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The Trident, Monkey Tail, & Kailash – Telemark Adventures in India

Part One

.Lord Shiva with his Trisul, or Trident.

.--ph. Ace Kvale

Permission and Denial

“We got it!” Nico’s voice echoed through the telephone.

“We got what?” said I.

“Permission for Trisul! The North Face!”

I was dumbstruck for five seconds and for good reason: this was a restricted area of India, had been for a long time. Access to the northeast face of Trisul had been closed to western mountaineers for 14 years.

“They’re gonna let us in? Are you sure, dude?” I couldn’t fathom it.

“Yeah! Can you believe it?” said Nico.

Accessed by the Rishi Gorge, and in the Nanda Devi Sanctuary, Trisul and the inner Sanctuary opened to mountaineers and trekkers in 1974. And with that, a mini floodgate opened. Strong mountaineering teams arrived and scrambled to put new routes up—the beckoning vacuum filled by several ski mountaineering teams as well. But then the Indian government shut it all down again in 1983 citing pressures placed on the fragile ecology.

Nico—who had a mate that was on one of the aforementioned ski teams—had been working it hard to try and gain entry into the Sanctuary. He wanted it badly, and when I saw photos of the region and peak, I wanted it badly. Then came the news—our team was selected be the first to enter the Sanctuary in 14 years. I couldn’t believe it.

First climbed by T.G. Longstaff in 1907 (T.G. setting the altitude record in impeccable style), Trisul’s summit lies at 7120m (23,354ft) and is one of 12 peaks over 6400m (21,000 ft) that form an almost impenetrable 110km (70 mile) circle around the Sanctuary. Trisul is said to be the trident of Lord Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction and reproduction.

The cruel news came a week before we were to leave for Delhi: our permission was overturned, blown off by someone sitting behind a desk in India. Over a bottle of wine, the four of us based in Switzerland—Nico, John, Geoff (aka the Bad Lieutenant), and I—wondered what to do. We decided to fly to Delhi and try to coax, cajole, charm, and plead our way into getting the labyrinth that is Indian bureaucracy to see things our way. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?.

Oh Delhi!

India’s population in 1997 stood at 950 million, a healthy number by any countries standards. I expected Delhi to be busy and it was. The sprawl was considerable, and our crew, some whom had been to Delhi before, and others like me whose senses were reeling since landing, were ready to delve into it, all part of the adventure. Before being let loose in the city we had our all-important rendezvous with the Indian Mountaineering Federation. The meeting in the somber, slightly musty (save for the window mounted jet propulsion air conditioner flash-chilling the third and fourth seats) chamber with the IMF Director couldn’t have been saved even if we’d had that master of ‘Influencing People’ Dale Carnegie coaching us. The Sanctuary was lost to us, and no amount of charm or baksheesh was going to change what seemed set in stone. Our only option for Trisul, the Director informed us, was from outside the Sanctuary. Huddling like the Rams on fourth down, we decided to make like one of the all-time great Himalayan quarterbacks, H.W. Tilman, and go for it, even with lack of solid route information about the southwest side of Trisul. Did lack of info stop Odell and Tilman from climbing Nanda Devi for the first time? Or Shipton and Tilman cranking high on Muztagh Ata? Whymper on Chimborazo? Hell no! Yes, we’ll go!

.Snake charmer, Delhi.--ph. Bob Mazarei

Delhi street scene. The Himalayan foothills can be reached within two days of leaving Delhi.--ph. Mazarei

Hang-ology. Mick Wheeler, Ace Kvale, and Nico Jaques passing time, a pastime in India.--ph. Mazarei

Mishaps on the Road

Two days later we left Delhi and delved into the hot Indian plains. Then we promptly left Aussie Mick Wheeler behind. Stopping at one of the hundreds of roadside stands for a Pepsi, Mick stepped out back to relieve himself. Drinks finished, we hopped into our stuffed minibus and headed out. It took us two hours to realize we’d lost Mick.

“Hey, where is Mick?” said Ace, as we whipped our heads around. The absurdness set in when we started looking underneath the seats where even a medium sized dog would have felt confined. Surprisingly our bus driver had the phone number for the roadside stand. Mick smartly stayed put and John Falkiner, with our Liason Officer, Jyogi, backtracked to fetch him out of roadside stand limbo. The bustle of the plains was incredible; the action centered on the main road. Donkey drawn carts full of vegetables oblivious to the colorfully adorned trucks honking, swerving and passing within inches. A sacred cow wandered, a garland of flowers around its neck, a tribute perhaps, to someone’s ancestor. Dried dung patties used for cook fires were shingled and shaped into massive torpedo sculptures next to each abode.

.Keeping your hands clean is essential for avoiding Delhi belly.--ph. Mazarei

Healthy eucalyptus trees lined the road, sentinels casting speckled shadows on rickshaw wallahs, and storytelling Indians reclined on bamboo slatted hardbeds, just passing time. Practicing ‘hang-ology’ as Ace would say.

Traffic was a chaotic system where the rules of the road, if any, were ignored. The mass of bicycles, auto-rickshaws, Ambassador taxis, motorcycles, and Japanese cars that pervaded Delhi were funneled between the eucalyptus trees out here, joined by hundreds of decorated, invariably overloaded trucks; and buses filled to overflowing with pilgrims headed to the Himalaya. You would think that drivers lose years of their lives in this stress-filled scenario but in reality the drivers, including ours, seemed relaxed. I suppose that humans, being the most adaptable creatures on earth, get used to driving straight at each other then swerving or yielding just in the nick of time, all the while blaring the horn as if mere sound can shift planets. Like the National Flower or National Bird, the horn here symbolizes the National Sound. Indeed, good tires and working brakes are secondary to a superbly functioning horn.

.Young pilgrim.--ph. Mazarei

.Meeting of the minds.--ph. Mazarei

Surprisingly, we saw no accidents, no carnage. Well, until we had one anyway. Laughably, there were no stop signs. If there were, maybe the tuk-tuk that plowed into the side of our bus wouldn’t have ended up on its side. The driver had a young mother with an infant inside. We learned how accidents were handled here. Our driver got out to see if everyone was ok, and thankfully, the mother, child, and driver were fine. The pilot of the battered auto-rickshaw knew it was his fault. And with that, our driver jumped in and we were off, a loss of two minutes, maximum.

Midnight in Rishikesh

We spent the night in Rishikesh, a holy place of pilgrimage since time immemorial. It was late at night and the Bad Lieutenant and I couldn't get to sleep so we decided to take a late night walk to visit Mother Ganga.

Arriving at an ashram surrounded by colorful statues, I poked my head into a small, eerie candlelit temple devoted to followers of Lord Krishna. Dark painted faces glanced my way and I moved on. At the adjacent stepped ghat on the bank of the Ganges, many worshippers swam even this late in the night. Pilgrims floated lighted candles on leaves, these puja’s or offerings floating serenely next to late night bathers. The darkness and hour—1am—gave the scene an otherworldly quality. I felt removed from present—this scene could easily have been from a hundred years past. I was a world away from Los Angeles, the hushed crowds emphasizing the contrasts. Then a smile came as I realized the only other Hare Krishna’s I had ever seen in real life were white and at the airport.

.A simple life.--ph. Mazarei

Going to the Show

It took us five days to reach base camp. Once porter loads were separated and we started walking on the level trail, Jyogi and Geoff breaking out way ahead, did it feel as if I were truly going to ski the Himalaya.

I passed the day leisurely, warming up kids and camera-friendly families for photos. We then headed higher into pine and rhododendron forests, camping mid-afternoon next to the Nandakini River. As Raj and I jammed—him on a tabla, me on a Martin backpacker guitar—and the smells of spice-scented Indian cooking filled the air, I got thinking how easy it would be to get used to this. It’s a feeling that the Himalayan veterans making up our team—John Falkiner and Mick Wheeler from Australia, and Ace Kvale from Colorado—knew well: the feeling of pure adventure, and anxiousness of the unknown set amongst the most massive mountain range on Earth.

.Traffic. Rishikesh, where the Beatles hung with their guru.--ph. Mazarei

The trailhead village of Ghat was behind us now, and the Himalayan greenhorns—the Verbier crew, Aussi Geoff, Swiss maestro Nico Jacques and myself, from LA, as well as the other Californian Ian Reid—were getting a taste, just a small slice, of what was to come.

.Agricultural water management, terrace-style.--ph. Mazarei	.Pleasant walking.--ph. Mazarei
.Fertile hiking.--ph. Mazarei	Hinduism postulates that we all go through a series of rebirths or reincarnations.--ph. Mazarei

John Falkiner, Ace Kvale, Mick Wheeler, and Bob Mazarei taking a break.--ph. Nico Jacques

The use of porters allows climbers and skiers in the Himalaya to trek in with fairly light backpacks. Problems do arise, however.--ph. Mazarei

The next day we passed the hamlet of Sutol where a wedding was going on. We picked up some beedee's and such from its tiny store, and camped beyond the village; 45 porters, 3 mules, another 4 base camp crew, and seven telemarkers, a village of our own.

It was a simple cooperative life for the inhabitants of Sutol: villagers crafted their homes and flagged the paths from the local stone; women squatted and washed clothing next to a flour mill on the Nandakini River, no electricity necessary. The small shop sold basics: cookies, fabric, candles, bailing wire. It was so uncomplicated and humbling; a world away from multiplex theaters attached to humongous shopping malls, triple-mocha latte swilling Starbuck denizens, and rush hour traffic on Interstate 10.	John Falkiner.--ph. Mazarei	Ace Kvale.--ph. Mazarei
Our porters had a hard time towards the end of the third day. There was some trail confusion and it was late by the time the porters made their way up the last section. Passing one last tiny hamlet earlier in the day, the forest grew thicker and the way steeper and more vague. There were disagreements even between the porters who had previously passed through before.	Ian Reid.--ph. Mazarei	Nicolas Jaques.--ph. Mazarei
That’s when the grumbling started. And it continued the next day as we ascended onto treeless expanse, out in the open with the surrounding peaks sentries for our march up. Our sirdar Amar, in a development that surprised almost no one, told us the porters wanted more pay. He sternly told them it was a matter of honor to abide by the original agreement. Later, nine jars of our food—jams, salt, porridge, etc—were found broken.	The Bad Lieutenant--ph. Nico Jaques	Mick Wheeler.--ph. Mazarei

Then that evening all hell broke loose as the porters started a wildfire with our high-altitude fuel—seven liters of it. Amar was incensed and we were bummed as well.

“These Garhwali porters are not reliable like Nepali porters,” Amar went on, “and they are spiteful too! The Nepali would never do such things.”

.Everything prepared for the next planting.--ph. Mazarei

.Load carrying in the Nandakini Valley.--ph. Mazarei

.Ridge of Cries. Top of the 'T.'--ph. Mazarei

.Bridge of Sighs, Nandakini River.--ph. Mazarei

A rarely visited area. The porters nearing the end.--ph. Ace Kvale

A Heavenly Base Camp

The weather was consistent thus far: sunny in the mornings turning cloudy by 2pm or so. Alpine start patterns. We started east and then direct north towards base camp, the valley gorge a kind of lop-sided T, the top encircled by a ridge starting at 5000m (16,400ft) and ending unseen at Trisul’s 7120m (23,354ft) summit. We were in base camp by noon at the 4100m (13,348ft) snowline, an overhanging rock perfect for the kitchen off left, water source over to our right, plenty of nice spots for our tents and our centerpiece—the dining tent.

East of camp, enormous cliffs topped by snowslopes blocked Trisul’s high summit. Looking north we saw couloirs penetrating up through the imposing west ramparts of Trisul’s great bulk. Would these be the weaknesses that let us get higher on this mountain? I tried not to worry about it as Nico, Ace, and Ian went off to recon a bit higher. I wanted to style my tent so I could spend the rest of the afternoon being blown away by the views and the skiing potential. Base camp was amazing and even though there were still some lingering feelings at us not being able to access Trisul from the skiable side, I couldn’t believe where we were. Was I really in the Himalaya about to go skiing?

Acclimatization, relaxation, with occasional bursts of organization, marked the next few days.

Cheap sunglasses.--ph. Ace Kvale	Payday.--ph. Mazarei
Maximum ambience backwards and...--ph. Mazarei	Stylish Raj. Whether in the kitchen or playin' the tabla, he be cookin'.--ph. Mazarei
Bharal, or blue sheep. These beautiful animals ascend as high as 4800m (15,800ft) during the summertime. They would graze right next to our tents.--ph. Ace Kvale	...forwards. The boys hanging out at our most comfortable base camp. Bonus points .for being able to ski right to your tent.--ph. Mazarei
Nanda Ghunti 6309m (20,694ft) northwest of BC.--ph. Mazarei	Major John playin' A major. Martin backpackers rule!--ph. Mazarei
Consistent weather was the rule...at first.--ph. Mazarei	Acclimating.--ph. Ace Kvale

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Himalayan Proportions

Three days later we were on skis skinning at 6am heading towards a col that separated Trisul from the eastern shoulder of 6309m (20,694ft) Nanda Ghunti. Our best estimation put the col at two hours or so away. It was cloudy which broke pattern. We skinned a bit then took skis off and kicked steps up a mixed section then back onto our skis. It was a rhythm I was after, one that would let time slide gently past, leading me steadily up without my heart exploding in my ears. It’s not easy to do. Another thing: spend some time in the Himalaya and you find that mental fatigue can be more debilitating than the physical stress.

Ace and Nico powered ahead but I caught them while they were shooting photos. The col looked close now. It seemed as if we were a half-hour away, but like a Hitchcock film hall scene, the col seemed to stretch away as we climbed closer. This was my first taste of skewed Himalayan proportions. The scale is beyond most anything in other mountain ranges; the size acutely felt with skis on your feet. Ace and I finally came up near the col. I was using the mountaineers rest-step pausing with my feet next to each other, taking two breaths, then stepping again. Ace explained that it was better to pause in a stride instead of the feet together. It is more stable, opens your lungs more, and keeps you from bending over—Ace like Felix the Cat with his bag of tricks. We climbed the last bowl section and gained the col at 5100m (16,728ft) worked and lightheaded, holding the slightest hope that maybe we could skirt around to the other side.

.Nanda Ghunti sunrise.--ph. Mazarei

A perfect snow bowl led down towards the Rishi Ganga; unfortunately a huge vertical rock wall blocked everything to the east.

Nico arrived, the three of us directing our attention back to our side. Angling up skiers left, traversing and sidestepping, we eventually crossed the top of two couloirs. The second couloir was sketchy but we ended up crossing with no problems. From here we had a good view of the high plateau of the Ronti Glacier.

The Ronti would be our only possibility of gaining the summit from our side. Earlier, on the way to the col, we passed one major icefall as well as two major and two minor couloirs that all had their genesis at the Ronti. The two large couloirs, we figured, would be our access routes onto and off the Ronti. Ian, Geoff, and Mick joined us, all three breaking personal altitude records each step above the 5100m Col of No Chance. We took in the views and logistical possibilities then got ready to ski—time to telemark the Himalaya. Being vigilant, balanced, and cautious are the keys to ski mountaineering safely amongst these remote peaks, because one can forget about rescue should something go wrong. The snow started a little heavy and funky but still very skiable as we began down. Geoff strated off first, working his skis in his smooth arcing style, honed over many years of teaching skiing back in Verbier. The two Himalayan veterans, John and Ace, were steady, not letting the changing snow conditions knock them even slightly off balance. Ian, being fairly new to telemark, had it hardest with the balance aspect of the free-heel but even he fared well. Mick and Nico also had no problems, both veteran telemarkers with many difficult trips between them.

.Couloir grandstand.--ph. John Falkiner

For me, it was a dream come true: to one day ski the Himalaya. It was a dream that whilst living in LA, seemed to be one that would never be fulfilled. I mean, how do you even begin planning and training for a trip like this? How do you go from skiing Mt. Waterman in Southern California to this? It always seemed too difficult, too out of reach. Yet here it was in front of me, just beyond my ski tips. We worked down leapfrogging while trying not to hyperventilate. Meanwhile I tried to control a Himalayan-sized headache that was pressing against my skull brought on as much by fatigue as altitude. Then down onto the huge exit apron and the big swing left onto the main slopes leading back to BC, the air noticeably thicker, the snow perfect, seven friends doing what we do, but doing it in a place where normally only ski deities—guys like Bard and Carter, Gillette, Ace and John—shralp. I was so happy I couldn’t contain myself—so thoroughly enjoying turns with my mates that the thrumming in my head was relegated to the so-what-drawer in my tired cranium. We cached supplies at the base of the second couloir and proceeded to ski, the smiles on my comrade’s mugs reflecting how much we were savoring these high-altitude moments. The best part after the skiing: stepping out of my skis in front of my tent as the first afternoon snow started to fall, hopping in, popping an aspirin, then grabbing the Glenfiddich and my guitar.

.Otis elevator direct.--ph. Ace Kvale

A Path To The Heavens

It was before midnight two days later when we went back up, taking advantage of nighttime stability and a full moon. We skinned on perfect snow in surprisingly mild temperatures sans headlamps, the night quiet and surreal, the moon lighting our way. It felt as if I were on some mood-altering drug, the dark cliffs a secret, the smooth snow a path to the heavens.

We reached our cache after three hours, stuffed packs and kicked steps up the windboard snow of the unknown couloir. Nico and Mick planned on staying up at what would be Camp I thus were carrying heavy packs. The moon disappeared over the ridge a third of the way up darkening things but not enough that we needed the lamps. It was some time before we crested the top of the couloir that thankfully gave perfect access to the Ronti Glacier. Leaving a drained Nico and Mick to establish CI we turned and started postholing breakable crust, retracing the way to our cache, reaching it after 20 minutes just as the sun hit the top of Nanda Ghunti sitting majestically across from us.

Loading our packs again, skis on our backs, we started slowly back up the couloir. Then halfway up a strange thing happened. I was ahead of Ian on a zigzag walk as he went for a direct line, Ace and John behind, (Geoff didn’t come as he was feeling ill) when I went into the zone. Stepping into a direct line I started motoring up. The first time up, I had taken four breaths per step. This time I went non-stop eating up the meters rather than choking on them, powering up faster than I’ve ever done back home in the Alps. The boys were dumbstruck as I ripped  to the top. I crested as the sun struck me full in the face and just as a huge ice avalanche released from high up Trisul and cascaded down in a thunderous roar.	.Hurry up, it's early.--ph. Nico Jaques
(And no, the Rocky theme wasn’t going through my head). We skied to the tents feeling great for bringing everything we needed to stock CI in two well-executed couloir climbs. It quickly got baking hot on the glacier—the only respite, the shade of the tents and all doors open wind tunnel style. Earlier Nico had scoped the entrance to the southern first couloir announcing it steep and firm. With that we left the red-faced duo of Nico and Mick to sleep at CI while we headed to the couloir. At the top we spied hand-span width fresh tracks left by the elusive snow leopard, an animal rarely seen in the wild.	.About to kick steps up the unnamed couloir.--ph. Mazarei
John set up an anchor. Although we probably could have side-slipped the first steep part of the beautiful couloir, we were in the Himalaya—prudence had priority and a fall was out of the question. The rope set, we rapped in one by one. The firm snow took edges well but was technical due to hard to see ice patches  and many sections of chunky frozen debris—gentle parallel turns in a no fall situation. The snow improved incrementally with each turn until we were again laying out of breath, hip-swinging telemarks out the apron, perfect Himalayan spring snow after 12 hours on the go, and Ace going nuts shooting photos of what he was calling the best icefall backdrops he had ever seen.	.The Bad Lieutenant and Ian on the lower Ronti Glacier.--ph. Mazarei

Questions and Answers

Nico and Mick came down the next day having spent a good night, but now drained from the descent. The weather pattern continued the same: sunny turning to snowfall by 3pm. The next few rest days were filled with guitar playing, weather watching, hacky sack bouts, bouldering next to camp, crevasse rescue and knot practice, and book-reading marathons.

Geoff gave a ski lesson to Jyogi, and John held court, recalling World Cup freestyle stories from the good ol' days with characters straight out of Hot Dog, the Movie and Buttman’s European Vacation. We set off again, this time at 8pm, a fog sweeping over us, occasionally giving way to brilliantly lit stars, no moon but still easy to see. A finger of snow, left from the rapid melting, led to loose dirt that we gingerly negotiated to gain the snowfield above. As we got closer we saw that the Snow Leopard couloir had avalanched—a huge fan of debris had spilled out, the size of it, eye-opening. It likely released during the warmth of the day but we couldn’t be sure. Skinning and walking—I find it easier to walk up at times as opposed to snaking up with skins. As my mates zigzagged, Ian and I went for the Otis elevator direct climb.

Ghunti Pass (Col of No Chance) to the left. The lower Ronti Glacier fronting Bethartoli Himal 6532m (20,835ft). The Rishi Ganga (Gorge) lies on the other side of Bethartoli.--ph. Mazarei

Once in the Snow Leopard we fell in behind Nico, the climb mostly pleasant, even with lots of debris mixed with some rotten sections. Step after step till we finally hit the rope signaling 50 meters left. This, we quickly dispatched, feeling good with no hampering headaches. It was just before 1am—the climb taking just under five hours—when we reached the tents, another trippy middle of the night climb.

Ronti Glacier camp. The V-notch marks the entrance to the Snow Leopard Couloir.--ph. Mazarei	The upper Ronti. The shoulder and face lead up to Trisul's summit.--ph. Mazarei
Early morning Himalayan magic.--ph. Mazarei	Nanda Ghunti. Namaste, Nanni Tua and Paul Parker.--ph. Mazarei

We were roasting by the time the sun hit until noon when the clouds moved in, nothing unusual. Then the storm came, a big-bang tumult that started pleasantly with light graupel, quickly turning violent with the howling arrival of the freight train winds. With tents in the open on the wide expanse of the Ronti, thunder and lightning dropped in like the taxman for an audit. Pressure plunged, as the snowfall got heavier. Apprehensiveness did a tug of war with nervousness as electricity crackled around us. Thankfully, after a while the lightning stopped, leaving just blizzard. The storm blew itself out by 9pm. We got out and took stock. The snow did a good burial job of our tents, while up above the wind had scoured the glacier to ice.

.Mountain light.--ph. Mazarei

Ian and Geoff bailed to BC the next morning to recover and hopefully come up with more supplies while we spent the day reading, resting, and anticipating our upcoming alpine start. The 3am wake-up was a tough one. We brewed, ate and packed up two tents and started up the Ronti, still dark and peaceful. Just as first light arrived from the east—45 minutes into the skin—John’s binding pulled out of his foam core ski. With no way to fix it, John bailed to BC having to descend the whole way—as we later found out—on one ski. It was unbelievable—both his use of unproven skis, and having to monoski down.

.Three weeks, a local. Bob Mazarei heading home.--ph. Ace Kvale

The four of us—Nico, Mick, Ace, and I—continued to a point where we got a good look at the steep buttress that led to the summit. Shining milky ice plunged down next to islands of dark rock, a smorgasbord of steep technical climbing that we didn’t have the equipment for. With that now known we dumped the tents and ropes and continued up with light packs. Equipment problems plagued Mick next. His skins wouldn’t stick to his skis and duct tape proved useless in the high-altitude cold.

.Mick Wheeler, Himalayan skier.--ph. Ace Kvale

With the slopes getting steeper in the thinning air, Mick called it quits—the skin problem seeming to have taken the air out of his sails. The three of us continued strongly to a bulge and our high point reaching it at 9am just as the sun hit us. We radioed John who had just reached BC; glad to know he was down. The route to the summit was right in front of us and it looked to be an awesome climb had we equipment beyond regular ski mountaineering gear. “Oh well,” I beamed at the boys hugging them, “this trip rules anyways! Trisul rocks!”

We were awestruck at the vertiginous drop to the south and had a clear view of our route up the Nandakini Gorge, and village’s days away by foot.

.A moment in time. Ace Kvale and Nico Jaques high above the plains, in the shadow of Shiva's trident.--ph. Mazarei

At 5700m (18,696ft) clicked in and smiling, we started telemarking down, the snow tricky at first but improving steadily. Mick hadn’t stayed put so we continued skiing and shooting photos till we reached the tents, an amazing ski on an incredible 7 hour round trip day. With clouds building we saw that Mick had left CI as well, and with that the three of us settled in and got comfortable.

Architecture is frozen music - Goethe. Mazarei skiing from the high point at the saddle.--ph. Ace Kvale

Hell-bent on being small. The ambience of this region more than made up for our being denied entry into the Sanctuary. The Ronti Glacier. --ph. Ace Kvale

We woke at 6am and stuck our heads out—cloudy! This was the first morning in two weeks it wasn’t clear out. We packed quickly but casually, leaving two tents, food and fuel for the rest of our teams attempt, then skied to the Snow Leopard just as it started snowing hard. Loaded down, I started the rappel sideslip. It was snowing horizontally. I had to laugh being in such a wild situation as Ace hunkered down shooting images. Gathered at the rope end in full blizzard, we started warily skiing the edges of the couloir in debris that was softening quickly in the building snow—we skied left side, then right side until we reached the exit. At this point, unbelievably, it had stopped snowing and was blue on the horizon, a clever and controlled escape from the white limbo.

.Lightheaded leapfrog.--ph. Ace Kvale

.The Snow Leopard Couloir. Mazarei entering the vortex.--ph. Ace Kvale

.No mistakes on the Snow Leopards' white underbelly. Bob Mazarei scratching the belly.--ph. Ace Kvale

Two days later John and Ian skied from our 5700m high point in 10cms of powder, picked up an ill Geoff, packed CI, and skied the Snow Leopard, John and Ian being pulled by stuffed, pig-like duffle bags full of gear attached to rope leashes. We met them at the bottom of the couloir where we split the loads then skied down to BC, one content group of telemarkers.

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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 then editor Steve Casimiro wrote an intro in which he referred to Bob as "The Mayor of Verbier." We were all amazed, but not really 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 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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