There comes a time in every snow-sport-lover's life when they have to step off the trail. They've conquered the snow plough and parallel turn with ease and carved up the groomed runs across the resorts. They may even have tackled ungroomed snow on dedicated black-run terrain and the steeps and tree runs of the infamous double black diamond offerings in North America. But still it's not enough.
The next obvious step on the way to the skier's dream, untouched powder, is to hit the 'back country': unpatrolled terrain, with which come avalanche warnings and safety guides. But how do you reach this nirvana? Sure, you can trek out there with skis or snowboard over your shoulder but peak fitness is required and a 45-minute hike uphill produces only a two-minute trip back down.
You could heli-ski but it's expensive. Helicopter fuel is costly and guests tend to pay per run rather than for time taken. That's all fine and dandy if you're Barry Billionaire and can hire a helicopter for you and your mates; less so if you're on a budget. So thank the snow lords for snowcat-skiing, which has all the fun of heli-skiing at half the price and with double the number of runs.
Snowcats are traditionally used to groom ski trails and are designed with tank-style caterpillar tracks to traverse snow. Up to 12 skiers can fit into a cat that can reach terrain even helicopters sometimes can't: when the weather prevents helicopters taking off and heli-skiing is cancelled, the cats are still running.
Developed in the 1960s, cat-ski operations now run throughout the world, although the best are found in Canada. Powder Mountain Cat Skiing is the name given to an area close to Whistler Blackcomb resort in British Columbia that covers 1,740 hectares of deep virgin snow across five peaks.
Not only is the snow virgin; I am too. It's my first time in a cat and my first true back country experience, in which lift queues, tracked-out runs and man-made snow are non-existent. I am nervous, scared the others in the group will be extreme masters worthy of a Warren Miller ski film and I'll hold them up.
There are 14 of us, including a lead guide and a tail guide. We make small talk as the cat moves from the mountain day lodge to our home for the day, the great, remote outdoors filled with trees, gullies, open bowls, chutes and lips. The cat is more tractor than Testarossa and we're seated high above the snow in a metal cabin with nothing more than a bar and each other to cling to as we brave the 40-degree incline. Almost an hour later we've made it to the top of our first run. We step out of the cat and straight into thigh-deep powder; this is going to be good.