The Ski Journal • Volume 17, Issue 3 • POTENT POTABLE

It’s said that thieves oil dates to the bubonic plague, when four industrious robbers concocted the brew to protect against illness as they snatched gold off corpses. But, sliding among the peaks of Kyrgyzstan’s Terskey Ala-too, I was starting to think the miracle serum was actually meant to bring people back from the dead. Just a few hours before, I had been doubled over in a thick, wool yurt, my stomach turning in a hazy, fever-pitched dance. There was likely decent medical attention down in the capital city of Bishkek, but that was a six-hour drive away. Our fixer tried to reassure me—if things were really serious, I could always catch a seven-hour medevac flight to Dubai. Splendid.

With a crackling woodfire my sole companion, I’d spent 12 hours in agony until Ptor Spricenieks poked his head through the yurt’s entry flap. A well-traveled skier with a flair for the eccentric, he offered me the medieval elixir, squeezing a few drops on my tongue and handing me a bottle of water. I typically hesitate to try new things, especially mystery serums in developing countries, but I was too wiped to put my guard up. This time, I had to let go.

It had taken me 37 hours to reach this slice of Central Asia. Starting from Salt Lake City, with a stop in Amsterdam and a night sleeping on a cold Moscow airport floor, I’d made it to Bishkek just in time to catch a multi-hour connector bus to Karakol. From there, we’d trekked a half day up into these mountains, but the weight of the trip had followed. Every turn felt heavy, as if each arc had to make the whole thing worth it. I was lucky to be here; it was my responsibility, nay, my duty to enjoy the hell out of this. It turned out to be an exhausting charge. Somewhere between my aggro ski flailing and a late-night bowl of borscht, my body had had enough.

I put on my ski gear in autopilot. Pants. Jacket. Boots. Gloves. Following the forms in front of me, I tried to match their cadence, applying skins and clicking into walk mode. Just make it to the trailhead and stop there, I thought. I could hang in the safe zone as our mini crew lapped the open bowls above. But as we rose, my physical haze started to lift. My legs gained strength and we passed the trailhead up, and then up some more.

Focused purely on the path ahead of me, the mission and the mountains became clear. After reaching the ridge, I edged my skis over a line Ptor had dubbed “Yahtzee.” Morning chill pricked my ears and bit at my nose. Ptor dropped in as I looked out over a vertical expanse of snow and jutting rock. With his signal, I too clicked my poles and tipped into velvety powder bliss.

As I cut my way down Yahtzee, the cold, dry snow slid downhill around me like granules of sand. My line hopped from light to shadow and back again. Suddenly I was lost in the sound of waves, each turn a melodic crash on an alpine coastline. Rounding Ptor on our moraine rendezvous, I slowed to a stop and waited for gravity to catch up.

“I guess the thieves oil worked then?” Ptor said through a scraggly patchwork beard. “I mean, you’re alive.”

Taking a deep breath of frigid air, I looked up at my tracks and managed a smile. Yes, I certainly was.

The Ski Journal - Volume 17, Issue 3

POTENT POTABLE

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