Running a Kitchen in the Clouds Pt. 2
Running a Kitchen in the Clouds
Behind the scenes at The Alpine Club of Canada’s General Mountaineering Camp
There are kitchens, and then there are kitchens in the clouds.
At The Alpine Club of Canada’s General Mountaineering Camp, the kitchen sits high in the alpine, far from roads, grocery stores, and predictable weather. Everything needed to feed up to fifty people arrives by helicopter. After that, meals rely on planning, teamwork, and a willingness to adapt.
One guarantee is that no matter what happens, storms, shortages, or stove malfunctions, meals go out.
My name is Amy Pfaff, the GMC head cook, and this is part two of what it takes to run a kitchen in the clouds.
When the Mountains Push Back
The weather in the alpine is often unpredictable. Snowstorms, rainstorms, and even endless heat can all become part of the daily problem-solving.
Hot days can be cooled by jumping into glacial lakes. Being flexible with the weather means being flexible with the menu. When possible, the kitchen turns out dishes that support the conditions, more leafy greens and lighter sides for hot days to help guests with hydration, while colder days call for hearty stews and meals that warm both hands and heart.
But sometimes, the mountains like to show off.
One night in particular, a storm rolled in that didn’t feel like weather. It felt like something was trying to tear the camp apart.
Lying in my sleeping bag, I could hear everything.
Canvas snapping. Metal clanging. Wind pushing hard enough to flatten my tent walls.
And all I could think was:
Will there even be a kitchen in the morning?
The sun came slowly.
I stepped outside expecting the worst and there was some damage. The dish pit had been ripped apart and scattered across the ground.
But the kitchen was still standing.
Everything in place. Everything safe.
That wasn’t luck. That was the setup crew, weeks of work done well, meaning breakfast would be served.
The Moments That Make a Kitchen
Not every challenge is dramatic.
Sometimes it’s an oven that decides 350 means 500.
Sometimes it’s opening a food delivery and realizing that instead of one bag of spinach, nine have arrived.
Costco-monster-sized bags. And for a week, everything has spinach in it.
Or the day the kitchen fell silent for something entirely unexpected.
A tiny hummingbird had flown inside.
It fluttered upward, instinctively trying to escape, but hummingbirds cannot fly down—only up. It became trapped near the top of the warm canvas ceiling, growing weaker. Without hesitation, I cleared the stainless steel tables so we could reach higher. The busy kitchen transformed into a quiet, focused space. For thirty minutes, we patiently worked to guide and catch the fragile little bird. Finally, gently, we caught it in a hat.
And carried it outside. Releasing it back into the alpine air where it belonged.
The Creativity It Really Takes
Behind every meal is a system most people never see.
Menus planned months in advance.
Food ordered, packed, and flown in.
Storage puzzles solved daily.
There is no backup plan other than one’s creative ideas.
No quick run to the store. (though we once had a box of bread flown in that would have been as expensive as gold. eek)
Normally, all problems are solved with a willingness to adapt and a sprinkling of creativity.
Like the night two cooks decided to make flan for fifty people. This is not a common dessert in camp due to the time needed for refrigeration. Determined to make it happen, they hauled snow in backpacks to chill it properly and built a cooling system from scratch.
Remember, everything is flown in. And everything is flown out, preferably not as waste. So, one of my favourite parts of the job is revamping leftovers. Last night’s dinner can become tomorrow’s soup or a brand-new sandwich filling. Figuring things out and learning along the way is a key part of the experience. One could say it is transformative.
Keeping the Fun Alive
For all the structure, planning, and problem-solving, there’s another part of camp that’s just as important: keeping things light.
Because after a few long days in the mountains, early starts, big climbs, tired legs, it’s easy for the energy in camp to dip. That’s usually when Pinky makes an appearance.
Pinky is an inflatable pink flamingo.
She originally came to camp during a particularly hot year when a tarn sat just below the kitchen. It was so warm that the only reasonable solution, mid-shift, was to run out of the tent, throw on a swimsuit, and launch ourselves into the freezing water on inflatable birds.
Highly professional kitchen behaviour.
Somewhere in that week, Pinky stopped being just a floatie and became… something else. Now she’s a bit of a mountain mascot. She can be deflated, packed into someone’s bag, and sent out into the alpine on adventures. And each week, there’s a challenge:
- Take Pinky on the best adventure.
- Document it.
- Win a prize.
She’s been on summits, tucked into glaciers, strapped to packs, and occasionally posed in places that raise more questions than answers. But more importantly, she gives people a reason to play.
The GMC Olympics
And play we shall. Running a kitchen is like running an adult camp, with games.
This tradition was created four years ago with the help of the team, and it’s something I now happily help bring to life each week.
My first time at camp, I remember watching grown adults sprinting alongside a glacial stream, cheering, yelling, and throwing rocks, not at each other, but strategically into the water to guide their handmade boats downstream.
The boats, for the record, are made from whatever organic materials people can find and some impressively questionable engineering decisions.
And yet, in that moment, everyone is completely invested.
It’s chaotic. It’s ridiculous. It’s so much fun.
Now, the Olympics have grown.
There are events. There are points. There are prizes. There is a surprising level of commitment.
Pinky is often involved in some capacity.
And it all builds toward the final events of the night.
The Last Evening
After games and fun, everyone gathers for the pin ceremony, recognizing the peaks people have climbed over the years and welcoming those who are new to the experience.
And then, it opens up.
What happens next depends entirely on the group. Some weeks it’s quiet, people sitting, talking, holding onto the last few hours.
Other weeks, it turns into something else entirely.
There have been skits.
Full performances.
Poetry readings.
Dance parties that appear out of nowhere.
People who, at the beginning of the week, barely knew each other are suddenly sharing stories, making each other laugh, and creating something together.
It’s unscripted. Unplanned. And somehow, it always feels exactly right. Everyone stays up late, even the kitchen.
In the morning, the traditional cinnamon buns will be served, tents cleaned, bags packed, hugs squeezed. Soon, the helicopter blades will signal the first food order arriving and a new group to feed.
Best get cooking.
What Remains
At the end of the season, the entire camp disappears. Tents come down. Kitchens are packed away. Everything is flown out.
What’s left are faint trails in the ground.
Paths where people walked, worked, carried, and gathered. Proof that something existed there.
For a time, there was a kitchen.
Meals were made. People were fed. A team became something more than just a group of individuals.
And then it was gone.
Except for the stories.
And the feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself.
Something built, day by day, meal by meal, somewhere in the clouds.
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