“I think it’s safe to say that the helicopter isn’t coming back for us” I said, somewhat solemnly, zipping my rain jacket up to my chin. We had only been hiking for about an hour, having been dropped off by a helicopter on a peak that stood at about 8,200 feet. This was day 5, the final day, of the 35th Anniversary Citizen Promaster trip, which had taken us from the frigid shores of Lake Louise in Banff National Park all the way up to the CMH Heli-Skiing & Summer Adventures lodge in the Bugaboos, a dramatic outcropping of granite spires and glaciers in the Purcell Mountains in British Columbia, Canada.

The week had been incredible, celebrating adventure, endurance, and the overcoming of personal limitations – both real and imagined. All of it centered around the 35th anniversary of the Citizen Promaster, a collection of watches that has been purpose built to withstand the most intense environments and endeavors, whether they be in the sea, on the land, or in the air, since 1989.

While the weather for the rest of the week had been utterly pristine, with clear mornings and cool, refreshing evenings, the sky on this morning had not been quite as agreeable. The plan for the day was a quick out and back, a couple hours max, so that we could get every last moment in the mountains possible before we had to pack up and prepare to leave the following day. By now, the majority of us were pretty worn out from the excursions of the previous four days. I personally was starting to feel downright awful, having woken up with the beginnings of a rather nasty head cold (I would later find out that I actually had managed to catch COVID somewhere along the way).

We were fully anticipating some rain, but didn’t quite expect it to roll in as early as it did, nor with such force. The dense fog was worsening and the rain only intensified by the minute, making it impossible for any helicopters to fly in or land safely on the precarious mountain peaks. We all became acutely aware that this was not going to be a simple 2 hour jaunt – we would be making the trek back down to the lodge ourselves. While we weren’t in any imminent danger, owing to the expertise of our Austrian CMH guide Robert ‘Roko’ Koell, an alpine guide and skiing legend, the Bugaboos are a mountain range that require a great deal of respect, knowledge, and capability to navigate safely. As with all alpine environments, things could go from fine to serious as fast as one misplaced step.

It was a moment of both resignation and determination. Our small group all situated ourselves, donning rain pants, opening air vents, or whatever other little trick that would (hopefully) make the following hike a bit more comfortable, or a bit more dry – all of which would prove to be an exercise in futility. The hours and miles that would follow would be some of the most physically arduous, wet, and mentally challenging, that any of us had experienced yet.

The only way out was through.

35 Years of the Promaster

The Promaster series officially came into existence in 1989 with the Promaster Altichron, a robust tool watch built to cater to the needs of alpinists. Though, it should be noted that the broad arrow emblem that would become the Promaster logo was used on the Aqualand dive watch a few years earlier. These two foundational watches were followed by the Wingman and the Aerochron, two watches focused on the needs of pilots and aviation.

These watches would essentially form the pillars of the Promaster collection – true to form tool watches built for those exploring the sea, the land, and the air. It is upon those pillars that the collection still stands today, with dozens of different models packed with a plethora of useful, purpose built functions and features. Over the decades the collection has consistently produced watches that were designed for and used by explorers, scientists, athletes, and adventurers, to conquer some of the tallest peaks, the deepest oceans, and the most expansive horizons.

To mark the anniversary, three limited edition watches have been released: The Promaster Fujitsubo, an ultra-lightweight diver made from Citizen’s proprietary Super Titanium – the Promaster Skyhawk A-T, a tricked out aviator’s watch with Sakura inspired rose gold accents and more tools built into it than your average cockpit – and the Promaster Land U822, a big, beefy, badass ani-digi field watch with black camo accents.

Whether it be the clean, classic Fujitsubo with its aquatic blue bezel accents, the Skyhawk with its atomic time synchronization and countdown timer, or the Land’s perpetual calendar and chronograph function, each watch is purpose built. With that in mind, each watch features tools and functions that are useful, if not essential for their intended tasks, even at the slight risk of being accused of being overbuilt.

These were the watches that would be joining us on our own adventures in the coming days, exploring not just what the watches are capable of doing, but really delving into what the Promaster series stands for – adventure and perseverance. Those who have owned and used Promaster watches over the past 35 years are people who seek to find and exceed their own limits, searching for the farthest locals.

Team Promaster

Accompanying us on the trip were Citizen’s 4 members of ‘Team Promaster’, prominent athletes, explorers, and adventurers in their respective fields – There was Will Gadd, world class ice climber, mixed climber, and paraglider. Jeff Shapiro, rock climber, pilot, and wingsuit base jumper. Jody MacDonald, award winning adventure photographer and explorer. William Drumm, underwater photographer, scuba diver, and adventure filmmaker – accomplished and intrepid, any one of them a North Star towards which I would gladly point the ambition of my own career.

They are all a wealth of knowledge and expertise in their fields, derived from lifetimes of lessons learned the hard way – by solving problems in the field and pushing their own limits, as well as the boundaries of what is generally seen as reasonable or possible. All four of them embraced our group of journalists, athletes and influencers – some of us more prepared for the physical and psychological demands that the week would entail than others.

Despite any disparities in capability, I noticed that each of them took time throughout the trip to genuinely engage with the other members of the group, imparting their advice and knowledge, but also taking an interest in what they might be able to learn from us in turn. It’s a rare privilege to spend time with such accomplished people, especially those who are so gracious with their knowledge and experience.

Go Deeper

After flying in from all corners of the US and Canada, our journey began in earnest at Lake Louise in the late afternoon. Set beneath a massive, twisting glacier, the icy turquoise colored lake was framed by dramatic cliffs and dense trees which plunge directly to the shoreline. Red canoes dotted the water stretching to the farthest edges of the lake. We set about putting on life jackets, preparing to join them, as our canoe guide began his safety briefing.

“First things first, you see those peaks and the glacier in the distance?” We all nodded, acknowledging the obvious. “Well, if all of a sudden that glacier gets covered by a cloud and you can’t see it anymore, you have about 5 minutes to get back to the dock before it becomes a really bad day!” Evidently, the weather on the lake was prone to sudden changes, where storms could sweep down onto the water like an exposed valley, tipping boats unfortunate enough to be caught in its path.

“If you hear a whistle…” Right on cue, almost as if the lake itself had a sense of humor, a whistle sounded, triggering a commotion of life guards jumping into canoes and setting out onto the water. Someone had tipped and gone into the freezing lake. “… like that” our guide observed, pointing out to the far edge of the lake. The situation got all of our attention. None of us wanted to end up in the water, at least not yet. That would come later.

Everyone took to their boats, situating ourselves and working to establish a rhythm for our paddles. We’d all become acquainted about an hour before, but the task at hand immediately dissolved any social barriers (likely aided by the general tone of the group, which was outgoing, upbeat, and facetious). Working together, we paddled out to the farthest reaches of the lake as our guide provided insights about its history and geology. I was in awe of the beauty of the dramatic landscape, immersed in the moment as the smell of the lake filled my lungs and the icy water bit at my hand with each paddle stroke. Chuckling to myself, I couldn’t help but notice how closely the color of the dial and bezel of my Fujitsubo matched the color of the water – a fitting combination, “Such a watch nerd.”

As we’d been warned, a wall of dense, ominous clouds started to roll over the cliff band which hung over the glacier – time to turn around. With some degree of urgency, we made it back to the dock just as the rain began to drizzle over the lake. We’d all managed to get back to the shore without going for an unintended swim, but our dryness would be short lived.

You see, from the early stages of organizing the trip, it had been made extremely clear that we would be putting ourselves in a myriad of challenging situations, designed specifically to push us outside of our comfort zones, thereby truly living the spirit of the Promaster series. I lost track of the number of times I was asked if I was afraid of heights (ahem… I am…) if I could swim, if I had any medical conditions, or how I handled being cold. When the official briefing and itinerary was sent through, I also couldn’t help but notice just how much of it was dedicated to bear safety. Not a great sign.

Far too often in the watch world (or indeed in marketing campaigns in general) catchy slogans and taglines are just words. Prior to this trip Citizen’s motto for the Promaster collection seemed, owing to my own ignorance and more pessimistic outlook, no different than other outdoorsy marketing campaign. “Go Deeper. Go Higher. Go Further. Go Beyond.”

It sounds inspiring enough, and on any other trip, it would probably not have gone any further than the pages of the press briefing. But this trip was going to be different. We were going to actually be pushing our own limits, both physical and mental. The events and activities would be designed to reflect those words and bring them into reality, reminding all of us jaded watch journalists what real tool watches are actually built to do. We were going to dive right in. Literally.

We walked together from the dock to the other side of the lake, just in front of the palatial Fairmont Château Lake Louise, a massive, 5-star hotel sitting on the shoreline. The rain was beginning to trickle down on our heads, but it didn’t matter. The cold plunge we were about to do would negate the light drizzle.

Naturally, the polar plunge was optional and we were promised a hot tub and a steam room immediately following. But that didn’t do much to comfort us in the moment. Each of us briefly debated whether or not we’d go in. But ultimately, there was only one real choice. After all, how often do you get a chance to jump into the icy waters of a glacial lake?

With a fair amount of urgency (likely to keep myself from backing out) I set my camera gear down, took my jacket and shirt off, and waded into the water. My plan was to get just deep enough and then sit down, ripping the band-aid off as it were. After a few steps on the smooth, rounded rocks just beneath the surface of the water, I slipped slightly and plunged in up to my neck. Well at least the hard part was done.

The water was astonishingly cold, like being closed inside an aquatic iron maiden filled with a million tiny needles. The breath shot out of my lungs as I tried to regain my composure and my footing. Squatting down with the water up to my neck, I placed my hands on my thighs, focusing on forcing myself to breathe rhythmically, in and out, calming and negating my body’s natural panic response.

Forcing myself to resist the urge to stand, my goal was to stay in long enough to feel like I had some control. The cold became ubiquitous, permeating my skin. But with each forceful breath, I felt a greater sense of calm come through my mind. It was a spectacular moment of contradiction – half of me felt almost a meditative sense of tranquility, while simultaneously every nerve ending was screaming at me to get out of the water.

After probably 30-45 seconds, which at the same time felt like 10 minutes, my arms began to shiver and shake, but my breath was calm and measured. Good enough! I stood up and walked back to dry land, a flush of excitement and euphoria rushing over and through me. “Well done! That had to have been at least a minute or two!” Someone said to me. I think they were being gracious. But regardless of the duration, I felt alive and energized by the adrenaline dump. Incredible – freezing, but incredible.

Go Higher

The following morning was crisp and cool, with wispy clouds hanging below the dramatic mountain peaks. I woke up early, around 6:00 am, but nowhere near as early as some of my companions, who had woken up at 2:30 am in order to see the sunrise at Moraine Lake. As we’d not returned to the hotel until midnight, owing to a lovely dinner at the Fairmont Château, I’d chosen sleep over the majesty of Lake Moraine. Despite that, my view from the porch of the Juniper Hotel was pretty spectacular in its own right.

The day ahead would be even more exciting than the last. We would be canyoning, an excursion including hiking up a trail and then navigating back down a mountain stream utilizing rappelling and other techniques to make our way. This was to be our first real test – Lake Louise had just been a welcome, the cold plunge our orientation.

After a quick breakfast, and press briefing covering some history of the Promaster Series, and a more formal introduction to Team Promaster, we all gathered our gear and piled into the bus which would take us up to Heart Creek Canyon. The team from Bow Valley Canyon Tours was ready and waiting with dry bags, specially designed wetsuits, and climbing gear.

Having sorted our necessities for the next few hours, we began our hike. While the hike itself was relatively tame, there were a few sections of steep, vertical gain. It quickly became clear to me that the invention of the switchback had not made its way up to Canada yet. Thus, we would occasionally stop here and there to catch our breaths and marvel at the beauty of the mountain streams. That was the intention, anyway.

Instead, at every possible moment, we dove into taking wrist shots and videos of our watches, showcasing the 3 limited edition Promasters in their natural environment – it was hard to tell what we were more excited about, the watches or the surroundings.

Heart Creek Canyon is, as one of our guides put it, as if nature itself had designed the perfect training course for first time Canyoneering. From the top of the trail, the descent begins gradually, with short little drops of just a few feet, amidst an ever growing mountain stream. As you continue down, these little drops get steeper and longer, beginning as fun little water slides and culminating in a 60 foot waterfall.

Having grown up in the mountains, I spent a decent amount of time rock climbing as a kid and retain some basic knowledge of rappelling to this day. Despite that experience, I never enjoyed it. Like clockwork, as soon as I’d make my way up a wall about 20 or 30 feet, I would freeze, becoming paralyzed over the sudden height and exposure. While it had been many years, decades even, since then, I still had that fear in the pit of my stomach that the same thing would happen today. But that was the point of this entire endeavor, “go further” as the slogan commands. Today would be the day to push through the fear.

When we came upon the final waterfall, our guides went to work setting the rigging for us to rappel down. In a momentary lapse of self-preservation, I had asked to be set up on a lower ledge, about 10 feet down the waterfall, in order to photograph everyone else as they made their way down. Our guides enthusiastically obliged. It ended up being the perfect spot, as I was able to slowly acclimate myself to the height, inching ever closer over the edge in pursuit of a better photo. The other benefit, more personal and profound, was that I also got to share in the experience of everyone else’s rappels, helping out where I could, and sharing their excitement and nerves as they took that final big step out over the ledge, overcoming their own fears.

Finally, after an hour or so, dangling over the edge, I was the last one. Suddenly, all the comfort I’d gain evaporated. But there was no choice, I had to get down. So I did what I’d seen everyone else do before me. I leaned back, sat into the harness, and step by step made my way down the slippery cliff, the icy water raining down on my face, muttering sanctified expletives to myself the whole way.

Before I knew it, I was splashing down into the frigid pool at the bottom of the waterfall, letting out a joyous and primal whoop of celebration. At that moment, I remembered the words my dad used to say to me after I’d skied down something especially steep or scary – “Look up at what you just did”. I looked up through the cascading water at the impossibly tall cliff we’d all just conquered. I looked back down at my wrist. In the course of my rappel, the Promaster Fujitsubo had gotten caught up between the rope and the belay device, and taken a small but decent scratch on the bezel. “Hell yeah” I thought to myself, now possessing an extra little reminder of the achievement.

Go Further

The following morning, still riding high from the accomplishments of the previous day, we set out for the CMH Bugaboos Lodge – a stunning mountain adventure retreat high in the Purcell Mountains. The Bugaboos offer some of the most dramatic alpine adventures anywhere in the world, and were in fact the birthplace of Heli-Skiing. To this day, CMH is the premier company offering Heli-Skiing adventures in the winter. During the summer they conduct Heli-Hiking, where hikers are deposited on far flung peaks and guided on hikes ranging from a few hours to all day excursions.

We would be taking a bus ride for a couple of hours to a landing zone where one of CMH’s Bell 212 helicopters would be picking us up. As previously mentioned, I’m not the biggest fan of heights (or helicopters.) In the depths of my anxiety ridden view, Helicopters don’t want to fly – they want to kill you and it’s the pilot’s job to stop that from happening. But I had to push that incredibly unhelpful (and dramatically inaccurate) thought out of my mind. This is what adventures are all about.

We arrived with ease, the helicopter landing just in time to dissipate the biblical swarm of mosquitos that awaited us at the landing zone. After a quick but thorough safety briefing on how to get in and out of the helicopter, something we would be doing a whole lot of in the coming days, we took off for the lodge.

Like all of CMH’s properties (an astounding 11 destinations in total) the Bugaboos lodge strikes a perfect balance between backcountry rustic charm and luxurious comfort and service. The accommodations themselves are unfussy, clean, and cozy, with the main dining room area feeling more like a comfy living room accompanied by a very well stocked bar. The on-site staff, including the guides, helicopter crew, and hospitality team, are seated at the communal tables, joining the guests for breakfast and dinner. It’s a mixture of attentive, focused service with enthusiastic, interpersonal warmth that I can honestly say I’ve never experienced anywhere else before.

After receiving an orientation on the lodge and getting situated in our rooms, we quickly returned to the landing pad out front. The afternoon would consist of a two or three hour hike along one of the ridgelines to get us acclimated to the environment and the altitude. I later learned this also allowed the guides to closely observe each of the 20 people in our group, evaluating our capabilities and response to the elements.

After a reasonably challenging hike, consisting of a solid three or four false summits, we arrived at a craggy peak which consisted of large, jagged shards of rock, like a giant pile of sharp scree. This precarious edge overlooked a bowl with a drop of easily a thousand feet down its steeper face. Peaking over the edge, I felt a sudden rush of dizziness and piercing fear, the likes of which I haven’t experienced since I was a kid, and the exact feeling I had been so terrified of the day before on the rappel. Despite being a couple thousand yards away from the end of the hike, I froze.

I was furious with myself. We weren’t even 4 hours in and I was already throwing in the towel, paralyzed by the most basic exposure. Really? In that moment of vertiginous defeat, as I stood there preparing to carefully make my way back down, self-flagellating as I went, I saw Will Gadd bouncing his way up the path like a spritely mountain goat.

“How you feeling?” he asked affably, pretending not to see that I was literally shaking in my boots. I previously discussed my aversion to heights with Will the prior day, and figured he was well aware of how I was feeling. I explained that this was as far as I was probably going to go. “Well hey, that’s ok! Sometimes I find it helpful to not fight it or push through the fear, but just sit with it! You know? Just hang out in it for a minute and see how that feels.” It was like someone had popped my ears and let the pressure out of my head. “Yeah, that’s a good call. I’ll give that a go”.

Will continued on his merry way and I sat down near the top of the peak, taking in the view (which was genuinely awe inspiring). My heart rate calmed down and the world gradually stopped spinning. I looked around, my blood pressure slowly normalizing, filled with gratitude that I found myself in such a truly magnificent place.

Go Beyond

That night the group all began to settle into our incredible circumstances, hearing each other’s stories, getting to know one another, cracking jokes, and generally having a great time. We all attended a briefing discussing the plans for the following day, where part of the group would embark on a via ferrata (a climbing route consisting of rebar ladders and permanent wires). Despite initially intending to attempt one myself, the events of earlier in the day indicated otherwise. Although I had an almost equal level of fomo, I opted out, choosing instead to join the other disinclined on a more relaxed day of heli-hiking to various mountain lakes.

Despite choosing the easier path, I still found challenges aplenty throughout the day. Each time I would step back into the helicopter, or found myself walking along a precarious path flanked by oblivion on either side, I was still pushing well out of my comfort zone. It was a magnificent day, marked by stunning views, jovial conversation, and a fair amount of physical exertion. That evening, however, I started to go downhill (no pun intended). I was sapped of energy, feeling more run down than I would normally expect.

The following morning I woke up feeling dreadful. A few of the others had expressed feeling similarly funky earlier in the week only to recover, so I hoped my experience would be the same.

Half of our group was leaving that morning, with the remainder staying for one more half day of hiking. We would then depart the following morning. Despite feeling the way that I did, I still had coverage I wanted to get – photos to take and video to record. Plus, I wanted to push myself and get every last moment out of this experience that I could.

Several hours later, I found myself slowly, methodically, making my way down a narrow mountain path, soaking wet and freezing cold. My rain jacket had soaked through and my hiking shoes were heavy and sloshing from the rain. Clenching my fists repeatedly released streams of cold water from my gloves. I had briefly asked our guide Roko how long he expected the hike back to the lodge to take. “I’d say about two hours.” Ok. Not bad. I can be cold and wet for two hours. Easy. “But if you ask me again in two hours, I’ll probably say we’ve got another two hours”, he chuckled in his thick Austrian accent. Right. It’ll take however long it takes.

As much as I wanted him to tell me that it would be quick and easy, the truth was it wasn’t going to be. But nevertheless, I felt a certain sense of ease, knowing full well that we were in extremely capable hands. As we descended the mountain, Roko letting out the occasional yodel – a trick for keeping any nearby bears at bay – I settled in for the long walk.

As we trudged along, still attempting to crack jokes here and there to keep our spirits up, it was clear that each of us was struggling in our own way. We were all equally wet, equally miserable, and I tried as much as I could to keep it to myself (though in retrospect I’m sure I whined my fair share). While I was trying to dig deep and muster the mental strength to keep a positive outlook, it became clear that I’d messed up. There was no denying that I was properly sick and physically exhausted. Even if we’d only been hiking for the planned 2 hours, coming back out was a stupid move on my part.

The previous two nights, both Will Gadd and Jeff Shapiro had given presentations on their lives and careers, sharing with us photos of their numerous expeditions and sharing their insights from their triumphs and defeats. Will had shared his process, a personal philosophy of sorts, for evaluating risk and pushing through tough situations, summed up by the methodical words – “Try. Listen. Learn. Adapt. Do better.” It was a process for learning as you go, figuring out what mistakes you’d made, what you had to do, and implementing it.

In that waterlogged moment on that mountain, I felt something shift in my heart and mind. I began thinking about the mistakes I’d made – I’d brought the wrong footwear, or not taken off a base layer earlier enough and gotten sweaty, for example. Biggest mistake of all, I’d underestimated nature. But rather than being mad at myself, I realized I was learning from those mistakes in real time.

Something fundamental had changed, had shifted within me, like somewhere deep inside my being a physical switch had flipped and changed my entire perspective. It’s not that the situation became suddenly more enjoyable, or even that it sucked any less. It didn’t. But suddenly, the misery meant something that it hadn’t before. The piercing pain in my sinuses and the fatigue in my legs and back weren’t a sign that I was weak, in the way I’d felt weak on that mountain top a couple days before. It was a sign of growth, of self-actualization, each grueling step its own mini victory.

When we finally made it back down to the lodge, it had been just over 6 hours. We’d hiked seventeen kilometers, or just over ten and a half miles. We were all exhausted. But we were also stoked.

Better Starts now

During his presentation, Jeff Shapiro recounted a multi-week expedition completing a first ascent in the Himalaya in Pakistan. He and his climbing partner had battled the elements in ways I can’t physically fathom, achieving their goal, but nearly meeting disastrous failure multiple times along the way. Still they persisted and, having successfully summited, made the trek back down the mountains, remarking “When we were leaving, the seasons had changed – and so did we.”

Do you need to wear a Citizen Promaster in order to have an adventure? No, of course not. But will the right Promaster become a valuable tool when you do embark on one? Almost certainly. Throughout this experience we’d all found moments and excuses to use our watches – timing our excursions, checking the altitude, or just enjoying their beauty. The spirit of the Promaster series is one of seeking out adventure, overcoming challenges, and pushing beyond the limits we set for ourselves.

But above and beyond the utility of the functions, the durability, or the pure cool factor they bring – maybe your watch, your Promaster, will be the inspiration to seek that wild moment. When you find yourself returning from that adventure, having pushed the boundaries of what you thought possible, maybe your watch will come to serve as a reminder of what you are truly capable of.

Dragging myself to the lodge, hungry, tired, and soaking wet, with Jeff’s words echoing through my head, I too felt that, like the season, I had fundamentally changed. The week, these experiences, and the time spent with the people who accompanied me, had impacted me far more than I could have ever imagined. I paused at the door, looking out towards the peaks of the Bugaboos, barely visible amidst the rain and fog, and felt a profound depth of gratitude and accomplishment. I looked down at my wrist, rainwater glistening on the crystal of my watch.

Time to go home.