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In Pursuit of Powder: Catskiing Colorado’s Remote Irwin Backcountry

The last time I went catskiing was the scariest day of my life. Since then, I've torn my ACL. What could go wrong on my next powder adventure?

“Skiing is the closest thing to flying.”

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I remember the words of my host, ski legend Mike Hattrup, as I peer down the side of a cliff, utterly terrified. I’m perched atop a vertiginous ledge in the West Elk Mountains, and though Colorado has had the driest season on record, everything beneath me—the aspen trees, the jagged rock spires—is coated under a thick blanket of snow. And with great powder comes great responsibility.

A private snowcat deposits me above the treeline, and it’s time for the first run of the day. The last time I embarked on a catskiing adventure was, definitively, one of the most stressful days of my life. It was six years ago, on the Powder Highway in British Columbia, and I was decidedly the weakest link in my group of skiers. I’d been overconfident in my abilities at the time, perhaps. There’s skiing groomers, and catching first tracks at a resort, and then there’s backcountry—the very movements of the sport change when confronted with waist-deep powder (and hidden tree wells).

And, like everything else in life, confidence is everything. I’d been too conservative with my skiing—not aggressive enough. I was slowing myself down to such an extent that I found myself routinely buried beneath the snow after not catching enough speed to execute a proper turn. I was constantly being rescued by one of our patient Canadian guides, and swore to myself I’d never find myself in that sunken place again. 

Fortunately (or unfortunately, at that moment), my memory is blissfully short. Since then, I’d torn my ACL in Jackson Hole (always an encouraging development), but that had yet to slow me down. I’d embarked on another off-piste pursuit last winter, heliskiing the Chugach Mountains in Alaska, and found that backcountry was far more blissful when above the treeline. Here, though, I found myself in no such luck. And the only way down is down.

“We’re skiing at such a high altitude,” my guide, Megan Paden, reminded me. “Pull, plant, breathe.”

I repeated these words like a mantra as I dropped down into the ungroomed abyss, navigating a wintry paradise of fir trees sparkling with ice crystals, the clear blue Colorado sky above. Reader, I survived. We spent the rest of the day navigating over a thousand acres of exclusive terrain, and—amid the sacred silence of the Rocky Mountains—it honestly did feel like flying.

After the initial run, we returned to the heated snowcat, which was stocked with drinks and snacks, and played the Grateful Dead—an energizing break ahead of what was to come next. The snowcat drove up the mountain, depositing us atop fields of untouched powder. The terrain featured gladed tree runs, steep chutes and alpine bowls, and with each run, I felt my confidence growing (I’d survived the previous one, after all). We always had a guide who led the way, calling out any obstacles to avoid, and another who trailed in the back—both were encouraging and made it all look easy. You don’t need to be an expert skier to partake, as intermediate skiers can navigate down the hill on easier runs if necessary. Our lunch break was in a scenic cabin around a roaring fire (and a cold beer for additional confidence).

The elevated amenities—from the cabin to the luxury snowcat—helped the experience feel far less fraught than my previous outing on the Powder Highway, and far more collegial. The beauty of our surroundings was transportive. It’s rare to be in a part of nature that’s truly inaccessible to other skiers (aside from your catskiing comrades), and each run we took was a descent upon untouched powder. The après, however, was my favorite aspect of the experience—we gathered around a bonfire, and enjoyed Moscow mules and champagne overlooking the valley and the surrounding mountain range. The snowcat ride down to Crested Butte at the end of the day was always high-energy and celebratory, my nerves from that morning entirely forgotten.

So, what prompted me to head to southwestern Colorado this January to try my luck at catskiing once more, despite my fear after my initial experience? Aside from being an eternal optimist (wisely so, in this instance), I was motivated by my long-held desire to hit the slopes with adventure travel company Eleven Experiences. The brand has a cult-like following amongst adventurers like yours truly, who yearn to maintain a sense of luxury in the wild. 

Their lodges include Deplar Farm, where you can ski beneath the Northern Lights in Iceland, or Chalet Pelerin, in France, where you heliski in the winter, and hut-to-hut hike in the summer. But it’s the company’s flagship Eleven Sopris House, in Crested Butte, Colorado, that is perhaps the purest embodiment of the brand’s ethos.  

“Eleven Experience is from Spinal Tap—‘Why go to ten, when you can go to eleven?’—and, for our founder, Chad Pike, his whole goal was to think about what you wanted before you did,” Paden explained at our briefing.“Nothing seems off the table with what we’ve seen in the past 17 years—this is a man with a dream.”

Sopris House is outfitted in chic Western decor that’s fitting for après-ski and après-après (the jukebox in the barn, where a full bar overlooks a pool table, got a lot of play as the evenings progressed). The lodge is ideal for recovering after a day on the slopes, either in the sauna or outside in the jacuzzi, watching the sunset over the mountains. We were served well morning, noon and night by the house chef—a luxury that feels far more necessary when you’re expending all that energy out on the mountain, but one that I’m currently still mourning nevertheless.

The locale only contributes to the charm, in the form of a quaint western village with cozy, wood-paneled restaurants, and lively lofts and music venues lining Elk Avenue. Crested Butte is just across the Elk Mountain Range from Aspen, but it feels much further away than the 11 miles connecting the two on the West Maroon Pass hike. We dined at Public House and Slogar, and grabbed pints at Irwin Brewing Company, the festive spirit of the town matching the twinkling lights illuminating the downtown sidewalks weeks after Christmas.

But, of course, the main event is the backcountry. We spent our days catskiing in Irwin, in the private West Elk peaks. The extensive, 1,000-acre-plus terrain is only accessible to guests staying with Eleven Experiences. The entire acreage we were to explore was about two-thirds the size of Crested Butte Mountain Resort—and, during my visit, we had double the inches of snow of Crested Butte despite being only 12 miles away. Irwin receives over 450 inches per year, the highest annual average in Colorado.

“There’s no skiing in Colorado where we can get snow like this at 11,000 feet,” explained Eric Henderson, another ski legend who works with Eleven. 

Perhaps it’s unsurprising that the people who work with the company tend to be cool, or represent the ethos (including the aforementioned Mike Hattrup, also present on this trip, star of the Blizzard of Aahhh’s). “As you all know as skiers, so much of the fun of a ski day is who you’re hanging out with,” said Paden.

So, though I was certainly the weakest link yet again in my catskiing escapades, this time I was in truly remarkable company. I’m proud to report that not only did I survive, but I thrived in the wilderness of the West Elks. The 45-minute ride on our private snowcat was exciting in the morning and celebratory in the evening. Though I must confess, I loved my final day, cruising the groomers on the resort at Crested Butte—for once, I’d truly earned my turns.

SEE ALSO: I Went to a Costa Rican Blue Zone to Reverse Time. My Face—and the Stars—Had Other Ideas

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