Running a Kitchen in the Clouds Pt. 1
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 one of what it takes to run a kitchen in the clouds.
Before the Camp Wakes
By the time my alarm rings at 3:45 a.m., I’m usually already awake.
Lists run through my head in the dark, what needs to be prepped, what needs to be pulled from storage, what might unfold today. It’s a strange kind of comfort, holding it all there, knowing nothing will slip away and be forgotten.
Then I unzip my tent.
Cold air rushes in. The mountains are still, quiet, and outlined in starlight. In that moment, as I say good morning to the beautifully silhouetted giants around me, everything feels calm.
I stand there and drink in the silence.
Because I know what’s coming.
The moment I step into the kitchen tent, the day begins—and it doesn’t stop.
Lighting the Day
The first few minutes in the kitchen are always a small act of faith.
Flip the light switch.
Wait.
If the power comes on—great. If not, we cook by headlamp. No power for the daily 5:30 a.m. horn means running around the tents, banging pots and pans and sweetly singing “Breakfast is ready” to all the sleeping guests.
Check the ovens. Turn the dial.
Woof.
That sound, the pilot catching, is better than coffee. It means heat. It means we’re in business. The two old propane Brown ovens have their own personalities. If you don’t treat them with kindness, they turn ugly.
Like the day they decided to run at 500 degrees while baking cookies. Or the time one decided to go on strike during Turkey Night. Yes, these Browns may be moody, but with a little TLC, they turn around quickly. Keeping them happy keeps me happy.
Pots go on. Coffee starts. Surfaces get wiped. The rhythm begins.
By the time the first staff member wanders in to help set up breakfast, there’s already a mug waiting for them.
There are a few rules in the kitchen.
Coffee is one of them.
The Morning Pulse
By 6:00 a.m., the kitchen is fully alive.
First breakfast is quiet, calm, and served around 5:30 a.m. Coffee, oatmeal, cereals, and fruit welcome guests as they ease into the day and warm their cold bodies.
Then comes second breakfast. This is the hot one.
This is where the energy shifts.
Plates fill. Conversations start. Food is served buffet-style, which gives the kitchen a chance to take the pulse of the camp. Someone’s nervous. Someone’s excited. Someone didn’t sleep. Someone is still asleep.
Cooking isn’t just about providing food. It’s an experience.
If the group is feeling low, small moments can change the course of the day—a surprise hot chocolate, an extra-special tea-time treat that evokes nostalgia in tired bones, or simply a reminder to grab some electrolyte powder or sunscreen before heading out.
It’s not just about feeding people. It’s about sending them out ready. No wonder sometimes I am referred to as Camp Mom.
Steep Learning Curve
Once the guests leave, the kitchen sits. We eat quickly, go over the plan, and divide tasks. The space starts up again; chopping, baking, prepping, organizing coolers, checking temperatures, cleaning, repeating.
On good weeks, the kitchen finds a rhythm by day two. People move around each other without speaking. You reach for something, and it’s already in your hand. Someone starts a task, and another finishes it without needing to be asked.
It feels like a dance.
Some pretty hilarious moments keep the energy going throughout the day, a lot of singing and dancing. If a guest stays in camp, they will hear some of the shenanigans.
But before that rhythm settles, there’s a different kind of energy.
Questions coming from every direction. Nerves not yet settled. The first few days as a GMC cook or volunteer are overwhelming, with a steep learning curve.
“Where does this go?”
“What’s next?”
“How do you want this cut?”
Three or four questions at once signal nerves are up.
That’s when I feel it, the pressure building.
The saying “if you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen” is based in truth. The kitchen is a busy place. But sometimes that means stopping everything and saying,
“Okay, one question at a time.”
When It Gets Hard
And it does get hard.
There are long days, physical exhaustion, and moments where everything feels like it might fall apart. I remember one particularly difficult season, injured, overwhelmed, and pushed to my limits in more ways than one. The kind of week where every small challenge seemed to stack on top of the next.
Late one night, long after dinner service, I found myself alone in the food storage tent. The day had taken everything out of me. I was exhausted. Frustrated. And quietly, I broke. Not in front of the team. Not in front of the guests. Just for a moment, in private, with the coolers.
My mind was racing through everything that still needed to be done, and one problem in particular wouldn’t let up. As I stood there, trying to hold it all together, a guest gently poked their head into the tent.
They paused.
Something didn’t feel right.
“Are you okay?” they asked.
Not wanting to share my struggle, I glanced toward the coolers and simply said, “I just don’t have enough snow.”
That was all it took. Within minutes, that one guest returned with others. Shovels in hand. Large bags over their shoulders. No hesitation. No questions. They headed out at dusk, gathering snow and hauling it back, filling every cooler until the problem was solved.
That’s what keeps me going. There’s always someone in camp to lift you up. It’s in those moments, the unseen ones, that the true heart of the camp reveals itself. Not just in the meals served, but in the people who show up for each other when it matters most.
It is one of the reasons I return each year. Not because cooking in the mountains is easy, but because there is deep fulfillment in being part of something bigger than myself.
The GMC is a collection of people who feel like family because we share and grow through all the challenges.
This was part one of Running a Kitchen in the Clouds. Stay tuned for part two.
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