Tag Archives: Skiing

Body, Mountains, Photo Essay, Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Hard Earned Joys of Ski Mountaineering

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“All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.”

― T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

The Italian winter of 2020-2021 saw one of the greatest snowfalls in recent history.  For those of us in the plains below, it was endless rainfall; but up above among the peaks; it was light snowflakes which make the powder of skiers’ dreams.

Passo Giau Covered in Snow.

Except, in a cruel irony; the Italian government had closed all the ski resorts to protect their population from the dangers of a virus which had gripped the world. 

In terms of the lives and livelihoods lost from the virus; the story of a lost season of epic skiing doesn’t quite reach the threshold of a tale of woe and suffering.

Luckily, this isn’t a story of woe (but there is some very real-physical- suffering).

Necessity is the mother of invention.  And with epic snowfall, closed borders, and regularly updated decrees from the Italian government on what we couldn’t do; we had to find a new way to experience our beloved mountains in winter.

Since fate has a way of bringing you what you need; I conducted training with the Alpini– or Italian mountain troops- who taught me the basics of Ski mountaineering, or Ski-Alpinismo as they call it in Italy.

An Alpini Eagle’s Wings Catch the Snow.

Ski mountaineering also known as ski-touring is the act of climbing up a mountain with specially modified equipment in order to ski down them.  On the bottom of the skis are “seal skins” which allow you to move uphill without sliding back down, and your heels are free to allow a more fluid movement.  When you are ready to go down, you take off the seal skins and lock your heel in.

Simple right?  Well sort of.  Like all things, the devil is in the details.  I had been interested in ski mountaineering for many years, but in the Pacific Northwest, where my lifelong passion for the mountains was solidified, the skills and equipment necessary to participate appeared too high. 

Those of us in America at the time accepted that in-depth knowledge of avalanche conditions (a science and art that can take a lifetime to acquire) and expensive equipment from Europe was required.  Plus, if the desire to ski came upon me; I could always go to a resort, which would whisk me-effort free- to the top of the mountain with none of the costs and risks.

Thus, the dream to ski-mountaineer remained unrealized; to lie where all the other adventurous dreams of the day burned. 

Until there were no resorts.  Then the dream became a need.  And, thanks to the Alpini, I now had some of the necessary skills.  We decided that every free weekend that month; we would head to the mountains.

As a family, we drove up to the breathtakingly beautiful mountain village of Arabba in the Dolomites.  In a normal winter, it is a world renowned way point in the classic Sella Ronda ski tour. 

Snow covers the road signs in the Passo Campolongo

This wasn’t a normal winter.  The snow was piled so high; it felt like we were driving through a white tunnel as we approached.  The lifts were closed. The village quiet.  The slopes empty.

With our friend, John, my wife and I rented our ski-alpinismo equipment.  Then we promised to meet before dawn of the following day.

At 0530, in the darkness of the winter night, Lisa and I got dressed and sleepily struggled to put together our equipment.  Then we trudged outside and met John.

Together we stepped into our gear and began climbing the empty slope.  Alone, among the trees, we saw the beginning of the sun lightening the valley below us.  Slowly, the sun began to share its warmth with us.

The Sun Creeps out to warm the Valley.

Lisa, a member of the ski patrol, quickly mastered the technique to glide as much as possible on the skis while climbing. 

John heads up, led by the light.

Technique mattered, because this was hard work.  Our heart rates soared as we trudged uphill.  The suffering alleviated by the tremendous natural beauty around us.  It was, according to John, our own “Private Dolomites.”

This being Europe, once we reached the top, a small mountain rifugio, or cabin, was improbably open.  I can only imagine the lady who served us was hoping the government would soon allow the the resort to open.  We had cappuccinos and strudel, filled with the pleasure of hard physical work finally accomplished.  Then we headed down.

The snow was perfect and all too soon we reached the bottom where we had started hours before. 

Lisa and I were addicted.  After a spirited fondue dinner with another couple, we agreed to go again with them the very next day. 

Derek, Cassandra, and Lisa push through the powder.

As before, in the winter darkness, we met and began to climb uphill.  The mountains on that side of the valley were steeper and the wind stung our face with its bitter cold.  At times our skis would slip and we worried we might fall down the face.  We climbed higher and struggled at the limits of our stamina.

The wind bites us.

When we were ready to ski down, our frozen fingers had trouble preparing our equipment for the descent. 

But once again, we were filled with joy as we took long swooping curves on empty slopes of fresh powder.  We had in the parlance of ski mountaineering, “earned our turns”, and as result the descent was even sweeter.

Lisa and I headed out another time that month to ski-tour.  Under blue skies we found ourselves surrounded by beautiful rock faces and snow covered peaks that stretched to the horizon.

Snow covered peaks stretch out endlessly.

At the end of the month, in the iconic Olympic ski town of Cortina; we arranged ski lessons for our two oldest daughters.  With lifts closed, I carried the girls up the hill after each run. 

Then in one of the serendipitous twists of fate, we met Prince Hurbertus-the father of our daughters’ instructor.  He is an Olympic skier who represents Mexico at international competitions  in a Mariachi spandex suit.  We had followed him since our first child was born in Mexico City.

Prince Hubertus, also known as Andy Himalaya and Royal Disaster welcomes the next generation Mexican Olympic Skier.

We commiserated with him on the lost ski season of epic snow. 

Except for us, it hadn’t been lost.

We had been introduced to the hard earned joys of ski mountaineering; where hours of laborious climbing were rewarded by fleeting minutes of floating velocity.

We had a new passion and will still be ski mountaineering even when the resorts reopen.

The dreams of the day made possible.

The eternal pleasures of hard physical work accomplished.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.


Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

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Body, Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Kandahar Run

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One of the Oldest Ski Races traces its origin to the Hindu Kush.

“There is always that lone skier…going down where it is steepest and the snow untouched, in absolute grace, marking each dazzling turn with a brief jab of the pole—there is always him, the skier you cannot be.”

James Salter- Essay “ The Skiing Life”
Time is quickly fleeing proclaims a house in Oberammergau, Bavaria

In January we found ourselves in the Bavarian Alps.  Chocolate box perfect Alpine chalets, with painted exteriors, seemed to stand at every corner.  In the town of Garmisch, towering above it all stood the imposing jagged profile of the Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany. 

The Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany.

On every street stood banners proclaiming the upcoming Kandahar Ski Run.  For those of my generation, the word Kandahar is more likely to conjure up images of an endless counterinsurgency against the Taliban than a ski race in an idyllic snowy mountain setting.

The Kandahar Race in Garmisch, site of the 1936 Olympics

Yet the two, worlds apart, have more in common than it appears.  In 1928, the Arlberg Ski Club in Austria and the British Kandahar Ski club in Switzerland co-hosted the first race in St. Anton.  It was the first Alpine Combined ski race of slalom and downhill events in the history of skiing.  

45 fearless skiers from Austria, Switzerland, Britain, and the United States competed against each by hurtling down the mountain as fast as they could with their primitive equipment.  Its popularity led the International Ski Federation to recognize Alpine Skiing in addition to the classic Nordic disciplines.

Field Marshal Frederick Roberts was a Victorian era soldier whose career at the height of British Empire saw him fighting in India, Ethiopia, and South Africa.  In Afghanistan, at the head of a 10,000 man field force, he marched across 300 miles of inhospitable terrain to defeat Ayub Khan at Kandahar in 1880. In honor of the victory, he was named the Earl of Kandahar.  Later in life, he awarded the Roberts of Kandahar cup at one of the first ever ski races, which led to the formation of the British Kandahar Ski club.

The Kandahar ski race soon spread to other locations including Chamonix-France, Sestriere-Italy, and Garmisch-Germany.  Thus history is made and a ski race in Germany is named after a city in war ravaged central Asia.

A racer flies down the slope on a qualifying run.

Now a part of the Alpine Skiing World Cup, the Garmisch Kandahar run is considered by some to be the best ski run in the world.  It drops 1800 meters or 5 thousand feet in elevation in 7 km. One section, ominously labeled “free fall”, is a jaw dropping 92% gradient.  Those who want to win the race, compete for advantages in hundredths of a second.

Lisa on the summit of the Osterfelderkopf, above the Kandahar route.

Lisa and I were drawn to ski the run like flies are drawn to light.  Sneaking out for an afternoon on the slopes we found most of the route shut off as they prepared the course for the race.  Luckily a section wasn’t yet closed and we got to taste a little of the Kandahar in midst of a snow storm. Then on Friday, we skied on the margins of the course to watch the racers test themselves on the qualifying runs. 

Skiers along the route check the rankings

By Saturday, race day, the skies were a brilliant blue.  Crowds walked through the town and fields to the base of the mountain.  Festive music blared, and people lined up for beers and bratwurst.

Fans mingle at the base of the mountain.

Above them on the impossibly steep slope, the racers battled.  Ski racing, probably like life, is a matter of finding the right balance between risk and restraint.  Too fearless and too fast and a racer would go crashing into the nets that line the course. Too prudent and a skier wouldn’t win.  The greatest, of course, were just over the edge of control as they hurtled down the mountain at maximum speeds of 140 kms an hour (86 mph) and jumps that could launch them 60 meters.

A racer launches off a jump.

Hometown hero Thomas Dressen took the victory, the first for a German in many years.  The crowd roared their approval. He completed the course in 1.39.31. Second place was .16 of a second slower.  Last place that day was two minutes slower than the champion-an eternity.

Fans cheer as a racer crosses the finish line.

Amidst the festive beer fueled atmosphere, which resembled an Oktoberfest in the Snow, we marveled at the athleticism and daring of the skiers.  Stranger still were the twists of fate that had led the race to be named after a city far away where men continue to fight.

Body, Mountains, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Skiing the Sellaronda

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A place of incredible beauty was once the site of unspeakable suffering.

There was no light. Tiny hands and feet crawled into our bed long before the breaking of dawn.  Our children had navigated the tight hallway of our postage sized hideaway to snuggle. Outside the snow piled up across the one window of our room.  Inside we burrowed under our blankets to stay warm.

We were deep in the Dolomite mountains.  Beauty is, of course, in the eye of the beholder.  But in my eyes, the Dolomites are probably the most beautiful mountains in the world. Jagged pink hued rock faces outline picturesque Alpine villages in pocket valleys.

The Sella Crags.

Of course, we couldn’t see any of this after we were woken up by our children.  It was pitch dark outside, the mountains invisible. We layered on long underwear and sweaters before beginning to boil water for the elixir of life, espresso out of an old mocka machine.  

We had come to the Val di Fassa to ski an iconic route, the Sellaronda.  With a single Ski pass, the Dolomiti Superski, you can ski more than a thousand kilometers of piste across multiple valleys throughout the Dolomites.  It is said to be the world’s biggest ski area. Amidst this wonderland of downhill skiing, the most legendary tour is that of the Sellaronda, or circumnavigation of the Sella mountain range.   A web of different ski resorts surround the imposing craggy Sella chain. If you time it right, you can connect those different resorts by cable car and chair lift and your skis to do the entire route in a day.   

Lisa studies the route to plan our next moves.

Each valley has its own unique culture and in some cases its own language.  For although today we would remain in Italy, it wasn’t always so. Before the First World War, this beautiful land had been divided between the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the nascent state of Italy.

When Europe descended into the cataclysm of World War One, Italy sensed an opportunity to correct what it saw as past injustices; that some Italian speaking communities remained under the dominion of their old nemesis, the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  After the rest of Europe had already been at war for a year, slaughtering each other on both the Western and Eastern Fronts, Italy declared war on Austro-Hungary.

Unsurprisingly, the dreams of politicians and generals crashed against the reality of geography in this new front.  Each side raced each other to gain a positional advantage from the highest terrain in the Dolomites. Then the altitude, the weather, the sheer imposing nature of the terrain led to bloody incremental warfare in brutal conditions.

The battle for the Dolomites.

That time had long passed when my wife Lisa and I decided to come to this skiing mecca and try our own hands at the Sellaronda.  After breakfast, we dropped the little ones off at a welcoming kindergarten, and struggled to get our feet into cold ski boots. Then a gondola shot us high into the sky.

After clipping into our skis, we raced down one slope after another, never repeating a run.  The conditions were perfect; bluebird skies, good snow, and brisk wind biting our exposed skin.  We struck up a conversation with guide on a chairlift who told us, if we were fast enough, we could also link the Marmolada to our route.

Skiing the Sellaronda.

The Marmolada is the highest mountain in the Dolomites at over 10,000 feet.  A glacier covers it summit in snow year round. Thanks to the marvels of modern engineering and the sacrifices of soldiers over a century ago, we now could reach its highest plateau with a cable car.

The shadow of our cable car against the face of La Marmolada.

Over half way up the Marmolada there is the self-proclaimed highest museum of the world that tells the story of the men who fought over this beautiful place. Mountaineering skills were as important as military ones in this fight. 

Artifacts of war.

Although the mountain had first been climbed in 1864, the first ascent of its dangerous south face had only occurred in 1901.  Only a few years later, whole units of men would find themselves living, fighting, and dying there. Austro-Hungarian soldiers built tunnels in the glacier on the north face.  While the Italians clung precariously to their outposts on the exposed south face. Even today, as the glacier recedes in summer it releases the remnants of the men who fought there.

We stepped out of the cable car and stood in awe of the view from the top of countless mountaintops stretched to the horizon.  Then began the greatest run of the day. For over twelve kilometers we linked one ski turn after another, reaching speeds of 68 miles per hour.

The view from La Marmolada.

After another series of lifts and beautiful views, we entered the Alta Badia.  In between the German speaking Sud-Tyrol and the Italian Veneto lies a valley with an ancient people who speak their own language, Ladin.  Linguists say it is a mix of the celtic of ancient inhabitants and the latin of Roman legionnaires who used to garrison the area. Whatever its origin, this is where we chose to have lunch.  In the afternoon sun, we filled ourselves with a fusion of pasta and german style pancakes as well as wine and beer washed down with espresso.

Refueling in the Alta Badia.

Wobbly, we returned to skis and continued the route.  Increasingly worried that we wouldn’t make it to our children in time, we lost our bearing and found ourselves skiing the World Cup race route on the Saslong slope. 

Finally, as the light began to fail, our epic day came to an end.  After 30 miles of skiing and 30,000 feet of vertical descent, our Sellaronda tour was over.  My knees and legs ached as I stumbled in my ski boots to our children. Lisa, unsurprisingly, remained unfazed. 

Lisa on the Sellaronda route.

We bundled our children up and drove back to our small hideaway.  After much laughter, stories, imaginative children’s drawings and red wine- we all returned to our beds.  Long ago, soldiers had battled each other over possession of this beautiful place. We fell asleep, in the dark, content in having experienced them.

The Dolomites.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.