Algoma’s Secret Backcountry

After years of roaming the wilds of Algoma with my friend, Enn Poldmaa, I should know not to doubt his sense of direction. But as we trundle uphill on backcountry skis in the midst of an intense, Lake Superior snowsquall, I’m convinced we’re headed the wrong way. I thrust a map and compass in his face. “See, we’re here,” I implore, gesturing with my ski pole into the snowy hardwood forest. “We’ve got to go that way.”

Enn barely takes note of the map. “No way, man,” replies the co-owner of Bellevue Valley Lodge, a bed and breakfast specializing in backcountry skiing and snowshoeing, located a half-hour drive north of Sault Ste. Marie.

Enn and his partner, Robin Macintyre, offer instruction, guided tours and rentals; they maintain trails in a 500-acre parcel of land adjacent to the lodge, featuring beginner to advanced terrain. They also host an annual grassroots skiing and snowshoeing festival, which celebrates its 20th year in 2017. Once the domain of a small cadre of experts, Algoma is becoming an increasingly popular destination for ski touring and snowshoeing. Downhill skiers also visit Bellevue Valley Lodge as a low-key alternative to the groomed runs of Searchmont Resort. With no chairlifts, backcountry skiing is a fantastic workout.

Today, Enn is scouting terrain. He’s like a bloodhound, sniffing out a steep, treeless slope we glimpsed from afar during a break in the storm. We bypass dreamscapes of natural moguls and fluffy powder that’s at least a meter deep. Meanwhile, I imagine Enn’s computer-like brain cataloguing the potential runs while navigating by internal compass to the crown jewel. At last, the forest thins out and we’re right on target. There’s a break in the flurries, revealing a steep apron of immaculate snow. Higher up, a gullet parts a granite buttress.

After a long ascent, the climb becomes impossibly steep. We shuffle back and forth, gaining mere meters of elevation. I reflect on the backcountry skier’s mantra, “Earn your turns.” It would be easy to descend from here; logical even, to not bother with the remaining 20-odd meters of elevation. But the beautiful gauntlet draws us upwards.

Finally, we linger at the top, watching the snow clouds part and the sun light up the ice-covered expanse of Lake Superior. When a gust of wind blows in the next squall, we drop into the best run of the winter.

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