Standing near the bow of our sailboat with a piping-hot cup of coffee in one hand and a sidestay (rope) for balance in the other, I scanned the shoreline for spots to land our small dinghy—and for bears, of course. I’d pictured Alaska’s Prince William Sound as the literal interpretation of the “Last Frontier”: a ruthless, R-rated landscape in a palette of grays and browns and no evidence of life. Instead, I was surprised by a wall of mossy trees—a thick temperate rainforest of Sitka spruce and hemlock—greener than my home state of Oregon.
I was here to meet my friend and captain Ben Doerr, owner of Sail 2 Ski, and help him scout new locations over the course of a week. Due to the remoteness, skiing in this area is by boat or helicopter only. Most adventure skiers, especially affluent ones, choose the latter—the scream of a heli rotor, a high-octane energy, and the steep fin-shaped spines of snow that Alaska is famous for—but I was hoping for something on the other end of the tempo spectrum.
Over the next few days, slowly sailing up fjords and around mountains would give me time to soak in and appreciate the challenge of skiing in this area—which can be easily lost if you’re flying at 150 mph in a helicopter. It turns out that a more relaxed approach makes each descent seem more valuable, creating a deeper connection between the skier and the landscape.
How to reach Alaska’s remote corners
Three days earlier, I had boarded what’s colloquially known as a “milk run” flight from Anchorage southeast to Cordova, a tiny maritime town known for salmon fishing and salty locals. Entirely disconnected from the continental road system thanks to an earthquake in 1964 and the Exxon Valdez oil spill a quarter century later, the community became fiercely independent. Known for tight-knit locals, a working waterfront, and quirky traditions, it is one of three towns—along with Whittier and Valdez—that provide easy sailing access to the Sound.
There’s a maze of docks at the port in Cordova.
Photo by Andy Cochrane
Dropping below the low-hanging clouds in our twin-engine, I caught a quick preview of my week ahead: deep fjords, tidewater glaciers, and snowcapped peaks, with very few signs of human life. The coastline of Prince William Sound stretches more than 3,800 miles and is home to fewer than 10,000 people, which has created an abundance of wildlife, including a hair-raising 1.4 bears per square mile.
Locals board this short flight for shopping in Anchorage, while most visitors take the ride for summer sightseeing of seals, whales, salmon, and sea otters. My weeklong sail-to-ski trip into the nearby Chugach Mountains was another reason to use the service.
Babkin Charters and Tundra Adventure Charters offer similar boutique, backcountry ski experiences as well as trips focused on paddleboarding, wildlife watching, and stargazing. Such experiences also offer travelers the opportunity to fish their own salmon for freshly caught meals on board. I highly recommend asking your captain about it beforehand.
What it’s like to sail around Price William Sound
I met my companions on the curb outside the airport and continued on to the port, which undoubtedly is the heartbeat of the town. With slips for more than 700 boats, docks crisscross these calm waters like a maze. Fortunately, Ben was waiting for us at the top of the pier.
We hid inside but could feel the power of the storm against the hull of the boat.
As we hauled our gear below deck, the skies began to darken, the winds kicked up, and pressure dropped sharply. Light rain danced across the wooden wharfs, then turned torrential. We hid inside but could feel the power of the storm against the hull of the boat. As fast as the tempest had arrived, it departed, leaving just puddles and a freshness in the air. Inside the sailboat we were warm thanks to a small wood-fired stove, allowing the group to settle in to the cozy abode.
By trading jet fuel for wind and human power, we were knowingly accessing skiing the slow and hard way. To reach summits above Prince William Sound, our crew (led by our guides but supported by all of us) would play weatherman, ski guide, and porter at the same time. We would have to plan with the tides, bushwhack through forests, and carry all of our gear to the top before skiing down, without the mechanized cheat code of a helicopter. But the process was the purpose.
In the most reductive sense, this meant less skiing—a lot less skiing. But the quantity of turns doesn’t always correlate to the quality of a trip, as far as I’m concerned. Forced to wait out storms, fight through thick brambles, and turn around early due to dark skies on the horizon, we would learn a lot more about patience and persistence while building a more symbiotic connection to the landscape around us.
You can almost always see the Pacific Ocean in the distance when skiing down the Chugach Mountains.
Photo by Andy Cochrane
For three nights we dropped anchor in Columbia Bay, not far from the Columbia Glacier, the second-largest tidewater glacier in North America. For thousands of years, this and countless other glaciers have carved massive valleys that converge at the sound. Today, 150 still remain, 17 of which end in the ocean. But due to climate change, the Columbia has retreated more than 12 miles since the 1980s, losing more than half of its total volume. As a whole, the area has lost 379 gigatonnes of ice in the past 70 years alone.
Occasionally you’ll see ice calving into the water and floating out to sea. Some chunks of ice are the size of airplane fuselages, which forced us to navigate the skiff around them to reach land, before trekking through muskeg bogs, hoping we didn’t punch through the peat and fill our rubber boots with water.
After a few days, our routine had become a deep, intentional ritual. Inside the sailboat was a large V-berth bed, a pair of modular settee bunks, and a small but cozy pilot berth, all with foam mattresses. Instead, I opted to sleep in the wheelhouse across from Ben, often waking at first light. Before saying good morning to each other, we’d sit upright and search the horizon for humpbacks, who were returning to the sound after months away.
How to backcountry ski in the Chugach Mountains
After coffee and breakfast, we’d all pile in the dinghy and motor to shore, unload all our ski gear, and fight through thickets of alder, willow, and salmonberry, being obnoxiously loud in an effort to announce our presence to any bears who happened to be nearby.
Sometimes the journey to the snow was easy; often it was not. Without man-made trails, we were forced to create our own. We followed our guides through marshes and over boulders as they searched for the path of least resistance. Once we had snow below our boots, we would transition to skis with skins and switchback our way up through the subalpine until we reached the snowy slopes devoid of flora. The alpine provided much better skiing but also was exposed to the elements.
The simple lifestyle on a sailboat gave me the perspective of a wiser sage.
Alaska’s Chugach range is the pinnacle of backcountry skiing in North America. Calling it wild and remote is almost a disservice to these mountains—it’s practically another world. Just five miles from the ocean, Columbia Peak towers 9,423 feet above the shore.
The vertical relief is unlike any other ski trip in the world, with descents double the vertical drop of Jackson Hole, one of the largest ski resorts in the Lower 48. With frequent views of the ocean, it feels surreal standing on top of a peak, even before realizing that the closest human is probably a hundred miles away.
Returning to the refuge of the sailboat
Getting to and from the snow is part of the fun.
Photo by Andy Cochrane
After a few good laps up and down, we’d head down the mountain the same way we climbed up, using our poles for stability and a machete to clear a path, if needed. The dinghy would return us to the sailboat, our place of refuge and recovery.
As the heat from the diesel engine began to dry our soggy layers hanging below deck, a few of us would set off again in the dinghy, this time in search of salmon. It usually took less than an hour to catch five or more—plenty for ceviche. A little citrus, cilantro, and onion made this our après-ski reward, paired with beers and battle stories from the ski adventure hours earlier.
The evening before departing back to Cordova, as the sun descended towards the Pacific, we washed dishes and prepared our beds for the night. Life at home can get too complicated and rushed to see the bigger picture. The simple lifestyle on a sailboat gave me the perspective of a wiser sage.
Aligned with the sun and dictated by the weather, we focused on what we could control, the important things: laughter, camaraderie, and appreciating the power of Mother Nature. Slowing down means that everything you do—each mile in the boat and every run down the mountain—is a lot more precious.
