Helicopter-Access Hiking at Durrand Glacier Chalet in British Columbia’s Selkirk Mountains

At a remote lodge high in British Columbia’s Selkirk Mountains, the helicopter is your taxi, mountain guides lead the way, dinner is decidedly gourmet. And Mother Nature makes absolutely no promises.

There are vacations you book on a whim and others you anticipate for months. Our getaway to Selkirk Mountain Experience falls firmly into the latter category.

My husband, Brent, and I, along with our friends Nancy and Clark, had been looking forward to this remote mountain escape near Revelstoke, British Columbia, where there are no roads, traffic jams or tour buses. The only way “in” is by helicopter.

On departure morning, a glorious patch of blue sky raises our hopes. After a long, hot summer of seemingly endless sunshine, surely the cooperative weather will continue for our three days of alpine hiking.

Mother Nature, as we are about to discover, has not been copied on our itinerary.

Our Chopper to the Mountains

The adventure begins before our hiking boots ever touch a trail. As our helicopter lifts from the valley, civilization quickly falls away. Forested slopes sweep beneath us, glaciers fill rocky basins and serrated peaks rise in every direction.

Then our destination comes into view.

Durrand Glacier Chalet sits on a scenic knoll at 1,946 metres (6,384 feet), surrounded by glaciers, alpine meadows, waterfalls, lakes and peaks. It is quite the address.

Swiss-born mountain guide Ruedi Beglinger discovered this corner of the Northern Selkirks after coming to Canada in 1980. He founded Selkirk Mountain Experience and built the chalet in 1985. Nicoline later joined the operation, bringing her expertise in business and hospitality and helping shape the welcoming mountain experience guests enjoy today. Their daughters, Florina and Charlotte, grew up here with mountains, glaciers and hiking trails as their backyard. On this trip, Florina would be one of our guides.

The family’s Swiss roots are evident as soon as we land. Our pine-clad chalet has comfortable bedrooms, hot showers, indoor plumbing, a sauna and even Wi‑Fi. Apparently, we can leave civilization behind without completely abandoning it.

We meet Nicoline; our guides, Tate, Florina and Ben; and the guests who will become our hiking companions. Over the next three days, eighteen strangers will bond over misty ridges, wet boots, shared meals and aching muscles.

With our bags deposited and boots laced, there is no time to waste. The mountains are waiting.

Moon Hill and Utopia Ridge

The wilderness begins at the chalet door. Our first hike leads toward Moon Hill and Utopia Ridge, through a landscape that seems designed to slow a photographer down.

Waterfalls tumble into rushing streams. Alpine lakes mirror the peaks, while meadows are splashed with Indian paintbrush, fireweed and yellow blooms. Marmots scurry among the rocks, pikas chirp from crevices and mountain goats observe from above.

Our guides, Tate and Florina, move through this terrain with the easy stride of people who consider mountains their natural habitat. Brent follows. Nancy and Clark settle in with their group, and I bring up the rear.

The Case of the Missing Puffer

This is not an unfamiliar position for me. I have always maintained that somebody must be last, and I am selflessly willing to accept the responsibility. Unfortunately, today there is a good reason: I have forgotten something important.

My puffer. And I don’t mean a down jacket.

For an asthmatic heading uphill at nearly 2,000 metres, forgetting Ventolin is a little like going scuba diving without an oxygen tank. While everyone else strides steadily upward, I huff, puff and wheeze like an old mare climbing one hill too many.

Fortunately, I have an excellent cover.

“Just getting a photo!” I call whenever I stop. Again. And again. At this rate, I will return home with 400 photographs of the same waterfall. But nobody needs to know I am actually waiting for my lungs to catch up.

And there is plenty worth photographing. Until it suddenly disappears.

Walking Into Oblivion

At first, a few wisps of cloud drift across the peaks. Then comes the fog. By the time we reach the skyline ridge near Moon Hill, Mother Nature has pulled the curtains.

The trail beneath our boots remains visible. Beyond that? It’s white on both sides. The ridge narrows and the mountain seems to plunge into oblivion. Walking upright begins to feel overrated; hands and knees suddenly seem perfectly respectable.

Fog briefly reveals a rocky outcrop before swallowing it again. Tate and Florina remain reassuringly calm. They know the terrain, set a measured pace and keep us together. Their confidence becomes ours.

It is not the blue-sky hiking day we imagined when our helicopter lifted off that morning, but it is spectacular in a different way. The mountains have become moody and mysterious, revealing themselves in tantalizing glimpses.

Eventually, through the mist, comes one of the loveliest sights of the day: the chalet. Home sweet alpine home.

That is when the sky begins to rumble. Thunder rolls across the mountains and lightning flashes. Our leisurely final steps become purposeful. Suddenly, I am no longer the old mare at the back. I am Secretariat, or at least a more motivated version of myself.

We cross the threshold just as the heavens open. Rain pounds the windows while we pull off our boots, grateful to be on the dry side of the glass.

It is hard to imagine anything more satisfying at that moment. Except, perhaps, dinner.

Wilderness Dining, Elevated

Our chef, Mitja Ziegler, introduces himself with a grin and a playful, “Nice to meet-cha.” What comes from his kitchen over the next few days seems almost impossible, considering every ingredient has arrived by helicopter.

One evening brings melt-in-your-mouth pork belly with creamy mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables. Another features mushroom risotto, shishito peppers and truffle oil. Our final dinner is a perfectly cooked New York steak with rosemary potatoes and zucchini-and-tomato salsa. This is most definitely not beans-over-a-campfire wilderness dining.

Even our made-to-order trail sandwiches are layered with cheeses, preserves and succulent meats. Turkey with cranberry? Of course. Nutella and banana? Absolutely. Here, our wish seems to be their command. And when we return from the trail every day, freshly baked treats and prize-worthy appetizers are waiting. I begin to see one potential problem with this hiking holiday: I may actually gain weight.

Outside, the rain continues all night. Mother Nature has apparently booked the all-inclusive package too.

Singing And Squishing In The Rain

The second day, before setting out for Goat Mountain and Mirror Lake, I have one small matter to address: my lungs.

Fortunately, my new angel friend Cathy heard yesterday’s wheezing. And she has an extra Ventolin. At that moment, the little blue inhaler is more beautiful than any glacier. A couple of puffs later, I am ready. I still bring up the rear, but at least the soundtrack is less dramatic.

Initially, our outdoor gear performs admirably and we all remain smugly dry. Mother Nature accepts the challenge. Soon, rain finds places Gore‑Tex apparently has not heard about.

Eventually, we all reach maximum saturation. Strangely, that’s when it becomes fun. Once you cannot possibly get any wetter, there is no point worrying about it. We laugh, slog, sing and keep hiking.

Rain-swollen waterfalls cascade down the mountainsides, streams rush beside us and Mirror Lake appears through the mist. The landscape plays peekaboo: a valley opens, a waterfall flashes silver, then vanishes.

We return soaked and exhilarated. In the cedar-scented sauna, with a window framing cloud-shrouded mountains, we thaw and agree that even rain can create a memorable alpine day.

And Then There Was Blue

By our final morning, we have stopped expecting anything from the weather. Naturally, that’s when it becomes perfect.

Clear skies reveal gleaming glaciers, layered peaks and waterfalls threading down green mountainsides. We can finally see terrain we have already crossed.

“That’s where we were?” Apparently. Perhaps fog has its advantages, especially for those of us who prefer not to see every steep drop-off.

Ropes, Chains and Canadian Meadows

Our route toward Canadian Meadows delivers the hiking day we imagined. It climbs across boulders, loose shale and narrow ledges. In trickier sections, ropes and chains secured to bedrock provide reassuring handholds. I haul myself upward with all the grace of a sack of potatoes being delivered to a second-storey window.

Nancy stays close enough to our guide Ben’s heels to read the label on his boots. One side of the path hugs the mountain; the other falls sharply away. Mountain goats watch from above, presumably wondering what the fuss is about.

Singing Our Way Down

At the top, the anxiety eases and the views steal our breath. Coming down, we turn the trail into a travelling concert, singing everything from the Beatles and ABBA to “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.” By the time we reach gentler ground, Nancy declares it to be her best descent ever.

Perhaps music really does tame the mountain beast.

Strangers Become Friends

Something else happens during our stay: our group gels. There is something about sharing foggy ridges, soaked clothing, magnificent scenery and long dinners that accelerates friendship.

Our fellow guests become my emergency-supply department. Cathy provides Ventolin; Brenda rescues me when I discover I also forgot my phone charger. Clearly, I packed exceptionally well. Another few days and someone might have to lend me underwear.

Nicoline’s warmth makes the chalet feel more like a mountain home than a hotel. Mitja creates memorable meals. Tate, Florina and Ben combine expertise with the humor and patience needed to guide hikers with different speeds and comfort levels.

We are guided through the mountains by day, fed like royalty by night and wonderfully looked after in between.

Weather Or Not

Would I have ordered three days of brilliant sunshine? Absolutely. But mountains do not perform on command and perhaps that’s what makes them so memorable.

When the helicopter returns to whisk us back to civilization, I take one last look at Durrand Glacier Chalet and the wilderness surrounding it.

We have been fogged in, rained on, thundered over and soaked. We’ve laughed, made friends and explored some of British Columbia’s most spectacular, uncrowded alpine country.

Admittedly, in my case, not all the breathlessness was caused by the scenery.

We will be back. And next time, I am bringing my phone charger. And my Ventolin.

If You Go

Durrand Glacier Chalet is located at 1,946 metres (6,384 feet) in the Northern Selkirk Mountains near Revelstoke, British Columbia. The Swiss-style lodge is accessible by helicopter and offers guided alpine hiking and climbing in summer. In winter, the operation specializes in guided backcountry ski touring rather than conventional heli-skiing; the helicopter transports guests to and from the remote chalet.

Accommodation includes private and two-person bedrooms, hot showers, indoor plumbing, Wi‑Fi, a sauna and freshly prepared meals. Routes and daily objectives are selected according to weather, conditions and guests’ abilities.

More information: Selkirk Mountain Experience

Instagram: @selkirmtnexperience

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Author Bio: Since 1996, while freelancing, Jane Cassie has had thousands of articles published.  Her stories have appeared CNN Magazine, Northwest Travel, New York Daily News, Chicken Soup For The Soul, Dreamscapes, Air Canada In-flight, Cottage Life, Epicure and Travel, just to name a few. She has been a regular contributor to Spa Life, INNspire, North American Inns Magazine, Cottage, and Inspire Magazines.

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