Heli-Hiking in the Canadian Rockies

Adamant Lodge

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The afternoon of our arrival at Adamant there was only time for an introductory two-mile hike. I intended to make up for that abbreviated workout by exercising in my room before dinner. First, however, I thought I should inspect the outdoor Jacuzzi. It had a nice mountain view. So nice that I wound up taking a long soak both before and after dinner. I vowed to make amends by doing 500 sit-ups the next day. The next day I worked up a good sweat on a long heli-hike and afterward headed straight for the Jacuzzi again—vowing to do 1,000 sit-ups first chance I got.

So it went. I kept running up the tab on my Compensatory Exercise Charge Card as if I had a 50,000 sit-up credit line. Still, I felt only the mildest pangs of guilt. Our daily routine was a good calorie burn. Breakfast was served at 8 o'clock, the copter shuttles usually started by nine. We would self-segregate into four groups, choosing from a menu of easy, moderate, and strenuous routes. Generally there'd be a morning hike, followed by a brown-bag lunch in the field, a copter pickup, and an afternoon hike in a second location. I was continually amazed at how much faith the children on the trip bestowed in their CMH guides. One afternoon I watched boys and girls as young as age six clip into harnesses and scale a 50-foot-high canyon wall. Solo! Brian Keefer attributes it all to the innocence of youth. "For kids, it's a pretty natural thing to climb," he says. "And as adults we spend our whole lives suppressing it."

I guess I'm a suppresser. My brain long ago reached that advanced stage of development where it fully comprehends the interrelationship between gravity, falling objects, and the pain associated with going SPLAT. I've never yearned to be a mountaineer. Consequently, I am somewhat at a loss to explain how I wind up standing in an ice field one morning, about to attempt a day-long technical climb to Mt. Serendipity. Volarius, the wildflower from which Valium is made, grows in some of the meadows we've been hiking. There must be a connection.

"We'll be walking as a team," says Keefer as the noise from our helicopter-cab fades away, "four people on a rope: one guide and three climbers."

There are eight of us in all. Keefer is tethered to Ian and Megan, an Australian couple, and to Nick, a British lawyer whose little son has inquired of him "What kind of hotel is this that makes you walk all the time?" Keefer's fellow guide, J.C. Trepenier, ties in with Phil and Betty, who are on a twentieth-anniversary vacation, and me. Being roped together is like serving on a chain gang. It takes us a few minutes and a few stumbles to get in sync. We slowly leave the ice field behind, slog through a steep incline of scree, scramble up and over a section of loose rock, and take a break in the sheltered saddle of a high ridge. My shirt is soaked with sweat. My sunglasses are fogged in by condensation.

Clouds coagulate overhead. Rain begins to fall. We don foul weather gear before stepping onto the mile-long glacier that stretches to the base of Mt. Serendipity. We let out more climbing rope, keeping about 30 feet apart in case somebody falls through a crevasse. It's a certifiably horrible way to die. Wedged between walls of ice, you slip deeper and deeper into the abyss with every exhaled breath. Eventually, stuck like a cork in a bottle, you suffocate.