Snowcat women
A bright red Pisten Bully named Princess hugged a narrow snow-draped arête in the Canadian Rockies. The driver, a spicey. tongue-studded chick, spun it adroitly around a ledge to stop atop a pitch plummeting several thousand feet. Twelve laughing skiers spilled out — all women. Decked out in K2 Phat Luvs made for floating in deep powder, they attacked slope after slope of fluff as light as cottonwood whisps.
Blame it on Warren Miller flicks or adrenaline junkies promoting their own feats. But cat skiing has long held an undeserved reputation as a sport for men and experts. Some cat skiing can suck fear through one’s bowels, but most of the action is like skiing black diamonds at resorts.
Only better.
Led by an all-female guide team at British Columbia’s Powder Cowboy, women discover that they can cat ski and enjoy it, too, in a sp ecial Girlski Tour.
“I loved the all-girls trip because it was my first time out powder skiing,” said Linda Sudermann, from Calgary, Alberta. “It gave me the comfort level I needed.”
Like Sudermann, many Girlski participants are solid resort skiers, but first timers to cat skiing.
About four hours from Spokane just across the Canada border, Powder Cowboy leads trips on 6,000 acres in the craggy Lizard Range west of Cranbrook. Pacific weather systems dump 350 inches of annual snows in this area.
Wide chutes and bowls pocket gladed slopes that swim down 1,000-2,500 vertical feet — enough to ignite a burn in the thighs. With two cats shuttling a maximum of 24 skiers a day for 8-14 runs, the two ski groups rarely see each other until back in the lodge for après ski beers.
Last January, as the Princess loaded with women crawled up the slope, nerves twanged like tightened guitar strings. Stopping to practice avalanche protocol with transceivers notched the strings tighter.
And still tighter as our lead guide Kir Knechtel (also Powder Cowboy’s head guide) explained the need to stay out of gullies, avoid tree wells, and ski with partners.
As women will do, we all confessed our fears, but until we skied a few turns, they clung to us like an extra layer of long underwear.
After just two runs, our nervousness dissipated in the high mountain air. Tight-lipped smiles melted into bold grins, as we mocked our earlier qualms. We hopped back in the cat chirping, “Let’s do that again!”
Our two guides—both Association of Canadian Mountain Guides-certified—embodied an unstated sense of empowerment to tackle hidden gladed drops. Their calm encouragement instilled confidence, inching us into more difficult terrain—April Fool’s, Ironside Chute, Chef’s Special, Pinball, and Yeti Run. With a snow safety crew out daily digging pits to test for skiability, the guides led us into new freshies, one after another.
At the each run’s top, cat driver Libby Olsen handed each of us our skis with merriment that said we’d love the next run. Then she’d zip to the bottom to meet us with a raucous “How was it?”
While Knechtel detailed what to expect before each run — tightening trees, a gully, a drop-off to avoid — tailgunner Olivia Sofer waited with cherry patience for those of us picking ourselves up out of the powder. Hardly extreme, the slopes weren’t difficult, but many of us had never skied so much deep fluff before.
Sofer gave us hints on how to ski the powder: “Keep your hands in front…look at the snow, not the trees.”
Laughter crescendoed as run after run begged for our skis to leave “S” turn signatures in pristine powder. Without competition to be the first down or ski the best line, encouragement fell off our lips for each other, and we rewarded ourselves with cookies after demanding runs.
“An all-women’s group is great because there’s no bravado,” noted Patty Christie, from Winnepeg, Manitoba, after one run that our cat driver billed as a “three cookie run.” We saw the men’s group only when they came racing like roller derby competitors into the parking lot at the end of the day.
Ranging in age from early twenties to mid-fifties, most of us knew less than a handful of women who cat skied. But despite varied ages and backgrounds, camaraderie built up fast.
“Besides the untracked runs of powder, the best thing was the women,” said Diane Carlson, also from Winnepeg. “The group was full of such interesting females, including the guides.”
Conversations started in the cat continued at dinner.
At its best, cat skiing yields miles of floating in uncut light eider down snow. No one missed knee-pounding moguls that erupt up on off-groomed resort runs. Moguls can’t bump up when the acre-to-skier ratio is comparable to more than two Schweitzer Mountains for only two dozen skiers.
There’s no need to stop for lunch, as the cat is stocked with sandwiches, cookies, fruit, veggies, and drinks. On frigid days, as ours were hanging around zero, riding in a warm cat sure beat out huddling on an icy, windy lift—especially when the chocolate bag passed around.
After cat skiing, many snowcat operations offer upscale accommodations. At Powder Cowboys, vans headed back to home base at Bull River Guest Ranch, where cozy log cabins surround the Big Horn Saloon—the main lodge housing the bar, dining room that serves gourmet meals, gift shop, and gear room.
Aching muscles found relief with massages or in the hot tub and sauna. The Girlski program also added in a yoga class.
Costs for all these on and off-snow services run about $535 a day.
As Girlski participants returned home to varied provinces and states, we packed unforgettable powder skiing. But stuffed in our bags next to our gloves and helmets was also a new sense of confidence—that cat skiing wasn’t just for adrenaline junkies.
“I wouldn’t hesitate now to go out in mixed company,” said Sudermann. “But I get why guys like to go with just guys. I think it is the same for the girls.”