MOUNTAIN HOME

Halfway Hut. AUTUMN SKY PHOTOGRAPHY

GHOSTS AND GAMBLING ON THE TRAIL TO SKOKI LODGE

Do you dare ski in by the light of the moon? (Holler if you do)

According to local legend, the living mingle in the spirit realm along the trail to world-famous Skoki Lodge. The ghosts of long-dead mountain enthusiasts who met their untimely end in the vicinity of the Parks Canada Halfway Hut are said to linger in and around the shelter.

Insisting it is not necessary to fear the ghostly encounters, Samantha Welanc of Banff Canmore Ghost Walks says, “Happiness is a strong tethering point for spirits.”

By day, the hut is an unassuming, solitary, log structure; visitors’ names are carved into its interior walls and cool, mountain breezes slip through the strip-wood chinking. But, when darkness descends on the valley, the otherworldly encounters begin: the clink of glasses once full of rum, the snap of playing cards, the smell of a woman’s perfume, and smoke from long-extinguished fires billows from its chimney.

The Legend of Halfway Hut

By John Porter

A tale I must tell, though it’s known full well to the men of the high country, to the intrepid skiers, and bold mountaineers who roam the Ptarmigan Valley. It’s the tale of a shack which lies far back in that country rugged and wild where no man can stay beyond light of day when the snow lies thickly piled.

On a wintry night if you see light from the Halfway Cabin gleam, oh, pay no heed, but put on speed for it’s not what it might seem. Or at other times when the blue smoke climbs from the rusty chimney stack, don’t play with fate! for you’ll find too late, that the stove is cold and black!

For this is the den of four strong men, (do I see your faces blanch?) four mountaineers who met with jeers the threat of the avalanche. Two perished, alas, on the Duchesnay Pass, the third in Richardson Bowl, the fourth, Mt. Fossil retained, and all that remained on the snow was a bent ski pole.

Yes, this was their fate, and as each reached the gate and Gabriel wound on his horn Old Peter cried out, with a mighty shout, “Friend, don’t look so forlorn! As a good mountaineer, you don’t belong here; there isn’t one hill to ski. So we’re sending you back to the Halfway Shack for the rest of eternity!”

So back Gadner went, and Paley was sent soon after to join him there; then after a spell, the two Daem boys as well moved into the mountain lair. When these two appeared, Herman Gadner cheered as he poured them a nebulous rum, “Now, the number is right, we play poker tonight, by God, lads, I’m glad that you’ve come . . .” If you’re skiing by day past the old Halfway, you may think it an ordinary sight, for deserted it lies; but you’ll rub your eyes if you travel that trail by night! Down from Ptarmigan Peak with a terrible shriek and trailing vermilion flames on his fluorescent skis, Gadner roars through the trees leading Paley and both the Daems.

The wind from their schuss bends the tops of the spruce and startles the snows from the height, and their yodels resound with a fantastic sound as they hurtle along through the night. To the Halfway they come, with their packs filled with rum, at the doorway they kick off their skis. Soon the fire is lit, and round the table they sit and there they relax at their ease.

All the night long, there are snatches of song and the clinking of glass upon glass while the poker chips click and the playing cards flick and phantasmal fortunes amass. But the first light of dawn sees the four spectres gone; in a great whirl of snow they streak to the daytime repose in the sharp corniced snows on the summit of Ptarmigan Peak.

Oh, yes, there’s a shack which lies far back in that country rugged and wild where no man can stay beyond light of day when the snow lies thickly piled, which offers no rest to the skier hard pressed, no shelter against the storm, for this is the den of four strong men who now have no human form.

Now the tale has been told and I charge you to hold the words that I’ve told you as true, and though you may doubt what I’ve written about There’s one way to prove it to you— just sleep there one night. If your hair is not white when the sun tops the mountains next day, I’ll agree to take back all I’ve told of the shack that is known as the old Halfway.