Snow place like home

If there’s one word to describe making frigid outdoor living tolerable…or even pleasant, I would say it’s quinzhees. What’s a quinzhee? A quinzhee is a snow shelter made from a large pile of snow, which Athabaskan natives are credited with developing.

While Wikipedia said quinzhee entered the English language in 1984, I first heard them called quinchees in 1977 and learned how to build them from my good friend Bill Connolly who was the director of SUNY Potsdam’s Star Lake Campus.

Although I learned to live in snow caves and igloos during my climb of Denali, the beauty of a quinzhee is its simplicity: It doesn’t demand perfect, brick-making snow or avalanche-size snowdrifts. If you’ve got at least ten inches of powder, you’re in business. No architectural degree required.

The best part about a quinzhee? They’re toasty warm. Properly constructed they shouldn’t get colder than about 26 degrees. That may not sound warm but when it’s minus 24 degrees outside, that makes it fifty degrees warmer inside.

A quinzhee begins with a simple circle—about ten feet across—etched into the snow with the end of a stick or ski pole. Then you churn up all the snow inside that ring. I was told this releases latent heat from the ground. Whether that’s thermodynamics or trail lore, I can’t say. But whatever it is, it works.

Next, pile the snow into a mound the size of the shelter you want. For a family of four, aim for a dome roughly 10–12 feet in diameter and about five feet high. You don’t need cathedral ceilings—just enough headroom to sit up without concussing yourself every morning. If the snowpack is thin, you’ll need to harvest extra snow from around you. I often build on a hillside and shovel downhill into the growing heap. A large grain shovel helps, and the more hands involved, the merrier.

Now for the magical part: No matter how light that powder seems, give the pile at least two hours to set. Miraculously it firms up all by itself.

Once it has set up, I insert some sticks 10-12 inches near the base, and shorter sticks toward the top, until, at the top I poke the sticks in about 4 inches. The sticks outline the thickness of the roof, so when you carve it out with your shovel, and perhaps an ice axe, and hit the stick, you know you don’t want to make the walls any thinner.

When it’s time to hollow it out, put on your most waterproof layers because you’re about to get covered with snow. Start with a small entrance hole and while one person does the carving the others shovel out the avalanche of loose snow. It’s part sculpture, part mining operation.

Shape the interior so the sleeping platform is higher than the doorway and keep the doorway as small as practical at the lowest point. That lower entrance acts as a cold sink, allowing the frigid air to settle near the floor while you lounge a few precious inches above it, feeling like a thermal genius.

A quinzhee

When I taught students how to build and sleep in quinzhees, their biggest fear—by far—was collapse. You could see it in their eyes as they crawled inside for the first time, like they were entering a slightly damp snow coffin. On sunny days you’re amazed to see light passing through 6 or 8 inches of snow. It’s virtually impossible to get trapped in a quinzhee as the roof is only four to six inches thick. I used to tell students we should install a little sign on the inside wall that reads: “In case of emergency, please stand up.”

I only witnessed a handful of cave-ins, and they were during construction because that’s when the snow pile is still temperamental and prone to sudden emotional breakdowns. (And physical ones too.) Once a quinzhee has been carved out and slept in for a night, it usually hardens up nicely. By morning the roof is solid enough to walk on.

I do remember one night in what I call “borderline quinzhee weather”—temperatures hovering right around freezing, when snow can’t quite decide whether it wants to be architecture or snowballs. We were camped on the south side of St. Regis Mountain, when a couple of enthusiastic students piled up a heroic mound of snow and let it set. They hollowed it out, moved in, and set up their little frosty homestead like proud suburban pioneers.

Around 1:00 a.m., under a full moon I heard:

WUMPH!

Then… silence.

Then… laughter.

The roof had collapsed. They had just learned—very experientially—that it was a bit too warm for proper quinzhee construction.

But they handled it perfectly. They brushed the snow off their sleeping bags, rolled over in the moonlight, and went right back to sleep.

Although their quinzhee building skills were subpar, their winter camping attitude couldn’t have been better.

(Photos below from the first time I ever saw a quinzhee built in 1977 in Star Lake, NY)