The Ski Journal • Volume 15, Issue 3 • A SKIER'S EYE: Chad Sayers’ Visual Journey

“The heart of winter in the French Alps. Decompressing in a moment of solitude as I walk toward the La Grave loading station after a memorable day of storm skiing. The pain and adrenaline in my body surged as one on this day in 2009—bliss, fatigue and a man chasing his dream.”—Chad Sayers. Photo: Jordan Manley

Perched on a rock in the Goyko Valley, high in the cathedral of the Himalayas, Chad Sayers knew he was in the right place. Fresh out of high school, he’d traveled with a friend to Nepal, camera in hand. It was there, pointing his Nikon F90X at the tallest peaks on Earth that he considered the possibilities behind the lens, dreaming of a life as a National Geographic photographer.

Back in Vernon, BC, a few months later, he started to put that plan into action. He thought about college photography programs, and even began filling out an application for the former Western Academy of Photography in Victoria, BC.

But the mountains intervened once again. Sayers had been gaining momentum as a freeskier across Canada. He moved to Whistler and competed in continental contests before earning a spot on the inaugural Freeride World Tour. Skiing took center stage. His Western application, on the other hand, stayed in Vernon, unfinished.

Yet as Sayers transitioned away from competitions and embarked on ski expeditions to some of the farthest reaches of the globe, his camera, his “one true love,” always came with him.

Sayers realized he could use his skiing to travel and take photos—on his terms. Staying true to the darkrooms and light boards of his adolescence, Sayers continued to shoot film in an increasingly digital world. He says he felt a strong passion for connection, and forced himself to slow down and be in the moment with his experiences as he traversed the globe.

At the end of every trip, Sayers would get his film developed, learning through trial and error, diligently adding slide after slide to his light board. He says the process helped him improve the way he skied in front of the lens as well, teaching him the intricacies of light and composition, and where he needed to be as an athlete in the frame. Now, after nearly 25 years of traveling and skiing professionally, those slides have grown into a robust collection, creating a portrait of a man who has navigated life—in all its joy, loss, curiosity, pain and beauty—both in front of and behind the lens.

This year, Sayers published his photographs and some of his best ski imagery in a coffee-table book, Overexposure: A Story About a Skier. In the spirit of its release, here’s a collection of photographic vignettes through the eyes and into the soul of skiing’s modern journeyman.

Kauai 2009

I was skiing so hard and was so broken at the end of the year that I would disappear to places like Kauai, Indonesia or the Caribbean for long periods afterward. I would ski until the end of May, put my ski stuff away, and leave to the tropics within two days. The transitions were crucial and extreme, but there was a sense of relief there, and you get familiar with it after a while.

In the Spring of 2009 I was so free-spirited and open to life. But while that stay on Kauai was beautiful, I was also torn up by chronic pain and where my career and lifestyle were going. At that time, I had already broken my femur and pelvis, cracked three ribs, punctured a lung in one fall, and blew an ACL the following season. I had rods and bolts in my leg. I was torn between surrendering that mountain dream and living this other dream and lifestyle as a surfer and traveling nomad. It was always so much easier to be in that way, and healing for me. Still the mountains always called me back.

Here I was reconnecting with my camera and myself. I didn’t often take self-timer shots, but the shadow on the wall caught my attention, and I was trying out a new 50mm lens. The avocado, well, that was a prop of circumstance during a moment of introspection.

Chile 2015

Inside Torres del Paine National Park in 2015 on an Arc’teryx trip for their Lithographica project. For years I would go to Patagonia with climbing and ski gear to string volcano ski adventures together, but my buddy and photographer Steve Ogle and I would leave time do a photo safari at the end of each excursion.

We would just drive around and shoot landscapes and whatever else caught our eye, jumping from classic spot to classic spot, him with his digital camera and me right next to him with my analog setup. We fed off each other. The difference was, he could see his work. He would go back to the hostel, edit stuff and get stoked and I would be just sitting there with handfuls of film feeling a little bit crazy and not sure what I was going to get. He was a great mentor though, and helped my photography more than he knows.

For me, this late-evening light just speaks to the wild vastness of Patagonia—in every direction the eye can see.

Scotland 2015

For so many cultures around the world, skiing is a way of expressing themselves and celebrating the mountains. That really hit home in Scotland, where it felt like there wasn’t necessarily a high caliber of skier, but there was a high excitement in the tight Scottish ski culture. Flat slopes, old gear, driving wind (we were told these fences were actually meant to keep snow from totally blowing away)—nothing was going to keep them from making the most of Scottish winter. It didn’t hurt that we got a rare few days of sun at Glencoe Mountain Resort—the perfect way to enjoy a unique ski trip to the Scottish Highlands.

The only hitch was our rental car. When writer Matt Coté rolled up to pick us up at the airport, it was pretty obvious the thing could barely hold two people and a pair of shoes, not four adults laden with two weeks of ski gear. We had to do some negotiating to get a proper rig for our trip to the hills.

Canada 2017

We had a solid crew pushing up Mount Logan, Canada’s highest peak at 19,951 feet. In May 2017, our five-man team landed on the Quintino Sella glacier at the toe of the King’s Trench, the most popular and least technical route up the mountain. The next 17 days would be a willing sufferfest, gaining 11,500 feet over 14 miles to reach the summit plateau. We shuttled our camp and all of our gear day after day, battling a cold that hit -20 degrees Fahrenheit and was augmented by a constant alpine wind.

This photo looks deceptively pleasant in contrast, as photographer Kari Medig glides up the midway point of our climb, King’s Peak rising in the background. What it doesn’t show is Kari’s trip to the pain cave, the sickness and fatigue he felt that day, and my attempts to help my buddy battle through.

When someone is having a bad day up there, everyone is having a bad day. I had hurt my knee earlier in the trip when I hit an ice chunk and felt a significant pop. After three days of resting what was ultimately a nasty hyperextension and determining the knee wasn’t going to buckle, I decided to keep going. Those days Kari and the team were helping me through. There’s a deep connection on trips like that, one that you always need to respect.

Nepal 2018

In September 2018, I returned to Nepal for the first time in 20 years—the place that had inspired my life of travel. This time, however, three friends and I planned to climb and ski Mount Saipal, a previously unskied 23,068-foot peak in the country’s remote northwest.

The area had seen little attention from the Western world due to a Maoist insurgence and difficult travel logistics. Sixteen days later—most of them spent weaving along exposed mountain roads in a jeep before undertaking a weeklong trek through Nepal’s Wild West—we set up base camp in a stunning alpine meadow at 11,500 feet. Being back in Nepal felt like I’d never left. I was having these intense flashbacks and then flashing forward to the person that had dedicated the last two decades to a life inspired by these mountains. For a time, it felt so peaceful.

But it wouldn’t stay that way. My dear friend Forrest Coots makes his way across a handcrafted bridge on the way back from the mountain—defeated. We didn’t summit, I suffered from nasty frostbite, Forrest had severe stomach issues, and two of our party members were forced to seek shelter in an ice cave inside a bergschrund after the mountain avalanched during a second summit attempt. In many ways, this was Forrest’s trip, his dream, and the failed summit bid, along with the 9-month-old waiting for him at home, added some weight to his shoulders.

Still, I felt fortunate to be walking away from a life-altering journey relatively unscathed, each step taking us closer to home.

Iran 2016

As Westerners entering Iran, we weren’t sure what to expect from a country known for its checkered political past and stringent surveillance. But driving more than 2,100 miles through Iran’s diversity of landscapes, our group was fascinated by the number of UNESCO World Heritage Sites, elaborate city squares and decorative mosques, and felt instantly connected to the region’s deep history.

Eventually, dusty desert roads led to the far reaches of towering snow-covered mountains where we found ourselves spellbound not by just the beauty of the land, but also by the mechanics of local ski culture. Parking-lot porters who had recently emigrated from Afghanistan clambered to carry our skis from the parking lot to the slopes, or clean our boots—any number of tasks to earn some semblance of a salary in a new land far from home.

During one particularly harrowing drive, we were rounding the corner on a gnarly mountain road when we nearly ran into this man, alone in the frozen whiteness. We stopped to chat and he told us he was actually working, tasked with standing along this empty stretch of road to clear active rockfall with a shovel in order to keep the pass safe for mountain travelers. How he got there, we’ll never know.

China 2016

Our crew had come to ski the uncharted peaks of the Altai mountains in Western China’s Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region. China claims this wild, isolated range—a collision on a map between China, Kazakhstan, Russia and Mongolia—is the birthplace of skiing.

I still remember being at an outside venue in the small mountain town of Khom. Through billows of cigarette smoke, men on horseback playing tug-of-war with a goat shot us skeptical stares. Inside, children danced in colorful washes to tinny music leaking from old speakers while women in beautiful dresses prepared the feast: an entire goat on a platter. We’d already been sick and this didn’t exactly inspire confidence. We were starving but terrified to eat.

Days earlier, on our trip into Khom and high along the switchbacks leading away from more populous cities below, we encountered this man on horseback, alone and dressed to impress. He was just stopped, as if posing in the middle of nowhere. Somehow the way this photo was exposed makes it look like the man and his horse are floating in a perfectly white background, unimpressed by the journey that had brought us together on this mountain pass.

Morocco 2018

The Atlas Mountains are between the Mediterranean and Atlantic coasts of North Africa. After successfully climbing and skiing down 12,671-foot Mount Toubkal, we decided to drive 10 hours into the Sahara Desert to ski gigantic sand dunes. Traversing through a sea of golden waves, we dropped into 500-vertical-foot pitches of steep sand, picking up speed before digging edges into terrestrial slopes. Some of the pitches were so steep we could almost slough off the face, jump-turning our way through hot red desert sand.

Thirsty, sunburnt and satisfied, we were driving back into the land of snow-covered peaks of winter when I asked to stop the car and snapped this picture. In the distance you can see our next adventure: the incoming storm.

The Ski Journal - Volume 15, Issue 3

A SKIER'S EYE: Chad Sayers’ Visual Journey