbs) the pure speed of the bear astonishes me as it careens up, down and across a slope steep enough to make any hiker tread lightly.
“That’s my kind of bear sighting,” Amélie says quietly. “Way over there.” Everyone agrees and we take turns watching the massive bruin through binoculars until we discern it’s moving in the opposite direction from us before continuing to carefully pick our way down a steep slope leading into slightly thicker brush and a pair of lakes that mark camp two.
Today’s Yukon hiking tip: Don’t consider coming without hiking poles; you will fall and get hurt. Get the extendable ones (more on that later). Also, bring your own binoculars.
TOP As a guide, Amélie learns this six-day hike by doing it, and taking extensive notes. MIDDLE No trees means no stumps, means every meal is taken sitting on the ground under the guides' tarps. BOTTOM The author and Fabien (balaclava'd up against the wind) having fun with caribou sheds.
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In a treeless landscape, we sit on the ground. For all Terre Boréale hikes, Max and his guides supply guests with lightweight foam seats that immediately become essential: Every meal is taken hunkered under a lean-to, constructed from two silk tarps and six to eight extendable hiking poles. (See? Told ya.) By day five, the lunch-break tarp assembly functions like clockwork. Fabian, Jerome and I have been out long enough to have re-synched ourselves with the wild and the team. Everyone knows their job and within minutes we have shelter, albeit one that stands only 130 centimetres (4 feet, 2 inches) at its highest point.
Crouched out of the wind in a sweeping valley of giant boulders, we reflect on the morning—a long-but-pleasant, sun-punctuated push up a stunning creek valley of mosses and wildflowers—and how it differed from yesterday’s mistshrouded trek to a lookout on a nameless mountaintop (1,840 metres/6,037 feet) with almost straight-down views to Primrose Lake, our eventual pickup spot.
With experience as a geologist working in the Yukon mining industry, Max likes to poke his pole around in the sand wherever a creek flowing from one valley connects with another. “This is the Yukon,” he says. “You might find gold.”
Mining is still a major economic driver up here, and the Klondike Gold Rush of the late 1890s still looms large in the province’s identity. (It also drives a crapload of tourism.)
Most of the land in this region—the traditional territory of the Carcross/Tagish First Nation—seems unsullied by industry and the extraction roads so common in the BC wilderness. The only sign of human existence we note the entire week is a flat stone with the remains of a small fire on it—probably, Max says, from sheep hunters that sometimes fly into this zone.
The only footprints we see are those of caribou, sheep, wolf and grizzly. And the only gold we find is when the sunshine of impending autumn washes across the red and gold leaves of the lower valley shrubs.
After sixteen beautiful and challenging kilometres of hiking, bird identifying, flower noting (Max and Amélie take scientific field notes they later share with a provincial database), we stumble back to camp, eat chili con carne under the tarp and quickly retire to bed. Tomorrow is day six, which means full packs and a big elevation change to meet the float plane at Primrose Lake. Sleep comes easily.
ABOVE Hiking in the Yukon? I'm lichen it. BELOW Sometimes "the way" turns into a two-kilometre valley of shale.
All food dishes are rinsed with tea then “drank clean” to reduce any food scraps in the wild.
The sound of rain hitting a tent fly is paradoxical. On the one hand, few sounds are as soothing as the pitterpatter of tiny drops of water/nature/life bouncing off the best stretched nylon shelter current technology has to offer (or at least the best you can afford) while you bask—cozy and comfortable—in a sleeping bag.
On the other hand, the sound of rain on your tent also means it’s raining, which is not ideal for anyone hoping to catch a glimpse of Aurora Borealis, the famed Northern Lights.
“We get them,” Max assures us, “but we get clouds, too.” (Max is prone to quite excellent statements of fact like this. When I expressed surprise at such cold temperatures for early September, he said, “It could be five degrees warmer this time of year, but it is not.”)
While the Aurora remained shrouded this trip, when I left my tent on night four to piss check the sky, I stared in awe at the Milky Way pouring out from behind a nearby peak as brightly as I’d ever seen it.
We awake on day six to find snow almost down to camp level and quickly disembark for the final push, over a creek, up a valley, across a snowy ridge then down across what Max says, “might be a bit of a no-fall-zone gully.”
It’s definitely steep, and the snow has found us by the time we reach it. To be as safe as possible, and because this is what guides do, Max and Amélie cut steps into the scree and dirt to make the 20-metre crossing easier for the rest of us. The rain lets up as we punch down another steep ridge and hit treeline, wet, tired, but with the end in sight—almost.
“Fabien! Jerome!” Max shouts, before diving into an extended monologue in French. When he’s done, he grins at me and translates:
“This is called bushwhacking. It will be hard. You will get very wet. There will be branches that hit your face. Your hiking poles will get caught up on every branch. There will be slippery boulders and rocks and roots that you cannot see. They will trip you. It will be hard. You will get frustrated and will probably swear out loud. That is okay. That’s bushwhacking. Okay, let’s go!”
It wasn’t that bad, for bushwhacking, but only because the band of soaking, flexing, lashing poplar and willow didn’t last long. And then we were on the deciduous-lined, sandy shores of Primrose Lake, reflecting on 60-plus kilometres and six days of true wilderness and adventure. I attempted to teach my companions the “Canadian tradition” of spelling their names in the sand with moose turds, but the French are not easily fooled. And neither is the Yukon. The Yukon will test you, but it will also give you gold. It’s a place to find out what you’re made of, or distance yourself from what you’re not. The Yukon is as unflinching and unforgiving as it is unendingly beautiful.
With the buzz of an approaching float plane drawing near, Max swats away some low-elevation mosquitos
and turns for a last look back up the mountain we’d just descended. The rest of us join him, remembering that morning’s slick rocks and snowflakes big enough to knock a person over. Thinking back to the changing colours of autumn with dark skies looming behind, or the rocky ridgelines framing rainbows across the lake, the sound of pikas scurrying in the rocks. The spongey softness of creekside moss underfoot and the family of ptarmigan pecking in the sand. The Dall sheep skulls or the caribou antler sheds. The rolling views of mountains in every direction. Even the bushwhacking.
In a time where so many good spots get blown out as soon as they’re discovered, the Yukon remains a special kind of wilderness. A place where you can have a new experience, and, if Max and Miléna have anything to say about it, still leave that wild beauty unaffected by your presence.
“Up here,” Max says, “the worst thing that should happen is you make a new friend.”
The best thing is everything else, packed-out toilet paper and all. Yukon Ho! terreboreale.com
TOP Amélie: last day, full packs. Exit push through snowflakes big enough to get a person stoked for skiing. ABOVE The day before, gorgeous sun and soft tundra.
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RULES OF BIKE CLUB
Pemberton women forge connections and community
words :: Johanna Molloy
Pemberton, the scenic farming community turned outdoor hub (and current baby factory), is home to more than 195 mountain bike trails, many on the rugged side of the Sea to Sky baseline average. Over the past decade or so, those janky, gnarly trails have seen a new demographic of Pemby women making their own mark on the local biking scene.
These women, many over 40 years old, were not necessarily presented with bikes from the toddler age like so many of their kids are now, nor did they grow up in a space where female mountain bikers
“I needed a social outlet. I needed exercise, and I needed time away from home because I was just giving, giving, giving. Bike Club became a supportive environment.” – Bree Thorlakson
were given much space in the sport and media. But today they’re finding their place on the trails with the women’s-only Bike Club.
Each Wednesday during biking season, dozens of female riders gather to hone their skills, support each other and session trails they may not have felt brave enough to tackle alone. Most weeks, a club member volunteers to host après—other nights, the sweaty, smiling group simply convenes in the parking lot and tailgates with cold beverages, copious amounts of potato chips and echoing cackles of laughter.
The rules of Bike Club are simple: take up space, and no apologizing. Everyone is welcome, everyone is encouraged and, most of all, everyone is allowed to talk about hormones, mood swings, the pressures of parenthood and impending menopause. Because Bike Club is about support, respect and having fun.
It all started in 2011 when Bree Thorlakson battled feelings of loneliness and cabin fever after having her first baby. Longing for a deeper connection with her fellow mountain women, Bree messaged some friends to go for a ride on a Wednesday evening. The small group rode hard but found that hanging out at one of their houses afterward was as much fun as the ride. With this realization, the Pemberton Off Road Cycling Association’s women’s-only Bike Club was born. “I needed a social outlet,” Bree says. “I needed exercise, and I needed time away from home because I was just giving, giving, giving. Bike Club became a supportive environment.”
Bree Thorlakson en route to a first place finish in her category at the 2024 Spud Crusher Women's Enduro, created in 2018 to support the Pemby Bike Club. More than 175 women signed up for the event that year. ELODIE MARTIN
In the years since, the après portion of the ride has become a cornerstone of Bike Club’s social scene. In fact, some women with early evening commitments have been known to skip the ride altogether, still making it to après for that much-needed midweek connection.
Lynne Armstrong, founder of Air Maiden (a women-specific mountain bike coaching and events company) and one of the original members of Bike Club says those Wednesday rides offered her huge support when she found herself with three kids under the age of 13 months (who produced an average of 26 diapers a day!).
Lynne describes biking as a tool to positively impact women in many ways: “A lot of us work here and see each other daily. Biking is a tool and vehicle to positively impact people in other areas of their life. We get to play in the outdoors and feel the social aspect of being in nature with like-minded women.” She says that mountain biking can be used to overcome barriers, both physical and mental, adding, “As women, we’ve always had to just get on with it.”
Dawn Cashen is another force to be reckoned with on two wheels and OG member of Bike Club. As a single supermom with a tween and teen in tow, she’s leaned on the unwavering support from her fellow mother bikers over the years, who’ve helped with childcare while she heads out on her bike. “It’s my freedom,” she says. “I don’t think about my bills or my stress… I don’t have to worry about anything.”
All for one and one for all. SHANE ROY
ABOVE Crushing spuds and mics! Bree keeps the vibe high with Pol Molina Roger. JOE WAKEFIELD
TACO CO.
Both established badasses on the Pemby bike scene, Dawn and Lynne share the incredible bond of having gone through motherhood together. “I started bringing my kids to be social and get outside,” Dawn recalls. “Lynne would mind my kid so I could race. And in between practice runs, I was breastfeeding.” Wrangling and feeding children, organizing your own gear and that of kids, all while juggling two families’ schedules—and still finding the energy to bike—takes superhuman powers, aka motherhood.
Local mom and teacher Shelley DesBrisay, who moved to Pemberton in 2015, remembers Bike Club as her first connection with the community. Although she felt intimidated to get started on the trails, she fell in with some other women who were at a similar pace and now counts those women as some of her best friends.
For Shelley, Bike Club represents a midweek release from work and family life. She enjoys the healing power of laughter and the shared hard moments, whether it’s a fall or an accomplishment on the trail.
There’s a unanimous consensus among the Bike Club women that community is everything. “A lot of people here don’t have [extended] family nearby,” Lynne says. “Your neighbours are your family. Bike Club women rally and help each other out.”
The Pemby Women’s Bike Club is a place to connect with the community, make new friends, unite with old friends, challenge yourself or simply give yourself an escape from day-to-day chores. Those who want to shred, shred. Those who want to cruise, cruise. But most importantly, everyone follows the rules of Bike Club: take up space, and no apologizing!
(And don’t forget the potato chips!)
TOP Dawn Cashen rolls past some sweet Pemby views. JOE WAKEFIELD. MIDDLE A Pemby Bike Club gathering. May 2025. BREE THORLAKSON. BOTTOM LEFT Smiles for literal miles (of trail). DAWN CASHEN. BOTTOM RIGHT Bree Thorlakson never has any fun. ELODIE MARTIN
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Black Wolf Down
Packrafting the North
words :: Cameron Fenton
“I have to keep reminding myself this is what these boats are made for,” Nick joked as his packraft skidded across another set of sharp, shallow rocks.
Nick, Daphne and I had just started our descent of Black Wolf Creek. Known as Dı́ga Dezene Deé to the Sahtu Dene First Nation, the steep and frigid river lies deep in the backcountry of Nááts’įhch’oh National Park Reserve, NWT. Getting to the river is an adventure in itself, starting with a floatplane and then a few days paddling the Broken Skull River. From there, it’s a long hike up an untracked valley to Nááts’įhch’oh, a lake high in the Mackenzie Mountains. From those headwaters Black Wolf runs cold, clear and fast through 60
kilometres of some of the most remote whitewater in Canada before returning to the Broken Skull River. With just a handful of recorded descents, we had only vague beta: Class III-IV whitewater, broken up by a Class V canyon with a portage route previous groups had called “sketchy,” “exposed” and “heinous.”
We were about to find out for ourselves.
• • •
The adventure started four days earlier with a six-hour drive along the all-gravel Robert Campbell Highway to meet our float plane pilot at an air base, which was tucked into a protected bay on Finlayson Lake, a 16-km long lake east of Whitehorse.
LEFT Daphne Tuzlak looks back towards the Broken Skull on the hike to Black Wolf Creek. CAMERON FENTON. TOP RIGHT: Hiking the ridge above the Black Wolf. CAMERON FENTON. MIDDLE RIGHT: Re-fueling at Finlayson Lake. WALLY MCFARLANE. BOTTOM RIGHT: Hiking up Tufa mounds near the take-out at Rabbitkettle Lakes. CAMERON FENTON
We flew in a brown and yellow 1957 De Havilland Beaver—which Kluane Airways has been using for decades to shuttle paddlers, hunters, Nahanni Park staff and Indigenous residents―toward the Yukon/NWT border and skimmed down into Divide Lake.
Near the float plane dock, a sign erected by the Ross River Dena Council identifies Finlayson Lake as Legaenjoje, named for a legendary hunt. The sign is an apt reminder of the role Indigenous peoples played in the creation—and still play in the management— of both Nááts’įhch’oh National Park Reserve and its more famous southern neighbour, Nahanni National Park Reserve.
We flew in a brown and yellow 1957 De Havilland Beaver—which Kluane Airways has been using for decades to shuttle paddlers, hunters, Nahanni Park staff and Indigenous residents—toward the Yukon/NWT border and skimmed down into Divide Lake.
Set in a wide, glacier-carved valley high in the Mackenzie Mountains, Divide Lake’s Indigenous name, Ǫtaa Tu Fehto, translates to “bucket of water at the high point of land.” From the lake, water
flows south into Divide Creek then into the Broken Skull River or Pı̨́ı̨́p’enéh łéetǫ́ǫ́ Deé.
Initially, Indigenous communities were skeptical of the Nahanni River becoming a park. Early discussions in the 1970s were rife with concerns about a park formalizing federal government ownership of lands and restricting use of traditional territory. Navigating this resistance meant the park was first only a narrow river corridor below Virginia Falls. The park was also given the Park Reserve designation which, according to Parks Canada, is for “an area that is managed like a national park but is subject to one or more Indigenous land claims.”
In 2009, the park expanded to cover more of the surrounding lands, with the Nááts’įhch’oh lands added in 2014 to protect the river’s headwaters. Both parks now operate under co-management
LEFT Cam Fenton on the Broken Skull River. NICK GOTTLIEB. TOP Camp on the Broken Skull. ABOVE Flying out from Rabbitkettle Lake. WALLY MCFARLANE.
agreements with the Indigenous nations whose traditional territory lies within them—the Sahtu Dene in Nááts’įhch’oh and the Dehcho in Nahanni.
Paddling out of Divide Lake was a quick education in this wild country. We looked down through crystal-clear water to see a caribou carcass beneath the surface. Whether felled by injury, illness or a predator, the massive ungulate’s eye stared up at us from its watery resting place as we crossed from the lake into the flowing waters of Divide Creek.
Swift current carried us down the upper Broken Skull, riding glass-clear water through a series of small, rocky rapids. All around us, towering green and grey peaks—the northeastern tip of the Rocky Mountain range—scraped at the sky. A few scrubby trees flanked the river corridor. From our campsites, we carried light daypacks up onto endless ridgelines. From a high vantage, the landscape seemed to stretch on forever. We spotted black bears, caribou, moose and enough unnamed river valleys to sustain a lifetime of exploration.
After three days paddling and hiking along the Broken Skull, we loaded our gear into backpacks and started trekking up a wide drainage called Shúhzhıé káı̨lı̨—the creek flowing out of the mountain. On maps, it’s labeled “Grizzly Bear Creek.” As we stepped carefully across cobbled riverbeds and followed faint game trails, we echoed loud calls of “Hey bear!” to warn any namesake bruins of our approach.
A little more than halfway up the valley, we came upon a bend in the creek where massive, pale-yellow rock formations rose from the riverbank. Called tufa mounds, these unique formations are piles of calcium carbonate—the same material found in coral—that has precipitated to the surface from a vast network of underground
Nick signalled to paddle hard right, just before disappearing over a horizon line. I followed and looked left into the gaping maw of one of the biggest holes I had ever seen.
waterways. In this valley, the tufa mounds also marked the site of Sadéé Shúh Gaǫfáá, Sunlight Mountain Hot Spring.
Many hot springs like this exist throughout the Nahanni country, fueling an 1800s myth that a tropical valley lay hidden in the area. Stories from prospectors, explorers and trappers told tall tales of a valley that stayed snow-free all winter, where crops flourished yearround and giant, prehistoric beasts still roamed the lands.
Sadly, we didn’t see any dinosaurs or mammoths, but the hotspring pools, nestled in a meadow of grass and wildflowers, were a welcome reprieve from our heavy packs. We sprinkled black tea leaves into the waters before sliding in. (Parks Canada, in accordance with local Indigenous traditions, suggests sprinkling an offering of either tobacco or tea leaves before using the springs.)
After a long soak we headed for the pass at the head of the valley, traversing the creek’s headwaters: a small collection of milkyblue pools, teeming with Arctic grayling.
Over the pass lay a massive lake with a pair of loons floating amidst the splashes and surface ripples of jumping fish. As we poured boiling water over dehydrated meals, an early evening storm blew through the valley and clouds shrouded the sawback ridgeline that gives the lake its name, Nionep’en eɂTué, or “prehistoric backbone.”
The next morning we inflated our packrafts and paddled into Black Wolf Creek, reclining atop our boats through the lazy current then strapping on helmets when the water picked up momentum. We plunged into a narrow slot of black volcanic rock, home to the shallows that had Nick questioning the structural integrity of our packrafts. Eventually, an unnamed creek joined from the left and bolstered the flow.
Black, grey and orange mountains beckoned us downstream. Around a bend in the river, a lone caribou appeared, its mottled fur giving the ominous sense of an animal abandoned by its herd. It watched us skittishly as our brightly coloured flotilla bobbed past. Downstream, we could see the oncoming walls of a canyon and hear the deep rumble of whitewater.
The first canyon was a series of short drops flanked by sunbleached limestone boulders. We scrambled along the shore for a quick scout, determined it was good to go and splashed our way through a series of crashing waves and small recirculating holes. Our packrafts handled like the love child of a whitewater kayak and a pool toy, plenty capable in the rapids, but still an inflatable without clear edges or a rigid hull.
The rest of the day flew by in a happy blur of easy whitewater and bigger, boulder-strewn rapids. At one such rapid, Nick signalled
Cam Fenton Packraft portaging the Class V rapids on Black Wolf Creek. WALLY MCFARLANE
to paddle hard right, just before disappearing over a horizon line. I followed and looked left into the gaping maw of one of the biggest holes I had ever seen. Nick was stopped in an eddy just downstream.
“Well, that would have sucked,” he deadpanned, coining the hole a certified “packraft eater” for anyone unlucky enough to paddle into it.
By early evening, we arrived at the crux of the river, a tight canyon guarded by a massive, boulder-choked, Class V rapid. We knew an exposed portage across a crumbling scree slope awaited us and decided to camp and tackle it in the morning.
That night, the roar of the rapids echoed from the canyon up to my tent. The midnight sun barely dipped below the peaks that towered above the river, casting the valley in a pale twilight. What little sleep I got was fitful at best. We ferried across the river in the morning and found a more inviting portage on the left bank. By midmorning, we were back on the river.
After a series of straightforward rapids, the river disappeared around a left-hand bend. Now in the lead, I slowed down and turned across the current, straining to make out the rapid hidden below the horizon line ahead of me. As I mentally pieced together my line, I heard the rubbery grinding squeak of my boat hitting a rock just beneath the surface and, lurching forward, suddenly flipped into the freezing water.
I came out of my boat almost instantly. Grabbing hold of my gear, I fought to control my breathing in the frigid water. I tried to flip my boat for a self-rescue but was in the rapid before I had a chance. I braced myself for a rough ride.
The rapid split around a massive rock, tossing me to the right and straining my grip on the boat and paddle. I flipped around in the current like a fish spent from fighting a determined angler, then finally managed to splash-swim into a small eddy. After taking stock of my gear and confirming all limbs still intact, I flipped my boat, dumped out the excess water and looked back upstream. Nick and
Daphne paddled behind me through the best, and last, real rapid of the run.
The whitewater eased as the valley opened below us. Black tree trunks, tall swaying grass and electric-purple fireweed were all that was left of a wildfire that had scorched this part of the valley. We stopped on a cobbled gravel bar for lunch, then passed through one more idyllic canyon, the sun glinting off azure-blue water and pale limestone walls.
I flipped around in the current like a fish spent from fighting a determined angler, then finally managed to splash-swim into a small eddy.
By mid-afternoon, Black Wolf Creek spat us out back onto the Broken Skull. We paddled a few kilometres and camped on a wide sandy beach at the confluence with the silt-laden waters of the South Nahanni.
The sun was still high and hot—mid-July well north of the 60th parallel—when we all retired to our tents. We still had a few days left on our trip, but from here down there was little in the way of hazards or whitewater.
I lay awake thinking about my swim. What started as frustration slowly gave way to appreciation. I already knew I wanted to spend more time in the Nahanni country, exploring the seemingly endless array of rivers and ridges that we had already passed on our trip.
I felt drawn back to Black Wolf and to the rapid that had gotten the better of me. I pulled out my journal and made a note.
Unfinished business on Black Wolf. I need to run that last rapid properly.
I fell asleep—tired, sore and happy.
Nick Gottlieb, running the rapids in Black Wolf canyon. CAMERON FENTON
Eileen Kiyonaga
Finding Flow in Art, Life and the Wild
words :: Kara-Leah
Grant
In a world saturated with suffocating signals and sensory overload, Sea-to-Sky artist Eileen Kiyonaga seeks to open a portal of stillness, spaciousness and ease with her artwork.
“My art reflects my desire to quiet the world,” Eileen says. “We’re constantly bombarded by information and imagery—a constant feed that pressures us to put things out instantaneously. What drives me is ignoring that and trusting my instincts to go quieter, go simpler and take my time. I find my happy space in making art, getting into my flow state.”
Take a moment—or ten—to contemplate E M E R G E (pictured right). Even its name evokes spaciousness and ease. Eileen’s magic is how her artwork allows her intention to seep into your bones.
“This piece feels like January to me. We quietly emerge into our routines, ready to wrap up the past year and step into the new one with clarity and focus,” says Eileen. “When I’m in nature, I notice the little things first: pinecones, weathered stumps, the texture of moss. My work captures that meditative wonder, where we’re fully immersed and in tune with our surroundings.”
Eileen's creative process mirrors her practice outdoors. She takes time, contemplates, meditates and considers. She works mindfully with her materials, whether wood, metal or canvas.
“I need to feel connected to what I’m making to get the right emotion across. If I paint or create when I’m antsy or angry, it shows,” she says. “I want the art I make to be an escape—a place of tranquility.”
Eileen grew up in a creative household where she and her siblings were encouraged to explore, tinker and build. There was a workshop to play in, forts to construct and every Halloween the family created a walk-through experience for the neighborhood. But, as a child, Eileen saw her sister as “the more creative one,” which at first held her back from pursuing art.
“I took the practical route because I was decent at math,” she says. “So I studied industrial design in university. Eventually, I went back to school for furniture making and got into woodworking. I was happiest when I could go off-script and let the art flow.”
After graduation, Eileen apprenticed with a furniture maker in Vancouver and worked on installation art pieces. She fell in love with woodworking and eventually asked herself, “Why am I not making art?”
That question became the beginning of a commitment to art as her occupation, although Eileen notes, “It took a long time to feel okay saying, ‘I’m an artist.’”
By then Eileen had married, moved to Squamish and become a mother of two daughters. “They love to put their own stamp on everything I make,” she says with a laugh. “They’re super-creative, and it’s fun to let that fly. We’re not hung up on a clean house. Right now, they want to attach a hammock to the ceiling, and we’re like, Okay, let’s do it. They haven’t spent much time in the shop yet, but that will come.”
Eileen’s workshop, attached to the family home, is where lines take shape and flow finds form. “I’ve always been home-based because I need as little barrier to starting work as possible. I spill into the house a lot, and my family puts up with it.”
For a Squamish-based artist, it’s fitting that the flow state Eileen cultivates in her art mirrors what she strives for in her sports. “Picking our lines is the same, whether you’re mountain biking, snowboarding or surfing,” she says. “You work with what’s available in the environment. I’m always looking for that line, that zone. It’s such an important part of life—finding flow.”
Much like the lines she follows in the mountains and waves, Eileen’s art invites us to step out of the chaos and into a rhythm that feels natural, intuitive and free—where stillness and movement merge, and where we can simply emerge. eileenkiyonaga.com
Rewilding
words :: Jon Turk
illustration :: Lani Imre
Flaco pecked his way out of his egg and stepped out into the incubator as a newborn Eurasian eagle-owl. Over time, he grew, fledged and lived in the Central Park Zoo in New York City. His home was a cage the size of a bus stop, complete with fake rocks, a few branches and a painted mural on the back wall depicting his natural habitat: the wild steppe of Central Asia, where his ancestors flew free and swooped down from the sky to catch mice and gophers.
After 12 years in the zoo, an ecoterrorist cut a hole in Flaco’s cage and, for the first time in his life, he stepped out into the wide-open world, a free bird at last. He spread his wings and soared into the trees above. Zookeepers feared he wouldn’t have the skills or musculature to hunt, but he fooled them all and soon he was feasting on the abundant rats and mice in the woodlands of Central Park. The zookeepers felt he would be safer in the zoo (or at least they felt he was an economic asset), so they tried to capture him—but Flaco intuited their motives and escaped all their traps.
This is the summer Freewheelin’ issue, with articles about biking, hiking, paddling and trail running. And yet, at a fundamental level, all these stories are about rewilding— stepping out of our cages and soaring into the figurative trees above.
We can rewild ourselves for an afternoon in the park, a long weekend in Tofino, a month in the Yukon or a lifetime exploring the desert. I vividly recall the day, in 1971, when I stuffed my newly earned PhD diploma into the glovebox of a 1964 Ford Fairlane, lashed a canoe on top and headed north, into Canada’s great Arctic wilderness.
Rewilding is a process, not a singular event. Paddling down the broad Mackenzie River, at first I found myself bored by the endless repetition of the action.
Boring. Time. Just paddling, stroke after stroke. Essentially doing nothing. Bad people go to jail where they are forced to do nothing. Rich people pay big bucks to go to meditation retreats where they learn to do nothing. I paddled a canoe and swatted mosquitos and did not much else until, after about three weeks, the rewilding crept along the edges of the boredom until doing nothing became euphoric.
Gradually, over the course of a lifetime, I have become so busy doing nothing most days that I don’t have time to do anything else.
Also, paddling a canoe isn’t actually “doing nothing.” It’s being aware of the currents, keeping track of navigation, watching the sunrise, noticing a moose grazing along the riverbanks. Paddling is staying alive in the wilderness.
Three decades after that original canoe trip, I spent several years in an Indigenous Koryak village in Kamchatka, far eastern Siberia. There I learned that the fundamental process of civilization has stolen much of the innate wildness from us—irreversibly and forever. Likely, everyone who reads this magazine has grown up going to school in an enclosed, squarewalled classroom, sitting behind a desk, learning our three R’s. And none of us will be able to attain the wildness of Moolynaut, the old shaman who was born in a skin tent and spent her childhood watching the reindeer—but we can journey in that direction.
Flaco the owl never flew past the skyscrapers of New York City to seek solace in the extensive forests and farmlands that lay beyond. Unfortunately, his urban diet included rats that had eaten rat poison, and the accumulated poison eventually caused Flaco to become disoriented. He flew into a building, crashed and died.
Bad people go to jail where they are forced to do nothing. Rich people pay big bucks to go to meditation retreats where they learn to do nothing.
I don’t intend to tell some moralistic fable about the evils of civilization. I’m just reporting the facts, as any journalist is required to do. But I also know that, while Flaco was alive, many urban city dwellers in New York pilgrimaged into Central Park with binoculars, seeking a glimpse of him perched in the trees or flying free through the foliage. The observers rewilding a bit themselves.
So as we embark on the summer vacation season, let’s remember Flaco and focus on rewilding rather than seeking miles, speed accomplishments or danger for danger’s sake. And, if it’s in any way possible, maybe extend that trip longer and deeper than you originally planned. Because the wilderness speaks slowly, and we need time to listen.
Westside Wonders
words :: Cooper Saver
With the modernized capabilities of trail bikes and explosive surge in pedal-powered thrill seekers over the last decade or so, Whistler’s westside trail network has returned to the spotlight, giving riders another world-class destination outside of the park. These days we have most of the valley’s best-kept secrets at our fingertips thanks to apps on our fancy phones, but most folks don’t know that these trails predated our current technology, dropper-post seats and wellfunctioning suspension by several decades.
Back then, unless you had a copy of the Whistler Off Road Cycling Guide—a trail book first published in 1990 by local heroes Grant Lamont and Charlie Doyle—every adventure could result in either getting lost, ending up in the clinic or (if you were lucky) striking gold amongst the slabs and roots.
Grant and Charlie foresaw the impending mountain bike revolution and made their intentions clear by introducing the guidebook, the first of its kind in the Sea to Sky.
Grant, who was one of the original Whistler Off Road Cycling Association (WORCA) board members when it was established in 1989 (and current project leader of the Western Mountain Bike Tourism Association), says, “The goal for us with the guidebook was preservation and identification. We did some research into land use, and once you’ve published something about a trail and the area, it’s kind of enshrined.”
Proceeds from the book went back into maintaining the trails and, with tens of thousands of copies sold over the past 35 years,
Whistler’s original trails have been legitimized and preserved as crucial community assets. And many trails from the book’s first edition—Mel’s Dilemma, Binty’s, Billy Epic, Rick’s Roost and more—are still in regular use. For riders, these trails serve up a healthy dose of old school jank, the type of thing Whistler was known for prior to machine-built flow and chairlifts. Fast and smooth may be the majority’s favourite flavour of the day, but slow with steep, calculated tech is quintessential BC mountain biking, and for Whistler riders looking to dial in those skills, the westside remains the zone of choice.
“I remember being up there by myself with a chainsaw, cutting away,” says Vincent “Binty” Massey, reflecting on the build of his iconic namesake trail connecting 19 Mile to Rainbow. “This bear started coming at me. I had to drop the saw, run and leave it there ‘til the next day.”
“We were more into descending because we’re skiers, too,” Binty says of the trail. “I mean steep-and-deep tree skiing. It was a big dig, and the descent was just as steep as we could get it.”
Binty’s was built mostly solo over the course of several years and completed in 1995.
Soon after, the municipality created access via the Flank trail, which was a major feat in itself. “They just thought we were thrashing trails,” Binty says. “But organized as WORCA, we got invited to the table for the planning of trails. Twenty-plus years ago we etched out our dream plan, and [the municipality] came on board; the Flank trail was part of that. We initially focused on Rainbow and up to the Callaghan, and lo and behold, it got built.”
Binty, alongside fellow pioneering builders like Dan Swanstrom, Richard Kelly and Bob Atkins (a former WORCA president) helped kickstart a two-wheeled movement that turned a ski town, which was once empty and quiet in what was then seen as the off-season, into a top year-round destination.
The next time you’re slogging up to Binty’s, think about those old-time riders death-gripping their V-brakes, cratering the rims on their hardtails.
“We’re fun hogs and thrill seekers,” Binty says. “It’s a buzz that you just can’t beat. All our friends who are still in Whistler that are still seeking it, they still can’t get enough of it. It’s not a thing that ever goes away.”
Classic Whistler trails didn’t build themselves
LEFT Mick Peatfield, circa 1990. BONNY MAKAREWICZ. CENTRE Unknown rider, 1991. RIGHT Keith Stark, 1995. CHARLIE DOYLE ARCHIVES
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Spencer Seabrooke and Phil Moessinger, Squamish Valley. JIMMY MARTINELLO
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Johnny Blair, Alta Lake, Whistler. BRIAN FINESTONE
WHISTLER
A Destination Designed for the Future 2050
WHISTLER
Looking Back to Look Ahead
In 2022, we came together for a unique community workshop: The Whistler Sessions. It was a bold experiment in collaboration, gathering residents, business owners, First Nations partners, and local leaders to imagine Whistler’s future. What emerged were four powerful yet unsettling scenarios, none of which emerged as a preferred future we would like to see. Instead of clarity, we surfaced a shared anxiety: about climate, housing, infrastructure, belonging, and whether Whistler could continue to thrive under the weight of growing expectations.
framework to guide collaboration, investment, innovation, and decision-making in ways that honour the land, strengthen our community, and ensure that tourism works for Whistler, not the other way around.
But within that discomfort came clarity. We realized the future wasn’t something to predict, it was something we had to shape. That’s when the idea of destination stewardship came into focus. We began to ask not just how tourism could be managed, but how it could actively support our town and help us build the Whistler we want to become. From this, the Smart Tourism initiative was born - a
We realized the future wasn’t something to predict, it was something we had to shape.
The following vision is the result of a shared journey with our partners in the Smart Tourism Committee. It invites us to step into a future we want to live in - one shaped by purpose, designed with care, and built together. This vision is a living guide, intentionally open and evolving. It is meant to inspire current and future collaborators to imagine boldly and act collectively as we shape the next chapter of tourism in Whistler.
Tourism
Whistler/Mark
Mackay
How We Got Here
Whistler stands at a crossroads. For many within our community, the challenges of tourism are becoming more prominent than the opportunities, and reactive decision-making and fragmented leadership will only exacerbate the issue. An outlook of climate variability, growing housing challenges, infrastructure strain, and a drive to remain competitive, reveal that what’s at stake isn’t just Whistler’s future. It’s how it feels to belong here and to build a life here.
Smart Tourism is a concept the municipality has introduced to help the region consider how tourism looks as a solution to these headwinds. This concept is bigger than simply implementing new strategies. Around the world, leading destinations are proving the future of this industry is something to proactively design.
At both the national and city levels, destinations are intentionally reshaping their visitor economies to enhance, rather than overwhelm, local communities. Global frameworks, like the Global Destination Sustainability Index and Destination Canada’s Wealth & Wellbeing Index, are setting new benchmarks for what it means to be a thriving destination. This isn’t just a localized shift; it’s a global reimagination of what it means to be a great place to visit and an even better place to live.
So, how does Whistler get ahead of this and design its future alongside the world’s most forward-thinking destinations? It requires:
Shared Stewardship that empowers and unites local voices, Indigenous leadership, and cross-sector collaboration.
Proactive investment in infrastructure, housing, and sustainable tourism models.
A renewed commitment to Whistler’s identity, ensuring that growth doesn’t dilute its distinctive and deeply rooted mountain culture and history.
Leveraging technology as an enabler, not a distraction, to enhance visitor experience while protecting community well-being.
By embracing a long-term, adaptive approach to tourism, Whistler is on track to secure its place as a leader in sustainable mountain tourism.
A Glimpse into the Future
It’s 2050, and Whistler is more than a destination - it’s a living example of a resilient mountain resort. The heart of the community beats strong, woven together by those who call it home and those who return time and again, drawn by something they can’t find anywhere else.
“More” doesn’t mean bigger, louder or busier. It’s more meaning, more voices, more depth, more discovery, and more ways to belong. A place where you’re not just a spectator, but a participant, where you can uncover more of yourself as you discover the mountains.
On any given day, a seasoned local and a visiting family might share a chairlift ride, trading stories as they ascend. A group of lifelong friends, now in their 70s, might carve down fresh groomers before heading to a lakeside sauna for an après soak. A new resident might find connection in a communal workshop, learning from a First Nations elder about the land’s deep history.
The wild remains - protected, revered, and at the center of it all. Even as climate shifts, Whistler has adapted, thriving as an all-weather mountain town. Adventure isn’t seasonal or exclusive - it’s a year-round invitation.
Whistler has never been one to wait for the future. Instead, we built it together - boldly, collaboratively, and with an unwavering commitment to what makes this place special.
Now, let’s step into what this future looks like.
Tourism as a Solution, Not a Burden
Tourism has been the economic backbone of Whistler for many years, but long before it became a world-renowned destination, these lands were stewarded by the Indigenous peoples of Lilwat7úl and Sḵwxwú7mesh Úxwumixw, who understood the deep, reciprocal relationship between people and place. In 2050, Whistler continues to honour that connection where its success is not measured just in visitor numbers, but in how well residents, workers, and the broader community thrive.
By putting people at the center of tourism, Whistler has created a place where both locals and visitors feel a sense of belonging. Tourism doesn’t just sustain the town - it actively strengthens it, supporting the infrastructure, services, and way of life that make this place special. Growth is thoughtful, ensuring that the benefits of tourism extend to those who call Whistler home, while protecting the land that has drawn people here for generations.
Imagine...
A town where tourism is a shared responsibility, shaped through collaboration between residents, First Nations members, businesses, and visitors to ensure it enriches the community, environment, and economy.
A thriving workforce with stable tourism-based careers, where those who help make Whistler extraordinary can afford to live and build their futures here.
A destination where every tourism dollar contributes to something bigger - funding housing, transit, biodiversity initiatives, and the preservation of Whistler’s natural and cultural heritage.
A place where visitors aren’t just spectators but active ambassadors in stewardship, learning from Indigenous guides, supporting local businesses, and engaging in meaningful cultural experiences.
Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre/Logan Swayze
The Soul of Whistler
By 2050, Whistler’s culture will continue to be central to its experience. At its core is a deep connection to the land, a shared respect for the mountains, and a way of life that thrives on adventure, creativity, and stewardship. This culture is inseparable from the traditions and knowledge of the Lilwat7úl and
Mountain culture is more than recreation–it is a mindset, a way of being, and a source of identity for those who call Whistler home.
Sḵwxwú7mesh Úxwumixw, whose presence and knowledge enrich Whistler’s identity. An aligned truth and reconciliation journey defines guiding principles that are embedded into how the community evolves, ensuring that Whistler’s story is told with depth, respect, and inclusivity.
Mountain culture is more than recreation–it is a mindset, a way of being, and a source of identity for those who call Whistler home. It is found in the rhythm of the seasons, the shared stories of the slopes and trails, and the traditions that bind people together, whether they have lived here for generations or are experiencing the mountains for the first time. Whistler’s strength lies in this depth, in the soul that makes it more than just a destination but a place where people feel connected–to nature, to each other, and to something bigger than themselves.
A Whistler where mountain culture is celebrated not just in outdoor pursuits but in the arts, storytelling, and shared experiences that bring people together.
A Whistler where Indigenous knowledge is integrated more holistically into our experience, from guided walks that share traditional ecological knowledge to immersive storytelling gatherings offer visitors a deeper connection to the land, its history, and the living cultures that shape it.
Visitors leaving Whistler not just with memories, but with a renewed perspective - carrying home a deeper respect for the land, a commitment to stewardship, and an appreciation for the balance between adventure and responsibility
Any Season, Every Reason
Whistlerites have always embraced the wild, thriving in every season, in any weather. By 2050, this fearless mountain spirit continues to be an inspiration, inviting others to do the same. Rather than resisting change such as climate shifts, changing seasons, or evolving visitor expectations, Whistler has leaned in, adapting with creativity and purpose. Through innovation and an unshakable connection to the land, it has redefined what it means to be a true all-weather mountain destination.
Whistler is no longer reliant on perfect conditions; instead, it has turned unpredictability into an asset.
Every season is now the best time to visit. Whistler is no longer reliant on perfect conditions; instead, it has turned unpredictability into an asset. Carefully curated experiences ensure that each visit feels intentional - regardless of the weather or budget. This transformation has not only strengthened Whistler’s global reputation but also made the resort more accessible overall. A wider range of people can now enjoy the mountains, as greater thought is given to diverse experiences, many of which don’t require a pass. The result is a more inclusive, energized community, proudly known for its year-round mountain lifestyle.
Families gather at a mountainside adventure hub, gearing up for an all-weather experience. They set out on a guided e-bike tour along forested trails, where seasonal art installations and interactive storytelling stations bring Whistler’s history and ecology to life.
A summer afternoon where glacier-fed pools, shaded and accessible alpine structures, and cooling stations make soaring temperatures an afterthought.
Elite athletes train year-round - alongside residents and visitors - at Whistler’s world-class high-altitude performance center, using Whistler’s built and natural environment as a competitive edge.
Siegrist Architecture
Technology that Supports, Not Distracts
Technology is not a gimmick in Whistler - it’s a quiet enabler, seamlessly enhancing the experience without pulling people away from the mountains, community, or culture. It exists to remove friction, not create distraction, ensuring that visitors and residents can immerse themselves in the moment rather than the screen.
As a global hub for Rec-Tech innovation, Whistler attracts athletes, researchers, and entrepreneurs pushing the boundaries of outdoor equipment, adventure technology, and sports science. High-performance training centers, alpine wellness retreats, and nature-immersive experiences have expanded beyond traditional skiing and biking, making Whistler a year-round destination for exploration, learning, and innovation.
the best experiences for the day’s conditions, reducing congestion and increasing time spent enjoying Whistler.
AI-powered conservation monitoring that helps protect fragile ecosystems while keeping trails open.
Smart ticketing and transit systems that make getting around effortless - no lines, no stress, just more time for adventure.
A group arriving via an electric regional shuttle, seamlessly accessing transit, bike rentals, and activity bookings through a single digital platform - without ever feeling “plugged in.
Tourism Whistler/Justa Jeskova
Connected Communities, Shared Success
The Future is Ours to Shape
The Whistler of 2050 won’t happen by chance - it will be built through bold decisions, collective action, and an unwavering commitment to what makes this place extraordinary. The challenges we face today such as climate shifts, housing shortages and infrastructure demands are not roadblocks; they are calls to action.
Tourism in Whistler is more than a single destination; it is a journey through a well-connected, thoughtfully designed region where movement is effortless, and each area contributes to a greater whole. With shared transit solutions, aligned economic development, and a commitment to sustainability, we elevate the visitor experience while preserving the character of the places we call home.
A seamless, forward-thinking approach to regional tourism uses collaborative policy development and planning to strengthen Whistler’s identity, enrich our communities, and ensures that as we grow, we do so with purpose - together. Through this, Whistler maintains its intimate, small-town feel as transit innovations reduce congestion and infrastructure developments mean that movement around town is effortless.
Imagine...
A zero-emission regional transit system that reduces peak day congestion on the highway and is utilized by both workers in the sea to sky and visitors from further afar.
Whistler develops a reputation as a low carbon destination where travellers arriving at YVR can access the mountains using zero-emission transportation
Everything in the Sea to Sky is now accessible by transit, making it easier than ever to explore. Visitors experience a region where crowds feel nonexistent, and where vibrant energy and quiet escape exist in perfect balance.
Our future is not a fixed point - it’s a journey, and this vision will evolve as we do. Its success lies in continuous adaptation, shared leadership, and the courage to lead where others hesitate. The choices we make today will determine whether Whistler remains not just a place to visit, but a place to live, work, and belong.
An Invitation to Imagine, and Act
This vision is more than a look ahead, it’s a call to reimagine what Whistler can be, and to inspire the change required to get us there. It invites everyone who loves this place - residents, visitors, businesses, leaders, and partners to see themselves in the story o f Whistler’s future.
This vision is not a finish line - it’s a blueprint for bold ideas, creative solutions, and shared aspirations.
In August, we will celebrate Whistler’s 50th anniversary, a moment to honour how far we’ve come. But we’re also looking further down the trail. As we set our sights on Whistler’s 75th in 2050, we’re
using this vision as our compass. Smart Tourism will guide us as we move forward, not just with optimism, but with focus, commitment, and the belief that the best version of Whistler is still ahead of us.
This vision is not a finish line - it’s a blueprint for bold ideas, creative solutions, and shared aspirations. It’s meant to spark new thinking and serve as a tool that helps us imagine, and then design, a future where Whistler thrives for everyone. To bring this vision to life, we need to hear what success in Smart Tourism looks like to you. Follow the QR code to find out how to engage and share your thoughts. The next chapter starts nowjoin us in shaping Whistler’s future.
Tourism
Whistler/Oisin McHugh
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