The Trident, Monkey Tail,
& Kailash – Telemark Adventures in India
Part Three
By Bob Mazarei
Sri Kailash,
31°01’N, 79°11’E
Garhwal Himalaya, 2005
--Monster Mash
Lord Shiva at
home. He is with Parvati, Ganesh, and his trusty cow Nandi.
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--ph. Mazarei
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Inflation and Improvement
Again we received bad news from
the Indian Mountaineering Federation (IMF). Luca, who had organized
this expedition to try and ski Sri Kailash 6932m (22,737ft) had
been quoted the price for the permit, an arrangement he had concluded
the year before. The peak fee, always reasonable, is one of the
reasons we kept coming back. The IMF seemingly doubled the fee
out of the blue.
Luca filed an official protest with
the IMF and we flew anyway.
At Delhi we had our meeting with
the new director, a gentleman with impeccable character. We gathered
around the large conference table but I had to move seats because
of that rocket air conditioner.
He explained the reason for the
fee hike: The Indian State of Uttar Pradesh recently split in
two, forming the new State of Uttaranchal. The Garhwal, now under
the administration of the new state, immediately hiked the rates.
The director told us that the IMF wasn’t happy with the
fee hike either but there was nothing they could do: the state
was autonomous. Luca explained that India could lose many climbers
because of this, that there were other places to go where it
was less costly. I chimed in saying that this was a bad precedent,
that other states may follow suit. Anyway, with no concessions
from the IMF, we bid adieu and headed out.
Later, in Shashank and his lovely
wife Rani’s office, we went over info they had on Sri Kailash.
(Not to be confused with Mt. Kailash in Tibet, the holy peak
that is said to be Lord Shiva’s primary residence. Sri
Kailash is Shiva’s Indian vacation home.) Again, we
had one snapshot of the peak. But this time we had a decent expedition
report from an Indian team that climbed it some years back. The
leader of the expedition tried to ski it but wasn’t able
to from the top. Logistics sorted we left to go check Delhi out.
There was a massive new freeway
project underway—the freeway to eventually cross the city
as well as connect to Mumbai via six lanes. It was ambitious
from what we could see, but work didn’t seem to be moving
that quickly. Construction workers milled about behind the chain-link
fence under the shade of the partially built overpass seemingly
moving at a pace learned in Hang-ology 101.
Still, it was strangely gratifying
to see Delhi’s change since my first trip here in 1997.
The population—now at 1.1 billion—is
poised to overtake China’s in ten years. But there was noticeably
less squalor, owing to the fact that the economy has almost doubled
in 10 years. Direct foreign investment is 40 times what it was
in 1991 and the stock index has tripled in three years. These
facts, however, are all balanced out: while the middle-class
has grown significantly (10% of the population live at western
standards) and there are more rich people than ever—800
million of the 1.1 billion earn $2 a day or less.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing
was that every taxi, bus, and auto-rickshaw in Delhi now ran
on CNG—Compressed Natural Gas. I noticed ‘CNG’
hand-painted on all these vehicles while we were out cruising
around, not knowing what it meant. We then figured it out.
Gone was the acrid black smoke we
saw spewing out of all public transportation on our earlier trips.
The Supreme Court had ordered all public transportation to be
converted to CNG by late 2001, a transition that must have been
Herculean for all involved. I applaud this incredibly incorrupt
and ethical decision made for the collective good of the citizens
of Delhi.
The Podium Boys
Besides Luca and I, three other
Italians from Livigno,
rounded out our team. They were the Podium Boys—all veterans
of the World Cup in their respective specialties. Enzo Cusini
spent eight years bashing gates on the Telemark tour, long enough
to get sore knees as well as hone free-heel precision. Gerry
Cusini (not related, as far as they know…) teeth-chattered
through three seasons on the Snowboard WC, battling through those
triangular gates as if it meant something (...kidding). And Iwan
Bormolini was on Italy’s Alpine National Team for ten years,
racing all four disciplines. The only important discipline now—telemarking
efficiently with huge packs on.
Enzo Cusini.--ph.
Mazarei
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Gerry Cusini.--ph.
Mazarei
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Iwan Bormolini.--ph.
Mazarei
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The Podium Boys, all on their first
Himalayan expedition, had been training hard in the weeks leading
up to our departure. Luca, meanwhile, trained by teaching skiing,
and I got ready by not getting ready. Besides free-skiing most
days, I ate a few more Big Macs than normal.
Spiritual Tours.com
Each spring, as the snows slowly
release their hold on the high Himalayan villages, pilgrims,
mostly Hindu, some Buddhist, from all walks of life and all parts
of India, make the journey to the four important dhams or spiritual
centers in what is known as the abode of the gods, the Garhwal.
Devout Hindus by the tens of thousands, visit the dhams of Yamunotri,
Gangotri, Kedarnath, and Badrinath, to attend religious festivals
and worship throughout the summer and until the snows start arriving
once again. Due to the well-documented growth of India’s
middle class in the last couple of decades, the numbers of pilgrims
has increased dramatically. Unfortunately, this increased pressure
has led to problems of deforestation, sanitation, and litter.
The life-blood to this whole region
is, of course, the Ganges River, one of the most sacred rivers
known to mankind. Its three tributaries—the Alaknanda, the
Mandakini, and the Bhagirathi—descend out of the Garhwal.
The Ganges then flows southeast through the arid plains of India
for more than 2400 kilometers (1500 miles) till it reaches the
Bay of Bengal. Although the Alaknanda is technically the source
of the Ganges, the true source according to Hindu legend, is
the Bhagirathi, which emerges at Gaumukh, the snout of the 40-km
(25-mile) long Gangotri Glacier. Gaumukh, which means “cow’s
mouth” in Hindi, is India’s most holy natural shrine,
and according to Hindu legend, the place where all life originated.
Bathing in the sacred freezing meltwaters that emerge at Guamukh,
it is said, will cleanse you of sin, and prepare you for the
journey into the next life. Being Hindu is a prerequisite, I
would think.
We started our sixteen-hour day
bouncing through the familiar plains, incessant horns almost
an afterthought, and near misses, almost a yawner. Shashank,
our outfitter from Bandarpunch, had roused us from a hung over
stupor from the night before at an ungodly early hour. Taking
it easy at the start of an expedition, especially in a city like
Delhi is usually a good idea. But all prudence flies like the
winged Garuda with the Podium Boys.
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Liason Officer, Amresh Kumarjha,
our Bandarpunch cook’s helper Raju, and our cook Dawa were
also squeezed into our duffle-stuffed minibus. Finally beyond
the dusty plains, a rush of wellbeing filled me as we wound up
the road, gaining altitude. It was late afternoon and the climate
was just like Southern California where I grew up: clear, warm
and dry. Birds chirped and the monkeys that lined the road scratched
their cheeks and looked on stoically as we passed terraced ricefields
and wooded hillsides.
We spent a pleasant evening in Uttarkashi,
the administrative headquarters of the district. Luca and Shashank
went to pay a perfunctory visit to the Forest Department of the
newly formed state of Uttaranchal. The visit quickly turned sour,
we later found out, as third world Kafkaesque red tape was thrust
on us once again. Sri Kailash was not on their list of open peaks.
What? The snaking turns of the previously agreed upon were finally
straightened out a half-dozen phone calls later, and we set off
for the mountains of the Gangotri and the source of the Ganges. |
Uttarkashi,
located in the Himalayan foothills, bares more than a passing
resemblance to the landscape of Southern California. Our hotel
sign of the times.--ph. Mazarei
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Fortunately, as pilgrimage
was just getting under way, the precarious road to Gangotri hadn’t
yet clogged with busses piloted by overburdened drivers, using
less than stellar vehicles, always loaded to capacity, plus another
ten for good measure. Drivers around here don’t count passengers—bottomed-out
bus springs are the capacity gauge.
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Dizzyingly high on the road blasted
into the side of the Bhagirathi River Gorge, our driver asked
us to please get out and walk the next steep half-kilometer section.
The cliffs above us, and the old landslide that had earthshakingly
tumbled house-sized boulders into the gorge were both awe inspiring
and frightening. As we were waiting at a small outpost a guy
on a motorcycle pulled up and told us that our bus had brake
problems and that our driver went down to fetch a mechanic. Nice.
We decided to continue and boarded
a packed pilgrim bus. The driver got people to move to the roof
whilst we got squeezed in standing room in the aisle. Staying
safe climbing and skiing is all about calculated risk, but as
we passed another bus hundreds of meters above the Bhagirathi,
our tires feathering the edge and firing stones off into the
abyss, I realized that getting to Gangotri in such fashion was
casting fate to the whims of chance. |
Uttarkashi rush
hour.--ph. Mazarei
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Landslides and
rockfall are common occurrences in the steep river gorges. Bhagirathi
River.--ph. Mazarei
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Organizing the
porters. Like in most of the Himalaya, the porters utilize a tumpline
over the forehead to bare the load.--ph. Mazarei
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The next morning we awoke at 3140m
(10,299ft) Gangotri, repacked and hired the Garhwali porters
we would need. Passing tin-walled shops, open-sided snack places,
and stone temples, the village just starting to come to life,
we crossed and headed up valley.
Pilgrims at
Gangotri.--ph. Mazarei
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Kids playing
football. The much venerated Gangotri Temple is a fairly modest
structure and can be seen on the upper right.--ph. Mazarei
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We passed dreadlocked Babas, whole
Indian families, balding Brahmins, whispy yogis, and other Indians
of every caste and class, all headed to Gaumukh to bathe in the
holy waters. As well as dreadlocked Brits in Spicoli pullovers,
badly tattooed Israelis, flag patch wearing Canadians, and stoic
Swiss Germans, most of who insisted on bathing at the source
as well. Apparently this makes you feel more spiritual, as if
a dip, some picture books, yoga classes, and an affinity for
vegetarian dishes will make you eligible for reincarnation. Call
it the Dick Gere syndrome.
The State of Things
Young Indian
family from Calcutta making the pilgrimage.--ph. Mazarei
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Heading towards
the Gangotri Glacier. The Bhagirathi Group behind.--ph. Mazarei
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Amresh, our LO, pulled me aside
and slipped me an official looking document. It was from the
Guinness people, those fine beer folks who are the arbitrators
of world records.
“I hold the World Record for
standing on one leg,” he informed me with a glazed look
in his eye.
“How long did you do that for,
Amresh?” I asked.
“Over three days.”
“Holy cow, Amresh!” I
said, bemused. I wanted to ask him the big question: why? But
I couldn’t bring myself to it.
“Oh yes,” he said, his
head bobbing slightly from side to side, “I ate on one leg,
drank on one leg, and did not sleep,” as his hands mimicked
eating rice from an invisible bowl.
“We will teach you to ski on
one leg for the record book,” Gerry added.
Taking a break
at a rest stop.--ph. Luca Gasparini
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Bharal sheep
grazing next to an ice climb.--ph. Mazarei
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Gaumukh (the
cow's mouth), the place where all life originated. Pilgrims can
be seen, looking closely where the holy water emerges. Our route
heads up left just after Gaumukh.--ph. Mazarei
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Our team moved up valley until we were
within sight of Gaumukh, the snout of the 40km-long Gangotri
Glacier. The views here were great, but it wasn’t till we
left the main trail and started picking our way up the eastside
moraine to gain the rarely visited hanging Raktvarn Bamak Valley
did we really appreciate the extent of the phenomenal surroundings.
The mountains were unbelievable. The three peaks of the Bhagirathi
group out left; Kedarnath Dome with its incredible skiable north
face just in view. The beautiful eastside granite faces of the
three peaks of Meru, including the aptly named Sharkfin, directly
across from us. (According to Hindu legend, Meru is the center
of the universe). And then there was the beautiful monolith of
Shivling—the Indian Matterhorn. With its steeply angled
north ridge granite prow topped with ice and snow rising to the
heavens, many consider Shivling the most beautiful mountain in
the world. |
Bhagirathi II,
III, & I.--ph.Mazarei
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The angle eased coming off the moraine
and nice walking led us to our comfortable base camp at 4500m
(14,760ft). Unfortunately there was no snow in the immediate
vicinity. Our handy-dandy Swiss map showed mildly angled valley
for approximately 7 kms (4.3mi) then a dogleg north several kms
more till the start of the real climbing. Trouble was, what showed
on the map as mildly angled valley was in reality a labyrinth
of strewn rubble, boulders, and scree interspersed with slippery
glacial sand on the steeper sections with no trail to speak of.
And this terrain went on for as far as our eyes could see. |
The granite
faces of the three peaks of Meru.--ph. Mazarei
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Shivling, the
Indian Matterhorn. This incredible mountain is named after Lord
Shiva's lingam.--ph. Mazarei
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A Bamak to Break the Back
We started humping loads next day,
our packs suggesting some sort of siege was to follow. Add to
this our burly skis on the back and the fresh snow-covered terrain
to be negotiated with tele boots on, and we had the makings of
an interesting day.
The Podium Boys fired off ahead,
all bravado, then Luca went ahead and I was left with just my
thoughts. The boulder and rock strewn glacier terminus was reached
fairly quickly and the steep, slide-prone glacial sand was negotiated
without any major problems. Easier ramps led to difficult rock
and rubble as I worked up valley navigating efficiently as possible,
my burger-fed legs starting to lose viability as the day stretched.
I finally reached the Indian team’s
advance base camp. From here I had a good look at the distance
remaining till the left-hand dogleg. It was disheartening especially
in my wearied state. There was nothing to do but wrestle the
pack back on and continue over the painful terrain. Finally I
saw Gerry up ahead and though he was far away I could tell by
his posture that he too had enough. He then signaled me hands
apart: finito.
On the bamak
with a long way to go.--ph. Luca Gasparini
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Mazarei contemplating
reincarnation.--ph. Luca Gasparini
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Gerry and I unloaded and covered
up our gear, then changed into Scarpa approach shoes for the
trek back to BC. Iwan, Enzo, Luca, and Dil Bahadur—a Nepali
who helped us haul food and gear—caught us as we headed
down, my main focus being not twisting my ankle through the burly
bamak (glacier). The final irritation came as Luca and I missed
a turn and ended up below and two small drainages to the left
of BC forcing us to climb back up in order to fall into bed.
I was beyond worked and it took all my effort to pour out of
my sleeping bag and try and eat dinner.
The beauty of familiarity is enhanced
efficiency, an utter knowledge of what lies ahead. And so it
was the next time up the bamak two days later. We gained our
advanced base camp in a casual three hours. The weather moved
in as we set up and that’s when the Podium Boys started
into each other. It was sudden; the blow-up between Enzo and
Iwan the kind that happens between life-long mates—something
to do with, “quit enjoying the view, cazzo, there is work
to be done, egoiste!” but all in Italian, of course. As
Luca and I were cleaning and then re-cleaning the difficult MSR
fuel stoves (never again with these stoves) we got hopeful news.
Gerry and Enzo scouted straight across the rock-loaded glacier
and spied a lane of snow that looked as if it might be a good
way down from above.
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With ski-laden packs and ski boots
on again, we headed up the bamak-from-hell next day. The only
difference from the first section of the Raktvarn were frozen
glacial ponds and ice showing through the dirt and rock. A 145-kilometer
(90-mile) approach up the Baltoro, this was not, but fatiguing,
this was. Rescues can’t be counted on and I thought of this
as I gingerly stepped onto the steeply angled mud-covered ice
traverse. Each sketchy step, with Luca looking on—perfect
balance a must under the behemoth pack—emphasized our remoteness.
A frozen lake way down below waited like Mr. Freeze’s catchers
mitt for a miscalculation. |
It took a long
time to get on consistent snow.--ph. Mazarei
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We came upon the remains of a camp,
bleak and mouse infested, the dogleg finally within our grasp
under the dreary, threatening sky. Continuing, we saw that Dil
had found a spot and set up a tent. Dumping our gear into the
tent, we bid adieu to Dil and Amresh (who had come just for kicks)
and scree walked to the outside of the dogleg hoping to ski down
via Gerry and Enzo’s recon route. Sri Kailash would have
been visible but for the storm clouds; the way forward a Sisyphean
task—unless there was a way to skin from farther out. Fortune
seemingly started turning our way: we discovered that with some
side-stepping and pushing we were able to ski—albeit under
some huge, dicey snow faces on our left—back in line with
ABC. We stepped out of skis in 40 minutes, leaving the gear there,
and were back in camp after another 20 minutes crossing straight
across the glacier, a worthy and fruitful round trip. |
CI, Dogleg Camp.--ph.
Gerry Cusini
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It clouded up by the time we
were back on our skis, and within the first hour snowing pleasantly
under the windless sky. It felt like casual ski touring in Livigno
with the Podium Boys—the comparison between rock trekking
and skinning as different as lying on a bed of nails to mama’s
living room sofa.
Enzo, muttering in Italian, was
missing his girlfriend. It was snowing hard now and his morale
was wavering, and I understood. A love of skiing and the mountains
can only take you so far. The trick to long expeditions is to
control the inevitable psychological hills and valleys that come
with functioning through the actual ones.
It doesn't have
to be homemade to be great. A little taste of msg heaven.--ph.
Gerry Cusini
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The misty unveiling
of Sri Kailash.--ph. Mazarei
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Gasparini.--ph.
Mazarei
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Pyramid power.--ph.
Mazarei
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This image,
shot with a wide-angle lens, gives an idea of the distance remaining
from Dogleg Camp.--ph. Mazarei
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Reaching the corner, we negotiated
the interesting terrain till we found a rise at 5100m (16,728ft)
that was nice for CI. The Podium Boys were on it as they skied
a rollercoaster line around rock-studded ice pyramids, still
frozen moulins, and cool snow ramps to our gear tent. Under steady
snowfall we sorted gear and food for five days, then skinned
our line back to CI. Then as we were buffing out a nice snow
kitchen in the late afternoon, Sri Kailash made her coming out
appearance, a perfectly proportioned jewel in the treasure chest
of the Himalaya.
Sri Kailash.
Our route skirted through the shadow cast by the rock face eventually
gaining the obvious snowslope bisecting the lower icefalls.--ph.
Mazarei
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Le Freak
Iwan pulled out the Polaroid.
“I don’t get this picture,”
I said.
The Polaroid didn’t jibe. Then
I saw it. Closer scrutiny revealed we had much more snow at altitude
than the Indian team had. The multitude of séracs and
crevasses ahead were washed out on the small Polaroid image,
detail not the strong point of those long-ago handy cameras.
The summit pyramid glistened with what looked like ice. Although
the pitch looked perfect for skiing, at this distance it didn’t
seem probable for a summit ski. Maybe there would be better snow
on the left-hand skyline. Sri Kailash loomed large as did the
whole valley, with serious snow faces all around, steep and untamed.
The sun came out and we had clear weather till dusk, a precursory
of stability, something we could only hope for.
The scale of
everything changes as you get amongst it. Luca Gasparini skinning
towards the corridor.--ph. Mazarei
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Then you would
turn your head & capture this incredible ambience--ph. Mazarei
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....Tools of the trade.--ph. Mazarei
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..The Z.--ph. Mazarei
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..A nice venue.--ph. Mazarei
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We left CI under beautiful sunny
skies with skis on our backs. The Podium Boys headed down towards
a substantial rock wall that framed the right side of the valley.
Thirty minutes in Luca and I saw the boys putting skis on, just
enough snow to work through. Glad to get the skis off our backs,
the next part was an exercise akin to connect the dots, the dots
being snow. Past the cool shadows of the wall and a couple of
sections where we had to take skis off, we reached the spot where
it felt like the beginning. It was our 14th day since landing
in Delhi and we were finally on consistent snow.
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A graceful moraine pointed the way
up, and after breaking out some Oberto
peppered beef jerky, we started up the feature. (My mom sent
a whole box of jerky from California: teriyaki, peppered, turkey.
The Italians were dubious. Much to their surprise, they dug the
stuff. I mean, who could resist American-style jerky?) The boys
took to staying on the side hill while I opted to do switchbacks
to gain the top of the moraine and continue skinning from there.
Surprised the boys didn’t follow my more efficient line,
we steadily gained altitude—jumbled icefall to our left,
the moraine highway directing us to our high mountain launch
pad. By late afternoon we had established CII at 5600m (18,368ft). |
Shiva blowin'
into town.--ph. Mazarei
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Camp II.--ph.
Mazarei
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The necessary chores of grading,
cutting blocks, making a wall, and melting snow left me with
a pounding headache. (It’s best to do these tasks on your
knees whenever possible as bending over will give you a headrush
the likes of not having been felt since the addled 80’s).
The weather worsened and continuing stove problems, a frustration
that can’t be understated, stalled dinner. Falling into
our tent and deciding to forego relief by taking one of the few
aspirin we had left, I prodded Enzo to eat. He wasn’t feeling
well, just in time for the real effort that was to follow.
Coughing fits had bothered me for
the last few days, and now here at some altitude, the occasional
fits caused head spins, especially while skinning. But the next
morning looked good, and we started off. The start of the steeper
lower mountain was via an hourglass ramp through some ice. We
fell in line and steadily moved up, the vista expanding with
each step. Keddar Dome came into view, a phenomenal ski peak
that Luca almost summited a decade before. (Keddar Dome is a
classic that needs to be skied, pricy permit be damned.)
Weather changes
are to be expected. So you have to expect it. A beautiful morning
in the Himalaya.--ph. Mazarei
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The southern
flank of Shivling followed by the incredible ski peak of Keddar
Dome.--ph. Mazarei
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Ambience.--ph.
Mazarei
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Couloirville,
India.--ph. Mazarei
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Luca, Gerry, and Iwan took turns
busting track until we got to a point above the main lower icefall.
The route then hung right up a steeper dished valley. It was
very warm out but clouds were moving in. Enzo and I had been
hanging back when all of a sudden a huge section of the slope
whumped and settled. We looked at each other and both felt danger.
The trouble was the slope ahead was dished, with new snow over
rock to our left, filled in crevasses to our right, and séracs
capping the top of the slope. There was nothing to do but start
a zigzag skin track up and hope things would stay put. We moved
slowly up making sure to not flare too far out the sides. By
the time we got level with the upper séracs it started
snowing. I had a coughing episode that seemed to last over a
minute—headrush city. Then it started snowing hard but with
no wind. After some time, Gerry and I stopped to fortify with
down and wind-proof balaclavas before continuing into the mounting
tempest.
We continued for a while even though
we had lost visibility, snow plastering us windward, spackled
by the Indian deities. Progression was futile through the blizzard
so we decided to set up one tent and see if this was just a minor
pulse, as if that happens in the Himalaya (it does). The tent
went up quickly and we piled in, five nomads enclosed, our nylon
an oasis amidst a blowing desert of white.
This was to be CIII, as the weather
didn’t abate in the least. We redid camp and settled in,
comfortable as could be 6100m (20,008ft.) high.
Gasparini working
up as the weather starts to change. We were engulfed in a full-bore
blizzard several hours after this picture was taken.--ph. Mazarei
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Dreams and Wishes
I slept well. Strange high-altitude
dreams came and went, smoke and ghosts wafting through the mind.
Snow fell intermittently, outside quiet as a pyramidal tomb...until
the first short windblast hit the tents seemingly out of nowhere.
The jet-blast pummel was bizarre after such stillness. Then the
blasts came more frequently. It was a long night and towards
dawn the thirst struck me hard. So hard that it soon replaced
all other thoughts. Night condensation feather frosted the inside
of our tent, cold kissing us gently upon waking. It was dumping
hard out and the first thing I thought about was our stupid stoves,
then my pounding, dehydration fueled headache.
Joining Luca outside, I could only
roll my eyes. He had masterfully got the stove running and protected
from the blizzard, tough dude style: carbon-smudged face and
no gloves. Iwan passed me a cup of orange Isostar and I immediately
felt better. Soon Luca was filling bottles as and Iwan fetched
snow…and I drank, a dream-wish come true, the liquid exceptionally
satisfying. A half-liter of Isostar and I was rocking. Luca was
his tough self; Iwan was podium ready; Gerry an unknown entity,
still asleep. But Enzo was not feeling well. He wanted down.
We decided to retire to the tents and wait until noon, then decide
what we should do. I gave Enzo some encouraging words and a couple
of aspirin and we snoozed the morning away, fresh dreams to ponder.
Oh Solo Mio?
World Cup snowboarder
Gerry Cusini telemarking Shiva's powder gates.--ph. Mazarei
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Enzo Cusini
missing his woman.--ph. Mazarei
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Iwan Bormolini
far away from the White Circus.--ph. Mazarei
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Luca Gasparini
styling Pocket Rockets with cableless Bulldogs.--ph. Mazarei
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Enzo Cusini
getting down.--ph. Mazarei
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Enzo wanted down. He’d had enough.
There was nothing else to do, but the four of us huddled up to
discuss it anyway. Snow still hammered down although it was brighter
along the fringes. What to do? The four of us wanted to sit tight
and hope for clearing in the morning. But that would leave us
with a miserable Enzo. Knowing we wanted to stay, Enzo graciously
assured us that he could ski down alone. Bless his heart, but
there was no way we were going to let him ski down from 6100m
(20,008ft), slopes heavy with new snow, in a terrain-swallowing
storm, alone. It wasn’t going to happen. So we packed it
up and stepped into our skis. |
WC Telemarker
Enzo Cusini getting his Himalayan powder fix.--ph. Mazarei
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I left the route finding to Luca,
as I wanted to try and shoot photos. Surprisingly, there wasn’t
as much new snow as we expected—mostly ankle to calf deep
and seemingly stable. The route finding was tricky but we lost
altitude quickly—undoing all that climbing effort so rapidly
without the big payoff, always hard.
Guilt weighed heavily on Enzo earlier
in the tent, emotions getting to him at letting us down. I told
him not to worry about it. This might sound like courtesy but
I meant it: it could have been me, or any of us. It happens. |
His old teammate
Tomba wishes he was in Iwan's boots. --ph. Mazarei
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Visibility improved lower down and
we had a blast leapfrogging down the perfect terrain, quiet turns
in new snow. Back at the starting plateau we scooted over to
CII to pick up stuff we left behind, then continued down the
mellower angled lower slopes, crossing snaking rubble sections
to gain snow corridors. We used an amalgam of techniques—side-step
from hell, skis off then on, another short corridor, then skis
strapped on the already heavy packs—to reach CI. |
Gerry swooping.--ph.
Mazarei
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Cali-style.
Bob Mazarei.--ph. Enzo Cusini
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Contrail Luca.--ph.
Mazarei
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Iwan, keeping
things tight.--ph. Mazarei
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Snowboarding
rules, but it's nice to be versatile. Gerry.--ph. Mazarei
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A world away
from teaching skiing in Livigno.--ph. Mazarei
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Gerry Cusini.--ph.
Mazarei
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Escape from Bamak York
The weather didn’t break. It
snowed all night again, Enzo feeling some redemption from the
day before. Relatively comfortable here we looked up, the mountain
fading into white, disappearing behind her veil. It was storming
hard up there, stunning, and we were coming to the end of our
time. We all felt the pull of the peak but we had to tear away.
The mountains will always be there—time and money and effort,
pebbles in the pocket; my mates and the surroundings, all.
I don’t like coffee but I had
a cappuccino anyway—a good way to start the wild, strange
day we were to have. It would be a day in chapters, a long journey
to section the soul.
Packed, we started a thirty-minute
scramble over rocks, muscling packs a body-morphing second nature
exercise after three weeks. New snow hid the obvious descent
route and we had some false starts before we were on the proper
ski line left of the valley. There would be danger ahead, this
we knew. We would have kilometers of skiing under huge, steep,
snow-laden faces, safety to our right barred by the rock-strewn
glacier.
Out of breath.--ph.
Mazarei
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It's always
hard to pull away.--ph. Mazarei
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Everything went smoothly and we
got to the point directly across from ABC where we had left a
small cache of gear.
(It has to said how happy I was
with the skis I had. Not only did my Movement Free Heel’s
ski incredibly through every condition encountered—a testament
to their design, and quaility production under the watchful eye
of Nanni Tua—their durability astounded me. All the rocks
I had skied over, slipped on, thrashed through, hardly scuffed
these skis. These are the most resilient and robust skis I have
ever seen.)
The noise was deafening. On another
transition from foot to ski farther down the bamak, Luca and
the Podium Boys strung out on the angled edge, all hell broke
loose. Rock and ice fell from high above, spraying, tumbling,
smoking—possible disaster very real in long distance slow
motion.
I bellowed a warning from my perch,
safe in an alcove. As rocks pounded down, my mind got around
the vectors and I saw that my friends would escape harm. Quiet
again, I hotfooted it across, head twisting upward every few
meters, the slope, rockfall blackened, faint smell of crushed
rock in the air. |
Bob Mazarei
with his much beloved Movement
Free Heels.--ph. Luca Gasparini
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Team Italy in
Italian Scarpa's.--ph. Mazarei
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With skis back on we continued through
lower terrain that we hadn’t passed through before. The
glacier terminus came up at last. A steep, rock imbedded snow
slope adjacent to the terminus led to the bottom. Perched at
the top, we knew this would be an interesting ski. The boys ripped
it nicely, and I did as well… 'til I head planted the funky
snow. It was like falling headfirst with a bag of cement on my
back—hilarious stuff at 5000m.
The trek back to camp should have
been a straightforward affair. Should have. Glacial stream crossings
are no problem for Luca and the Podium Boys, but for an LA dude
like me…well, that’s a different story. The spot Luca
chose to cross looked good. Hell, he made it look easy—he
stepped confidently on the snow edge and gracefully landed on
a rock slab on the other side.
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Now, full disclosure, Luca warned,
“Bob-a, go down to the next-a spot.”
Like I said, he made it look easy.
Perched where he had jumped, I hesitated then lunged. Of course,
the snow collapsed, and I went in the freezing water with my
ski-laden pack up to my lower chest. And I was freaking out,
as I feared getting sucked under the snow that laid to my left,
knowing if that happened, there would be no escape.
It happened fast, this predicament,
and I was gasping, “ohmygod, ohmygod.”
Luca reached a ski pole down and
I grabbed it; it didn’t do much. My foot found purchase
on the streambed.
Then Luca was on his belly grabbing
my pack, telling me, “Get the pack off, Bob-a!”
With the pack tight against me,
the rushing stream edging me under the snow, I got the waist
belt off and loosened the left shoulder pad, and Luca heaved
the weight off me. Able to get some push now, I hauled myself
out plopping belly-first on the snow like a Gore-Tex clad penguin. |
SpongeBob after
le Dunk.--ph. Enzo Cusini
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Garhwali apples
are known for their juicy flavor. Swiss apples are known for thier
juicy turns.--ph. Luca Gasparini
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Grubba. Gerry
Cusini had a mate producing custom package freeze-dried food in
Italy. Delicious. Luca Gasparini enjoying.--ph. Mazarei
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Drying out.--ph.
Luca Gasparini
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The minute-long dunking episode
was shocking, but besides being soaked to the waist with my thermo-liners
a sponge in my flooded Terminator’s, I felt okay. I wasn’t
even that cold. Good thing too because we still had hours of
hard walking ahead, another amazing day in the Himalaya, another
mountain lesson learned, another full day of snowfall at base
camp with the boys.
Strumming the guitar and sipping
good whisky, I thought of that hard-living, hard-climbing Brit
Don Whillans.
“The mountains will always
be there,” he once said. “The trick is for you to be
there as well.”
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About the author: In
1991 Bob Mazarei said goodbye to his friends here in southern
California and moved to Switzerland. Just two years later, POWDER
magazine's Steve Casimiro wrote an intro in which he referred
to Bob as "The Mayor of Verbier." We were all amazed,
but not totally surprised. Bob is a raconteur nonpareil, and
we continue to feel privaleged to share his stories with our
readers, as well as to call him an old and much appreciated friend
and tele partner. His ski resume |
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includes more than a dozen
descents from over 17,000 feet, as well as at least 30 climb/skis
of note from around the world, including a ski descent from the
nearly 25,000 foot high summit of Muztagh Ata in the Pamirs.
Best of all, he is a blast to ski with, whether we are harvesting
backcountry corn in the spring, spinning laps on a powder morning,
or just cruising groomers on a sunny day... getting turns with
Bob has always been incredibly fun, and he has been an inspiration
to Big Tim and myself pretty much from the time we first dropped
a knee. -- Mitch |
Pure Skiing 365 Days A Year
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