LEFT During the rest days, we would fill our time with anything from art to snow baths. Ryan Taylor drew this realistic sketch of the peak 5468 (Mt. Hood) view from the dom. Ryan wanted to ski the 6,000-foot vert, 45-degree face, but we were not able to make it over there before the end of the trip. OPPOSITE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP Elliot Smith makes a few hop turns on the 45-plus-degree entrance of the Warp Couloir. The start of this run was tight and steep, eventually opening into the heart of the mountains. The descent had to be quick on this line because there was a massive hanging serac above us. Ryan, Elliot and Peter make their way up the Dream Line. The 100-foot walls of the couloir snaked their way to the summit, towering over us. The snow stayed extremely cold and there was some windblown fresh on top, making the 3,000-foot boot pack a bit more avalanche prone. Mubien takes a break with his horse during the hike into base camp. The locals helped us carry gear into the mountains using two horses and one donkey. Due to the deep snow, we often had to take all the gear off the animals and shuttle the bags ourselves. In the end, they were able to make it about 90 percent of the way, and we shuttled the rest of the gear. The locals were our last human connection while out in these mountains. We looked forward to seeing their smiles and hot tea. Communication was simple, just smiles and gestures, as they only spoke Tajiki. RYAN—DAY 9 Up around 04:00 a.m. Our approach followed the crest of the moraine with the glacier far below. We’d eyed the Warp Couloir from our rainy base camp in 2016—a plunging 3,600-foot shot through undulating moun-tain rock—but only had four ski days during our soggy month in Tajikistan. To be back here (and ski!) is a satisfaction worth the years of “what-ifs.” The exposure to the hanging glacier above could only be partially avoided, but we did our best, climbing hard left. The serac and the fold of red rock supporting it resembled a blue monster cradled in the arm of a giant. Best not wake it up. Large avalanches ripped down the east face of an adjacent peak as the first sun hit us. The intensity of the rays at altitude instantly sent temperatures soaring. With several hundred meters to go, we had two to three hours to get up and down our west-facing line. Were we too late? In the heat of the day, small rocks whizzed past at impres-sive speed. A pebble stung me in the thigh, pushing me off balance. “ROCK!” I shouted, watching one fall off the wall above Pete and Elliot and accelerate. Will and I froze. I poised myself on front points, ready to leap out of the way. Will leaned right and I leaned left as it narrowly sailed between us. Ravens screeched from the cracked spire above as the guys topped out. They walked onto a snowy platform that looked into the adjacent valley and glacier, and from there we got our first views of the Dream Line. After countless years studying imagery, I could have never imagined it in reality. Incredible. We were all dehydrated, tired and having trouble think-ing straight. After a long, circular conversation, we decided I would ski first while Will shot. I didn’t hold back and skied the line as hard as I could, starting with jump turns in the narrow section before opening it up, enjoying the adrenaline and speed after a slow climb. As I neared the serac, I pulled over for a break, the sweet sensation of oxygen rushing back into my brain. After Peter and Elliot dropped, I waited for Will. Together, absolutely fizzing, we enjoyed corn turns down to the bottom. We rested in tents for a few hours and got rehydrated. Cruising the low-angle terrain back to the dom, we stopped to fill bottles in the stream melt of the glacier in the fading evening light. WILL—DAY 11 Woke up at 1 a.m. wondering why the fuck we do this. Pete made us coffee and muesli. Crampons on, skis on our backs, we made it to the first saddle right at sunrise. From there, 2,600 vertical feet of steep approach to our ski line with some moments of climbing and 60-plus-degree pitches of inclined ice. The Shield is a north-facing glacier sitting on top of a 16,400-foot mountain. The glacier was mostly covered, but some large patches of glacial ice poked through. By noon, we summited, but clouds were beginning to swallow the area. Storm coming. I found a couple of pitons from an old Russian climb. We didn’t get the first ascent, but we did get the first descent . The ski was epic—a mix of hippie pow and patches of luminescent ice. I broke through a snow bridge and sunk shin deep in a glacial creek on the ski out, soaking my feet and boots. We still had an hour of skiing back to the dom; my feet were fucked and the blood rushing back to my appendages hurt like hell. PETER—DAY 13 Chill at the dom. New water hole! But 30 days on an agricul-tural plateau in a developing country without water treatment is a bit risky. Understatement. We all got a stomach bug and garden hose diarrhea. Imodium and Pepto were invaluable. Achy and sick for 24 hours at least. I am sick of beans. WILL—DAY 14 I knew going into the trip that we would get sick, that it was bound to happen. The trip is starting to challenge me men-tally. A little homesick, for sure wishing I was with friends and family. Lots of angst about my career, but I am doing my best to stay present. Also, happy Mother’s Day <3. 052 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 14, Issue 1: Page 52
