A season of soulful ski touring, winter camping, and finding joy in the quiet corners of snow-covered landscapes

A Winter Without Lifts — And With More Meaning

For the first time since I was a youngster, I had no lift pass. No resorts, no high-speed lifts, and no powder frenzy dawn patrols. Furthermore, the snow conditions were not ideal for backcountry skiing or ski mountaineering. From the get-go, it was feast or famine, and it set up for little confidence in the snowpack to go after big lines. My usual motivation to chase descents just wasn’t there. But instead of being frustrated, I saw it as an invitation. An opening. To try something new, kind of.

I made a decision — to go back to where it all began. To rediscover the joy of old-school backcountry ski touring.

There’s something deeply grounding about stepping into a pair of simple touring skis, heading out the door, and gliding into the quiet woods. For me, old-school backcountry ski touring isn’t about deep powder, chasing steeps, or making turns. It’s about getting back to my roots — reconnecting with the outdoors in the most basic, beautiful way.

In a world that’s become increasingly high-tech and goal-oriented, there’s a real peace in the simplicity of classic ski touring. Solid, time-tested gear. Untracked snow. No lift lines, no crowded backcountry haunts, no “objectives.” Just a map, a thermos, and a desire to wander.

Why I Chose Fish Scale Skis

I chose my setup with that simplicity in mind. My go-to skis are the Voile Endeavor BCs — a trusty pair of fish scale skis with metal edges and scaled bases that grip on the uphills and glide on the downs. These skis are ideal for long distances and rolling terrain where the old climb-skin-descend-repeat routine just slows you down. With fish scale skis, touring becomes smoother, faster, more intuitive. You flow with the landscape, not against it. Matched with Voile three-pin bindings and Alpina Alaska 75mm boots, the setup is classic, simple, durable, and perfectly suited for long days. The boots strike that balance of comfort and control, and the whole system invites you to explore the quiet folds of the landscape that so often get overlooked.

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  Clipping into the Endeavor BC to start the day
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  Views from the trail with the sled in tow

This kind of skiing is about freedom. The freedom to move through the woods and hills without a strict plan, following curiosity instead of a skin track. It’s about reaching places that others rarely visit in winter — quiet drainages, unnamed hills, ancient and forgotten tracks, all reclaimed by snow. And it’s not about the descent. It’s about the journey — the rhythm of the glide, the stillness in the landscape, the sense of discovery in your own backyard.

Putting fish scale skis to the test

Over the winter, I found great solace in my backyard wanderings, but sure enough, as is typical with me, that simplicity and connection eventually drew me towards a bigger goal. For quite some time, I had dreams of a long multi-day ski traverse, and in particular a route which I had mapped out just to the north of where I live.  I spent a few months training with my gear and pulling a sled loaded with winter camping equipment. With each outing including a couple of overnights, I gained fitness, dialed in my systems, honed my skills, and built the confidence to take on my ambitious goal. The culmination of this season’s old school ski touring was to be a ski traverse of the White River Plateau in Colorado — a broad dome encompassing the mountainous area of the Flat Tops. 

The route stitched together snowmobile tracks, ancient trails, and snow-covered county roads over several days. It required me to rely on the same simple gear I use for day tours — but pushed to a new level. And I would camp along the way, embracing the deeper rhythm of multi-day travel in the snow-covered wilderness.

The Magic of Winter Camping

There’s something magical about winter camping. The landscape feels larger, more pristine, and even more remote under a blanket of snow. Skills sharpen quickly — planning, fueling, layering, managing moisture and warmth, staying safe, staying comfortable. But the rewards are immense. Sunrise and sunset feel more vivid when you’re fully immersed in the backcountry. The quiet is deeper, the stars brighter.

During this traverse, I experienced the kind of solitude I haven’t felt in years. Despite following snowmobile routes for three days and two nights, I didn’t see a single person. The conditions were perfect: warm and sunny, stable snow, and clear skies, and my equipment performed flawlessly. I was even lucky enough to be visited by the northern lights on two of those nights — dancing across the sky above my tent like a gift from the universe.

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  Aurora at camp 2
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  Aurora over Flat Tops Wilderness

At over 53 miles and topping out at 11,400 feet, the traverse was challenging. But it was also deeply satisfying — one of those experiences that leaves a lasting mark on your spirit. The kind that reminds you why you head out in the first place.

Fish Scale Skis for the Soul

So, while old-school backcountry touring may seem tame compared to modern backcountry skiing, for me, it opens the door to something richer. It strips away the noise and brings you back to the essence of winter travel — the purity of snow, the quiet of the woods, and the freedom of the glide. It’s not about the peak. It’s about the place. The process. And the perspective.

So if you’re feeling called to something quieter, something closer to the soul — dust off the map, click into your old-school bindings mounted to fish scale skis, and start exploring. You might just find your biggest adventures begin right out your back door.

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