Sheltered among the aspen and poplar forests of its lower slopes, on a little plateau with a central pond, is one of the area’s more surprising cultural offerings. That an art school could even exist in such a place seems miraculous, but the Atlin Art Centre has been open for business since 1983, and appears to be thriving. And there’s no denying it is — well, different. Its founder and director, Gernot Dick, a transplanted Austrian who taught photography and design at Toronto’s Sheridan College for more than two decades, explains: "I was not interested in creating just another art school. There are hundreds of art schools out there."

Gernot wanted his students to have a more direct experience with wilderness and their own creative responses than could be found in the urban environment in which the majority of us now live. The Atlin Art Centre is ideally situated for explorations both physical and spiritual: however deep you want to dive, you can do it here, with some of the finest mentors available as guides should you become disoriented or lost.

To sign up for the three week course, "Idea and the Creative Process", as I did in 1996, is to immerse yourself in a separate reality for the duration, and experience a journey of the body, mind and heart — not necessarily in that order. Sitting on the mountain three years later, I remembered our first full day of instruction, after we had unpacked, settled in and learned some of the daily routine of the place and its rustic idiosyncracies (Where’s the axe? How does the stove work?)

Gernot had led us through a painting exercise the previous evening. The following morning, he divided us into groups of four, instructing us to create something together, using the existing paintings and any other materials at hand. Oh, and one more thing: no talking, please. This was to be an assignment in non-verbal communication.

We tore the paintings into strips, reassembled them, then bogged down over the next move. We searched each other’s faces for ideas, while raindrops pattered down on the studio tent. Finally, someone began sticking paper strips to the wood stove. Four light bulbs appeared like magic above our heads. With them came quirky little grins: we knew we were pushing limits, but couldn’t stop ourselves. We became children again. In a sudden flurry of activity we were painting the stove itself, adding flowers and twigs and other items from the meadow outside, transforming a commonplace item. (The stove, of course, was not burning anything at the time, in early August.) When Gernot dropped by to check on our group, we could see the double-take, the surprise, perhaps the shock, certainly the brief inner dialogue, "I want them to explore their creativity... but that’s my stove!!!" He shook his head, smiling, and told us it was — er, wonderful.

That was merely an introduction. In subsequent days we climbed an extinct volcano, Ruby Mountain; took a trip to the south end of Atlin Lake to walk on the Llewellyn Glacier; paddled to a series of small islands in the lake; explored the local woodland trails and the ever-present Monarch Mountain, in search of connection, inspiration, direction. After each of these excursions there would be time to rest and reflect. The participants came with highly developed skills and no skills at all, with goals ranging from refining their vision to seeking a starting point. There were painters, sculptors, glass artists, fabric artists, and even photographers like myself. I doubt if anyone emerged from the program unchanged.

At the time I was the photo columnist for a national magazine and a regular shooter of stock photos for calendars and books. I came away from Atlin with a renewed sense of what drives me. By experimenting with new materials — I tried some drawing and painting for the first time in many years — and not judging myself by the results, I found a new sense of freedom of expression that easily shifted to photography. My pictures were markedly better from that point onward, and I stayed an extra month in the north to explore my freshly sharpened perceptions.

Certainly the Atlin area is replete with enough natural wonders to satisfy anyone. To the west loom the highest mountain ranges in Canada, the St. Elias, stretching north to Yukon’s Kluane National Park and into Alaska. The icefields that they unleash are the largest non-polar glacier fields in the world. Things seem to exist here on either a gigantic or a miniscule scale, with little in between: tiny poppies on the windblown side of a massive mountain ridge.

The original lure was gold. A hundred years ago Atlin was booming in the wake of recent strikes, with the biggest concentration at Discovery on Pine Creek. Today, a few placer mining operations on the creek and a handful of crumbling old shacks are all that remain. The pioneer cemetery is worth a visit; its weathered wood markers offer glimpses of the lives — or at least the endings — of many local residents. One was shot by accident, mistaken for a bear. Another was found dead on the trail. Try to imagine living here before modern roads and electricity — impossible! How did they even get here? Clearly, most of these people were tougher than most of us today. My huffing and puffing hike up Monarch Mountain would be a non-event in their hardened lives.

Atlin today is an eclectic little community of about 400, where basic services are available along with a few surprises, a graceful mingling of past with present, and some diverging opinions among locals on issues surrounding development of their magnificent natural resources.

Meanwhile, Gernot Dick continues to fulfill his role as art educator extraordinaire, bringing students and instructors together in a unique mix, stirring the pot to see what might happen next. Despite occasional setbacks, the place is growing. For those not primarily interested in the art component, there is a 10-day wilderness adventure program; for landscape painters, a new 13-day wilderness landscape painting course. The Atlin Art Centre, incongruous though it may appear to some, seems to have found a niche where it can expand in scope without losing track of its basic tenets. Gernot calls it "walking on the edge" — tossing the rules, opening up to new experiences and new solutions. There’s no place like it.