A Game of Ghosts – Skiing Vancouver Island

Searching for snow, surf and the supernatural on a turn through Vancouver Island’s forgotten stashes.

text and photos :: Mike Berard

Long, otherworldly shadows danced erratically on the concrete walls of the crumbling daylodge. Raindrops exploded in a hiss on the burning coals of the bonfire we’d huddled around. It was the only comfort available at Forbidden Plateau resort. Abandoned years ago, the place had long since fallen into disarray—buried lift shacks, graffiti-covered buildings and rusting, unidentifiable structures reeking of liability dotted the empty ski area. After a long day of sled skiing rain-soaked snow under deserted lifts, we were belligerently drunk in the snowed-in parking lot. Fueled by Lucky Lager and Johnny Cash, the mood had quickly degenerated into a rowdy display of aggression. Each frigid wave of rain-saturated wind only accelerated the ragged tempo.

Daryl Treadway, middle brother of the ubiquitous redneck ski family, repeatedly tried to douse Alex Hokanson with lit gasoline. On the far side of a case of beer, Hokanson was too far gone to register how close the flames come to melting his peculiar ski attire—a bright yellow rain slicker stained with fish guts and blood. Big-mountain IFSA star, Ryan Oakden, shamelessly stood by and egged on Treadway, much to his delight. It was an embarrassing scene to be sure, and we were fortunate that there were no witnesses. Unless you counted the dark shadows slithering across concrete… or the many ghosts of Vancouver Island’s forgotten ski hills.

The idea of restless, wandering spirits isn’t too much of a stretch when you consider the history of the Island’s ski industry, where the Comox Valley resort of Mt. Washington remains the only major ski area in continuous operation. Maintaining a near-monopoly over island-skiing of any type on the eastern side of the Pacific, Washington’s sole competition is Mt. Cain, a small, non-profit operation open but three days a week. Remnants of other areas that once flourished, floundered and ultimately failed—the decaying infrastructures of Mt. Arrowsmith, Green Mountain and Forbidden Plateau—dot the island like gravestones. We’d set out on a road trip to try and understand the how and why of these forgotten playgrounds, and take the pulse of the Island’s ski scene in general.

Recovered from our moment of delinquency at Forbidden Plateau, we’d been exploring Mt. Washington’s gladed slopes for several days, deep into a storm cycle that showed no interest in surrendering to rumored high pressure advancing across the Pacific. The resort’s storm-board had been reading like school-zone speed limits, posting daily numbers of 20, 30, 40. The base alone had gained over a metre since our arrival. The unrelenting barrage served both as servant and master: With it, we reveled in the soft sounds of skis plowing channels through the steep trees of the West Basin while snow fell in thick, fat flakes; without it, we might finally gain access to the new Boomerang terrain expansion, which would leave us breathless and haggard in the struggle to stay ahead of 200 others, laughing sardonically at those who’d have to settle for breathing the bitterness of our cold-smoke contrails.

As the snowfall continued, we adopted the mindset enjoyed by locals: We went to bed knowing it would snow, expected it to, prepared for nothing less, and dismissive of the snowfalls lesser regions revel in. Within days, five centimetres was equivalent to a dusting, 10 a trace, and 20 merely adequate to rouse us from bed before nine. Embarrassing greed and desensitization transmogrified our previously thankful attitudes into a dark, selfish expectation of deep pillow lines, bottomless cliff landings and snow that stuck incomprehensively to the steepest, rowdiest lines. With every run down the rolling steeps of Fletchers Challenge, every thigh-deep turn on East Bull and each air out of Heroin Chute, we grew more confident and cocky. We believed we could do anything.

And then one morning it happened: that open hole of a number, empty by its very nature and devoid of substance by definition, a lonely zero staring cruelly back at us from the snow report. As we struggled to comprehend this sudden affront, somewhere deep inside the clouds that still obscured a mountain riven with unsightly tracks, the ghosts were laughing.

Vancouver Island has long been a silent, haunting force in the province of British Columbia’s massive ski industry. Before Pacific storms reach the much ballyhooed Coast Range or even think about the Monashees, Selkirks or Rockies, they stop here to unload. Vancouver Island’s mountains squeegee upwards of ten metres of snow from those clouds annually, more often than not ranking them atop the heap for Canada’s deepest snowpack. While other regions boast maximum bases in the three- to four-metre range, Island skiers enjoy the bounty of five-metres plus while still being able to mountain bike and golf year round. With the second highest number of skier visits in the province, Mt. Washington ranks just below Whistler-Blackcomb. So with all it has going for it, why can’t the Island keep it’s ski hills alive?

Answers vary. Mt. Arrowsmith, one of the more promising sites for a ski area with its large peaks and rowdy lines, was shut down in 2001 to protect several endangered species, including the Vancouver Island Marmot. The lifts at Nanaimo’s Green Mountain haven’t turned in decades and only the walls of a retired A-frame seem to know why. Forbidden Plateau fell into bankruptcy following the collapse of the base lodge roof and a suspicious torching of the remains. Only one other ski hill has managed to survive the dark spell cast over the local industry: Mt. Cain.

Located a few hours north of the Comox Valley, Cain is the antithesis of Mt. Washington—a community-run area deep in the woods of the north island with no aspirations to expand or profit from the treasure it harbors. With only two t-bars and 18 runs, Cain can be described as modest at best, but it’s beyond the quiet boundaries that you’ll find a paradise of lift-accessed touring that rivals anything in B.C..

We’d woken early to start the 2.5-hour drive to Cain. Because it was Saturday and the hill is closed Tuesday to Friday, the past week’s generous snowfall dominated our minds as we drove north through rugged coastal forests and snowy clear cuts. The decision to head to Cain had proven to be a good one: 63 cm of snow lay on the ground, a benchmark higher than the number of vehicles populating the parking lot. All signs indicated the day would be epic.

Fresh from territorial combat zones like Whistler and Fernie, we’d hurried our pace, marching double-time into the rustic daylodge to suit up and prepare for a fresh-tracks battle with the other lucky skiers. Inside the tiny building that doubled as a hostel, however, we were halted in our tracks by an alien atmosphere. A decidedly easy-going mood pervaded the wooden room; laughter and the smell of bacon hung in the air while people chatted amiably and warmed boots by the fire. The whole scene reeked of friendship and camaraderie; OK, the place is laid back, we get it—but with only 15 minutes until the lifts turn on a powder day? Stowing our combative natures we did our best to settle into the leisurely frequency. Try as we might, however, instinct quickly drove us back out the door towards a lift line that was barely forming with only minutes to spare.

Mt. Cain’s most valuable asset is its backcountry. Resting just outside the boundary is the corniced edge of West Bowl, a favourite stash for Cain locals. As we stood above it, a thick fog obscured the wind-loaded paradise just out of reach. Hokanson, a frequent visitor, pointed blindly into the white, describing unseen cliffs and long, rolling runs as the rest of us processed the few reasons we should dive in and the many reasons we shouldn’t. In a moment of humility, we decided Mother Nature was not to be tested and searched out safer pursuits. Just down the ridge, Hokanson led us into an easily accessed bounty of well-spaced trees where towering Douglas Firs sprouted from perfectly sloped inclines. We jumped in, lapping short open pitches via a 20-minute boot pack back inbounds. The snow was disturbingly deep, threatening to swallow us in a grave of euphoric bliss. Lost in white, each turn stirred up the collective remains of the weeklong snowstorm and left the hanging vapor to swirl around our heads.

As if in gratitude for our earlier display of humility, the ceiling of cloud had risen, revealing in all directions terrain with staggering potential for big lines and lofty airtime. Confident in the resistence of 63 cm of coastal cushioning, Oakden had sized up an eight-metre cliff to a less-than-steep landing. Boosting off the towering chunk of rock, he plummeted to an abrupt stop in a bomb hole that resonated with a deafening clap. The rest of us grimaced; the sound was horribly wrong and we assumed the worst as he flailed and groaned in his neck-deep crater. Was this a warning from the island spirits, angry and seeking revenge for the untimely ends to their playgrounds? Or was it simply another example of Darwinism at work? With Oakden bruised but otherwise OK we assumed the former and called it a day, retreating to the daylodge to share laughter and cold beer with the friendly locals.

The stolen Bar-BQ fell silently into the void below the bridge. Bewildered, I waited for the inevitable meeting of metal and stone. The empty silence seemed to last an eternity. Seconds later, however, when galvanized steel finally collided with rock far below, a resounding clang echoed through the river gorge.

It was late at night and the clearly drunken man who committed this disturbing act scared me. In the darkness he seemed cross-eyed, angry and highly capable of inflicting more damage—possibly to me.

We were in Woss, a town of 400 that serves as nearest “civilization” to Mt. Cain and base camp for the few logging companies that still operate on the north island. Earlier in the evening, a rough looking woman at the local pub told me that townspeople were hoping for Mt. Cain to expand and bring much-needed tourist dollars to their struggling town. The logging camps had been shut down for two months due to the poor state of B.C. forestry, and the few small businesses in this sleepy town were feeling the economic challenges that come with reliance on an already shaky industry. I couldn’t help but wonder how these people would react to the development of their quiet village and the swift winds of change that transform small towns like this into trendy, overpriced resorts. When I posed the question to my passive-aggressive friend with the penchant for tossing appliances, I was greeted with a string of insulting expletives denouncing the need for any “fuckin’ skiers.”

Apparently not all in Woss are willing to sign over their little piece of paradise in the name of progress. Besides, in a time when skier visits are shrinking exponentially across the board, could a largely regional market like Van Isle even support another full-time ski resort? The rusted, stationary bullwheels of three retired ski hills say no. And standing on that bridge as the howling winds blew around me in the dark, I was beginning to think the spirits agreed.

We’d woken the next morning to overcast skies and a difficult predicament: snowfall had subsided and both Washington and Cain were tracked out, leading locals into a state of confusion and a bout of sustained drinking. The backcountry was dangerously loaded with a snowpack too deep to penetrate via snowmobile, even were it safe to do so. What was a snow-sated gravity demon to do?

We’d made the only logical decision we could, and that found us moving westward cross-island to the Canadian surf Mecca of Tofino. Unfortunately, the road was slick with wet coastal snow causing the van to drift at will through the many corners of Highway #4. Hours late and gripped from the harrowing drive, we pulled into the parking lot at Middle Beach Lodge, a luxurious cedar cabin overlooking the Pacific that would serve as our base.

From our living room we watched the angry sea relentlessly pound against the cliffs below, blowing sea spray high into the air. The swell didn’t look particularly friendly to a bunch of skiers with limited surfing experience, but we were confident that as accomplished athletes we should be able to do it; how hard could it be?

At Pacific Surf School, Paul Horscroft sized us up for the thick rental wetsuits we needed in the frigid February waters. In a moment of prideful arrogance, we refused any instruction. Unbeknownst to us, we were preparing to surf swell that locals had proclaimed unsurfable. On a reconnaissance mission to Chestermans Beach, we found experienced surfers scampering for shore. When they saw our Softop rental boards, they warned us about the heavy surf with the impatient, annoyed admonitions we used to chasten tourists on demo bindings and jester toques about to drop into Whistler’s Saudan Couloir. Undeterred, we marched into the surf.

Out on the water, things hadn’t looked so bad. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw the crest of a wave rise up behind, rolling fast and speeding up. Excited but panicked I paddled hard, hoping to match speed with the approaching wall of water before the crest curled onto my back. The first push was subtle—a gentle acceleration raising hope that I could make it. I readied myself for a quick, fluid standing motion only to suddenly have the wave jack up and send my legs over my head in a scorpion motion. The board disappeared from below me, my arms still inexplicably trying to paddle into a wave that was now engulfing me in whitewash. Instinctively, I threw my arms over my head and waited for the board to cork me; it would have been better than what actually happened.

The broiling water slammed my head into the sandy bottom and forced my lungs to expel what little air I’d managed to gulp before the descent. I felt the pull of the leash on my ankle and the weight of the wave pushing me around; it felt like many long minutes that I was tumbled around in a futile search for the surface. Finally the wave’s grip lessened and my head broke the salt chuck into sweet air.

I stumbled back to shore, exhausted and defeated. Recovering on the beach, I watched the rest of the boys get similarly spanked and, one by one, limp back in to admit defeat.

On the long walk back to the van, the cloudy skies had gifted us with something rare. Big fat flakes tumbled from the sky, blowing sideways in the strong winds and coating the beach with a blanket of white not often seen in this coastal town. And if it was snowing on the beach it was hammering on the mountains. The message was a poignant reminder of why we were here.

Despite the graveyard of ski hills that Vancouver Island has become, the spirit of skiing still runs strong throughout these blanketed mountains. With renewed hope we straggled back to the van and pointed it east through a growing storm. Somewhere deep within the fir and cedar palisade of coastal forest flanking the murky highway, ghosts howled their approval. – Mike Berard

DNA

Mt Washington Resort – Comox Valley, B.C.

Mt. Cain – Woss B.C.

Middle Beach Lodge – Tofino B.C.

Pacific Surf School - Tofino B.C.