exploring

The story of one of the most important inventions in ski touring history  

I attached Alpine Trekkers to my downhill skis the first time I went ski touring and clicked in with my clunky Alpine boots. It was 1997, and I was probably lifting more than 10 pounds of gear with each stride. I was also young, fit and ignorant enough to think the system was amazing. Until one day a Swiss mountain guide using Dynafit touring bindings left me dragging a mile behind him.

I can still picture those bindings. They don’t look that different than the ones on my skis today or the first pin binding introduced in 1984, as such “Low-Tech” bindings are unique among outdoor gear.

Besides the two wheels, today’s mountain bikes share little with the early off-road rigs of 40 years ago. Backpacks have gone from exterior aluminum frames to internal suspension systems. And while skis still have a tip and tail, everything in between has changed.

Meanwhile, the pincer toe, U-pin and boxy heels of today’s tech bindings are obviously descendants of the binding Fritz Barthel invented four decades ago.

“Laziness is the mother of invention,” says Barthel.

The story goes, in 1982, he and a buddy were driving back to Austria from a Mediterranean climbing trip and, on a whim, decided to ski Mont Blanc. When they reached the summit, they were exhausted and nearly didn’t make it back to the car. On the drive home, Barthel, an engineering student and lifelong tinkerer, wondered what he could have done differently. Low Tech’s 30th Anniversary

“I could have trained more to be in a better shape,” he told GearJunkie, a website. “But this was not really an option for me, as I’m a very lazy person.” It All Started With a Near-Death Experience: The Toe-Pin Ski Binding Turns 40

The logical solution was to design a lighter touring binding system. Touring bindings at the time worked similarly to today’s “frame” bindings with resort-style bindings mounted on a plate, or frame, that swivelled from a point near the toe. Barthel realized the key to a lighter setup was the relatively new introduction of stiff plastic ski boots. It would eliminate the need for a heavy frame. The problem was the connection.

After many iterations, Barthel developed a system that used metal pins at the toe that coordinated with notches on a boot and a similar connection at the heel that spun out of the way for climbing.

“At the time, everything had to be called ‘high-tech’ to be successful,” Barthel says. “But, what should this lightweight, mechanically simple binding be called? Low Tech, of course.”

By 1984, Barthel had a working prototype and a patent for his Low-Tech system. He shopped the idea to all the big boot and binding manufacturers, but they were put off by the unusual-looking binding and the fact shoppers of the new bindings also required new boots.

“I still have all the rejection [letters] of all the companies,” Barthel said. “There was no official interest.”

Eventually, Dynafit permitted him to retrofit the binding connections into its boots, with the catch that Barthel had to buy them first. Dynafit.com

His dad, an avid backcountry skier, raised some money, and Barthel turned his basement into a workshop. At first, sales were slow. Then, some ski-mo racers saw the advantage, adopted the system and started winning races. Soon, Barthel was manually retrofitting 1,000 pairs of boots a year. It was unsustainable for a home-based business, and Low Tech was finally enticing enough for the more prominent companies.

In 1990, Dynafit licensed the patent, took over the boot and binding manufacturing and renamed the Tourlite Tech system. (Thirty-five years later, Barthel continues to consult with Dynafit about their bindings and boots.)

As the system gained popularity among the growing ski touring community, Dynafit became synonymous with “tech” bindings. Barthel’s original patent expired in 2006. Overnight, several ski brands introduced their versions.

One of the first was Vancouver-based G3 or Genuine Guide Gear. In the mid-2000s, an alpine touring binding fit well with its mix of avalanche safety gear and telemark bindings. Its first offering, the Onyx binding, sought to alleviate concerns that the tiny pins weren’t reliable or robust enough for hard downhill skiing. It looked beefier and had lateral release values, similar to the DIN settings on resort bindings. It has since been replaced by more minimalist models that the new owner of G3 will continue to sell. G3 is back online and ready for another lap; see G3 Bindings.

The Onyx was a precursor to the Marker Kingpin, which had a pin-style toe but an alpine binding-style heel. Salomon and its sister brand Atomic eventually adapted the idea further with the Shift binding. It uses a pin-style toenail for skinning and a traditional alpine attachment system for the descent, Marker Kingpin Bindings, 2025.

Low tech is now catching on in snowboarding. First, individual riders milled pin connections into their soft boots or created their own “franked systems” out of alpine touring gear. Today, there are several brands, such as Phantom Snow. Voile and Spark R&D, who design and manufacture tech-style boots and bindings specifically for split-boarding, see Cripple Creek Backcountry.

The dozens of tech-style bindings on the market mostly stick closer to Barthel’s original goal of making ski touring lighter and more user-friendly. The latest company to get into the pin binding game is Tyrolia with its new Almonte 12 PT. They look and function very similar to the originals but are lighter, safer, more reliable and easier to use. As such, Fritz Barthel is one of the key architects who made ski touring the approachable and accessible sport it is today. I thank him every time I skin past someone sweating uphill in a clunky frame binding or, worse, Alpine Trekkers.

Written by Ryan Stuart – @Ryan_Adventures

The United Nations has declared 2025 the International Year of Glaciers’ Preservation. Let’s face it: it’s a hopeful declaration. Between about 100,000 and 11,000 years ago, most of North America was frozen beneath ice three kilometres thick in places. Known as the Wisconsin glaciation, it was the last major ice age to grip the northern hemisphere. Time must have practically stood still in this virtually lifeless landscape. It’s no wonder that humans would adopt the word “glacial” as a metaphor for things that move ponderously slowly.

However, that metaphor is melting. The glaciers we know are vestiges of ancient geological history, and they are rapidly leaving the ice age. Human-caused climate change is accelerating this exit. Unless we can limit global warming to a few more tenths of a degree, we’ll lose two-thirds of the world’s remaining glaciers by the year 2100.

Helm Glacier is one of them. Nestled on the north face of Gentian Peak, near Garibaldi Lake, the Helm has been studied more than almost any other glacier in southwestern BC. Federal government scientists started taking measurements there in the 1960s when it covered an area of around 4 square kilometres. Today, it covers just a square kilometre, and it’s not long for this world, says Mark Ednie, a geologist with the Geological Survey of Canada.

The Helm is one of dozens that Ednie monitors in the Western Cordillera of Canada, from the Rockies to the Coast Range. He visits all of them twice a year: once in the spring to measure snow depth and snow density and once in late summer to measure ice melt. Combine these two measurements, and you get something called “mass balance,” a metric that describes whether a glacier is growing or shrinking.

“It’s usually in the negative column,” Ednie says.

You don’t need to be a geologist to know that most of our glaciers are disappearing; you only need to spend a few summers in the mountains and open your eyes.      

Scientists divided a glacier into two zones. The accumulation zone occupies the higher elevations, where the ice remains snow-covered year-round. Below that snow, or firn line, is the zone of ablation, where more snow is lost than accumulates and is often bare ice.

A healthy glacier is growing and is in constant motion. Snow in the accumulation zone feeds the formation of ice, which flows from the upper to lower reaches of the glacier.

Since Ednie started visiting Helm Glacier in 2018, there has been no accumulation zone. Whatever snow falls in winter is long gone by the end of summer.

“So, it means the whole glacier is melting,” Ednie says.

It’s a similar story for most of the glaciers he monitors. And worse for ones like the Peyto Glacier, a dying appendage of the Wapta Icefield in the Rockies with data going back to the late 1800s. The effects of anthropogenic global warming are compounded by ash from massive forest fires. Ash darkens the glacier and reduces the albedo effect, or the surface’s ability to reflect the sun’s energy. The result is an even faster rate of ice melt.

In some ways, Ednie’s work is similar to that of the palliative care business. He makes the rounds to ailing glaciers and takes measurements, the way a nurse dutifully takes the vitals of a terminally ill patient. They know the end is near, but they do it just the same.

Hundreds of millions of people worldwide depend on rivers originating in high mountains. In western Canada, melting snowpack contributes most of the flow to rivers with mountain headwaters. Glacier melt, on the other hand, is responsible for a small portion of streamflow, less than five percent on the Bow River, for example. However, it’s a significant contribution. Melting ice gives streams and rivers a pulse of water during the year’s hottest months. There’s a reason glaciers have been called the water coolers of the earth; they store moisture for when we need it the most. When these water coolers vanish, it will have cascading impacts on irrigation, drinking water, fish habitat, and how we manage water.

Despite the dim outlook for glaciers, even anemic ones like the Helm in the Coast Mountains or the rapidly melting Peyto are still beautiful. Earth’s history is written in the layered, turquoise-coloured walls of a crevasse like the rings of a tree. Glaciers appear, for the most part, still and silent. Yet they are animate, moving imperceptibly by the pull of gravity as they scour, claw, grind and shape the underlying rock over thousands of years into the rugged landscapes we cherish.

Next to scientists like Ednie, who poke and prod glaciers for research purposes, mountain guides, perhaps more than any other people, have a profoundly intimate relationship with glaciers. As a Squamish-based guide, Evan Stevens has lived and worked in Sea to Sky Country since 1998. Stevens has witnessed phenomenal changes in the Coast Mountains, but in a brief period, it doesn’t even register in geological terms. Moats and bergschrunds are bigger and more complicated to navigate. Glaciers like the Serratus in the Tantalus Range are so shattered and broken by late summer that they are almost too dangerous to travel. Where ice retreats, unstable ground is uncovered, creating new rockfall hazards. In other cases, melting alpine permafrost is causing mass wasting events, like the cataclysmic landslide that ripped from the north face of Mt. Joffre near Pemberton in 2019.  According to Stevens, most people think about the toe or terminus of a glacier when it comes to glacial recession. It’s easy to benchmark a glacier’s retreat. However, the diminishing thickness, perhaps less noticeable to the naked eye from year to year, profoundly impacts mountain travel, particularly at that threshold between rock and ice. As the ice thins, the glacier pulls away from cols and mountain passes. What once was a straightforward descent on skis or boots can become a technical descent requiring rappels to reach the glacier.

“As guides, we’re always thinking about plans A, B, C and D and making decisions on the fly. But in some cases, the decision is simple – not to go. The seasons are getting shorter, and some areas have higher hazards. It’s grim,” Stevens says. “I guess it’s not changing what I do, but it’s changing where and when I do it.”

Speaking to people like Stevens and Mark Ednie, you get the sense that travelling across glaciers these days is as much physical as it is nostalgic. It strikes at something existential to mountain people: the disconcerting notion of an alpine without glaciers.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s alarming, but it’s also scientifically fascinating to imagine what we would have seen hundreds of years ago and what we will see in the future,” says Ednie. “I have two young daughters, and I want to make sure they see some of these places before they’re gone.”

Written by Andrew Findlay – @afindlayjournalist