An isolated ramp among crevasses granted a cheeky mini-golf line on the descent from base camp to the river valley below. Adrien slashed the chunky, hot pow in style. Conversely, in Kyrgyzstan’s vast rural steppe, nomadic horse-men, ranchers and shepherds navigate swaths of land hundreds of miles across with an intimate knowledge of the landscape. Unlike the rapid development and modernization of the few cities, this is a way of life only achievable through hundreds, if not thousands, of years of passed-down experience. Geopolitics mean little here— identities are firmly pressed and interwoven like traditional felts over generations. Where yurts have been replaced by knockoff shopping centers, the tunduk—the central connective structure of yurts—still hangs high on the national flag, a symbol of unity and heritage. Along Kyrgyzstan’s rarely paved mountain passes, we saw dozens of yurts, thousands of livestock and numerous examples of our own skewed perception. I caught myself wondering if a rural horseman wearing a hand-knit sweater was more “authentic” than another wearing a knockoff Adidas tracksuit. Kyrgyzstan is a nation in the midst of rapid development, with contrasts old and new. Even if the roads are paved one day, the shepherds will still ferry their flocks down the pass come autumn. En route to Karakol, a local farmer invited us for tea and din-ner. We shared home-baked bread and jam made from fruit har-vested from his orchard and held an entire conversation through Google Translate on his teenage daughter’s phone. We explained the difference between poutine and Putin. Tea made the rounds in small bowls, and we noticed there was always one more dish, placed intentionally, than the number of individuals. When we hit the road toward the mountains, we left a seat open for hitchhikers amid the gear explosion in our packed rental—generosity is a gift best passed along. parent that neither this young ski patroller’s bold accomplishments nor his aspirations were in the public eye. He simply loved skiing and the community at Shames. To this day, Adrien is the consummate professional amateur. He approaches skiing with erudite professionalism: line choice, snow conditions, ski tuning—calculated decisions, researched, tested and observed with meticulous attention to detail. But in the intrinsic sense, the word “amateur” refers to the love and passion with which an individual pursues a pastime. At Shames, Adrien lives on the hill above the maintenance shed (there are no official accommodations at the ski area). It’s rent-free and allows him to get up at 3 a.m. to start plowing the parking lot, one of a half-dozen hats he wears, along with director of ski patrol—a position he landed before he could legally drink a beer in the States. His first descents are solo and he typically doesn’t tell anyone when or where he plans to go. He wakes at midnight, drops at sunrise, and returns home in time to open the hill. He dumpster dives for groceries, but has an affinity for French cheese. In recent years, his skiing has earned him some free gear and even caught the eye of Matchstick Productions (who filmed with the then-21-year-old for Stomping Grounds in 2021). But for Adrien, skiing in front of a camera usually results in a lot less actual ski-ing—he won’t compromise passion for exposure. We cemented the plans for Kyrgyzstan this past spring on the Shames T-bar. It felt like an opportunity for him to get away from the professional grind and get closer to why he loved skiing. He arrived in Kyrgyzstan without a phone, intent on experiencing a vibrant land and culture with skiing as the medium to build that bridge. THE LONG , slow approach provided ample time for conver-sation. Although we’ve known each other for a couple of years, in the general scheme of things, Adrien and I hadn’t spent a lot of time together. We met, serendipitously, in the parking lot of Shames Mountain Co-op in northern British Columbia in the spring of 2020. I stepped out of my pickup camper to find a few feet of fresh snow and, surprisingly, Adrien, who’d spent the night camped just beyond the ropes in a snow cave. We skied together that day, the following and the next several after that. We shared some of the deepest days of our lives and teamed up on a 36-hour mission to a striking steep fin where he notched a possible first descent. When I left the north, it was ap-THE INCONSISTENCIES of Kyrgyzstan’s cultural identity are mirrored by its temperamental graupel storms. The spheri-cal styrofoam snow is a fleeting sign of weather volatility and an approaching window—one can generally expect a short burst of intense precipitation accompanied by a clearing. Nature’s ephemeral Dippin’ Dots graced Adrien and I more than once between valley bottom and our base camp in the glacial cirque beneath our primary objective. We had eyes on a beautiful fluted curtain draped across the upper reaches of a face pockmarked by seracs, bergschrunds and gaping crevasses. There was no fan, no runout, just thousands of feet of complex exposed terrain below. We could see where the spines naturally sloughed and identified a prow that Adrien was frothing to ride. It felt like monsoon season —a strange realization at the farthest point from an ocean in the world. 056 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 16, Issue 2: Page 56
