The sound of rotor blades chopping through the air swallows my voice as I usher clients out of the airport and toward the helicopter. I quickly and meticulously load their skis, snowboards and avalanche airbag packs into the wired basket that hangs onto the side of the helicopter.
Closing the basket, I scan my work to ensure everything is tucked away correctly, hop in the front seat next to my lead guide, close the door and give the pilot a thumbs up. My stomach leaps as we gently lift off the ground — reassuring myself no one knows this is not only my first time heli-ski guiding, but my first time heli-skiing.
Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine going heli-skiing, let alone working as a guide. I crossed paths with Alaska Powder Descents (APD), Juneau’s local heli-ski company, last fall while taking a Wilderness First Responder recertification class.
I walked into our first day of class and was shocked to see I was the only female in the room. I took my seat next to accomplished guides, pilots, avalanche professionals and outdoor studies professors. To say I felt intimidated is an understatement.
As the class began, I realized my advantage: I had just gotten my emergency medical technician (EMT) license and spent a season ski patrolling. I actually knew a bit about wilderness medicine. Rather than sinking to the back of the class and flying under the radar, I decided to view it as an opportunity to get my foot in the door and make connections.
I wrote down four words: calm, confident, curious and motivated. I decided I was going to embody these four words over the next four days and see where it would take me.
A slight breeze jostles the helicopter as we brush over snow-capped peaks following drainages back into the Juneau icefield like we are trying to find our way through a maze. The pilot and lead guide chit-chat over the headset, but I am too mesmerized by the rigidity of the glacier’s edges and the sharp peaks poking the sky to join in on their conversation.
We approach the first zone for the day. The pilot turns the helicopter, so my window is parallel with the glacier below, to give us a full view of our line. The lead guide points out crevasses, cliff bands and old avalanche slide paths to avoid. The pilot jolts the helicopter back up and heads to the ridgeline.
We hover over the peak as gusts of wind buck the helicopter back up in resistance. The pilot is patient and exact in his landing. As we touch down, the skids sit perpendicular to the ridge, and the pilot works to balance the helicopter while we get out. I unload our gear from the basket — being careful not to lose anything to the slope below me — and give the pilot a nod. Just like that, he’s gone, leaving us atop the 2,000-vertical-foot run in silence for the first time that day.
At the end of the wilderness first responder course, I was asked to start tail guiding for APD, and I was elated. The function of a tail guide is to support the lead guide, usually by dropping last, ensuring there is someone to respond to any accidents on the hill. My performance in the course helped earn me this spot.
Standing on the ridge, the clients squeal in excitement. It’s hard for me not to join them. I pull out my old film camera and snap a photo of the wind billowing off the neighboring peak.
We strap in and discuss the line with the clients. To the rider’s left is more mellow, to the right is steeper. Avoid going too far right because it is peppered with rocks and cliffs. At the bottom, traverse back to the left to avoid the gaping crevasse on the right. Drop one at a time. Have your airbag triggers out. Most importantly, have fun.
I watch as my lead guide ski cuts the slope, hoping if it were to slide it would now, in a controlled environment, rather than when a client is riding it. With no results, he drops into the line, blowing up clouds of snow with every turn. He ducks out of sight, and we await his radio call: “Clear.”
One by one I send the clients down, their excited hoots and hollers lingering in the air as they fly out of sight.
As I send the last client down, I have a minute to myself at the top of the peak. I am in absolute awe of this place and feel a pulse of pride in just standing here. My radio crackles and I know it’s my turn to drop. I take a deep breath, reminding myself of those four words, and drop into the powdery face.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond. Reach her at heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
