Catskiing
Meow, dude.
Catskiing is often compared to heliskiing, not always favourably, at least by helisnobs. In the study of logic, that kind of analysis is technically referred to as faulty, or just plain wrong.
Heliskiers tsk-tsk the slow, steady progress snowcats make getting skiers back up to the top of a run. Helicopters are faster. Assuming they can fly. Which they can't on days snowcats can run. Days that are stormy and snowy. The kind of days your tracks are covered by the time you get back to the top. If I were choosing, I'd rather be skiing those days from a snowcat than sitting around a heli-lodge.
On those days they can fly, people heliskiing, people who probably don't know each other, prostrate themselves in the snow as the chopper lands. Inside, they sit in deafening silence. It's pointless to talk; you can't be heard over the roar of the engine.
When you go catskiing, you, and strangers about to become your new best friends, climb in the cat and get to know each other on the way up the mountain. Then you ski down. Then you get in again and swap stories about the run you just took, the exquisite dinner you had last night, whatever. By the end of the day, you've probably made plans with a few of your new friends to meet the next morning for another day of skiing.
Catskiing's a very social experience. And that's on top of being an incredibly rewarding skiing experience. At least if you consider nonstop faceshots and long, untracked powder runs in achingly beautiful backcountry an incredibly rewarding experience. If you don't, you should maybe check for a pulse.
And yes, if you can ski Whistler's intermediate runs, you can catski. Experienced guides, varied terrain and fat skis make floating through powder almost as easy as skiing groomers… and way higher on the fun-per-foot ratio.
So give catskiing a try. And next time your obnoxious friend who'd rather spend the day at the heli-lodge tries to tell you it's a second-rate ski experience, just say, "Meow, dude!"
