Bookends -- The 3rd Stubaier Telemark Festival & The Xth International La Skieda Telemark Festival -- One Skier's Tale Of Two Great Festivals by Bob Mazarei

Fes ti val (fes’ te vel) n. 2. a celebration, entertainment, or series of performances of a certain kind, often held periodically (a Bach festival) 3. merrymaking; festivity

Although I’ve been dropping the knee for 18 seasons now, I had, until last season, never attended a festival celebrating this great sport of ours. And you know what? I am now a huge fan. Telemark festivals rule! And thus, I’ve got a whole new strategy for coming seasons: in with a bang and out with a bang.

Let’s say that each day of the ski season was a book on your shelf. Each a special tome of its own, some thick and substantial, like a War and Peace. Others are smaller, lighter reading, less weighty, but still a fun read, like a Tourist Season. And on each end of those: bookends.

The Stubai Telemark Festival would be the left bookend, a celebration of everything snow; a unicorn-pole, knee to ski-fest to kick off the new season; hooking up with old mates, drinking and cavorting with new. And La Skieda at Livigno would be the right bookend, a hedonistic weeklong raison du fête the likes I’ve never seen, raison d'être à Italy , partying, just as a matter of principle. Yup, bookends.

The 3rd Stubaier Telemark Festival

Friday Nov. 21, 2003

Skiing and merrymaking.
That’s a pretty good description of my philosophy of ski, my style in a knuss shell, so to speak. So when the opportunity presented itself to attend the third annual Stubai Telemark Festival, I marked the date on my calendar having that certain feeling that yup, this could be interesting.

It would be my first telemark festival, yes; I was, like a virgin, touched for the very first time.

It had been 16 years since I had last been to Stubai, located just southwest of the beautiful city of Innsbruck, Austria; far too long to not have revisited this rugged and charming part of the Alps. It may have been a hazy 16 years ago but one thing stayed clear as a pair of Leica binoculars—how much the Austrians love their aprés ski. Partying in the Tirol is—oxymoron aside—serious business casting a giant Weissbier shadow on all other aprés ski scenes in the Alps. Just my kind of place. Now imagine BT with me. Now imagine the damage we could do.

With the Shapiro’s—Marko and Franziska—driving, my only concern was backseat comfort Subaru style, me gangsta-leaning in back for the eight-hour drive from Verbier to Innsbruck. The merrymaking started just after passing Frankie’s hometown of Zurich at a rest stop roach coach küchenschabenbus where we gorged hamburgers, schnitzels, of course, biers.

Damn, I miss those California küchenschabenbus’s and their fine cuisine. (Ok, I just wanted to type that word again.)

Past Bad Ragaz, through Liechtenstein and the Arlberg tunnel, the fading skyline as wild as I remember it, we finally passed Innsbruck and pulled into the Sport Center in Neustift halfway up the Stubaital valley at 7:15—into telemark central.

Right from the beginning I had to admire the organization of this festival. The three of us went and met the festival organizers, Richard Schürf and Christian Keller of telemarkfriends.com. Christian and I knew each other electronically as we had fired off emails back and forth last year. He was much taller than his emails suggested. Richard was running around organizing logistics and Christian was preparing the computer projector for visual entertainment, thus we didn’t bother them too much.

The banquet room was large and filled with lots of Germans and Austrians, a surprisingly small contingent from Italy, as well as representative skiers from other European countries. Then the food came out plentiful and hot, and telemarkers being telemarkers were on it like Tahoe locals at a vintage Cadillac show. Franziska made the brilliant call to hit the salad section first, thereby avoiding the conga line.

The night was shaping up nicely and got even better when I heard a “Bobalina” being called over my shoulder in that oh so sweet voice. It was, to my unfettered pleasure, Ingrid Schlott aka the Bavarian Bombshell and Olli Grau, aka the 1995 Kayak World Champion. (And don’t get any ideas with the Bobalina; that name is reserved for only two, Ingrid, and Anne Smith). They were tapped to lend a hand for Patagonia. They are my soft shell and my hard shell.

I went to get a round of heffenweissen, which was painless because the bier girls seemed to be technique-honed from an early age in Weissbier School, all charm and efficiency, and that’s when I heard the American voice. Tim was from Michigan but now living in Frankfurt, and he had rallied solo to make the festival. I told him to grab his grub and come sit with us left side. Tim, a neophyte telemarker was so full of good vibes, humor and stoke that I couldn’t help wanting to ski with this guy. He told us that he had been reading Paul Parker’s book, Free-Heel Skiing and asked us if we knew the book, whereas I jutted my chin at Marko and said he had taken about a fifth of the photos in said book, and we toasted the author himself, ’cause Paul rules.

After a few guest speakers which included Marko and Franziska—the latter giving a long discourse in German over the state of Swiss telemark much to Marko’s delight—Christian started the visual part of the evening. As the lights went down we were transported to the Utah desert for some beautiful sand telemark action courtesy of Telemarktips.com and, if I’m not mistaken, Cesare’s deft use of camera. The crowd loved it including the two couples from the states, now stationed in Germany, who had joined our table. Andrew L, of where-to-spend-the-season fame, came by to make his presence known—Zermatt it is! Nicely. We had such a laugh, the weissbier flowing, and I believe I even saw Big Tim turning up on the big screen as is fitting when speaking of bier. We also had a telemarkfriends.com film of crazy antics on an overcast day, some speed and carnage on the skier-cross course, as well as Bones’s excellent film on telemark technique. Everyone was pumped to ski after the visuals. But first, the raging Dorf Pub aka Fat-Leg Central.

Saturday Nov. 22

Marko popped his head in the next morning and I had the six and a half second not knowing where I was wake-up. Franziska was in a bad state from a bug she had caught from daughter Kimberly, and wasn’t going anywhere. Marko and I joined conga line, part zwei, past Neustift heading toward the valley end. He pointed out where snowboard pioneer Jose Fernandez dangerously parapented in front of a large waterfall for his lens, thereby adding to the collection of classic Marko images. He showed me where he and Franziska first met, he studly action photog, she young Swiss National Snowboard Team member, making goo-goo eyes at each other, love at first fright.

Stubai laid out for early season sweetness. Photo - Mazarei

It was an overcast day with many weekend people out but Stubai’s lift system handled it with ease. Arriving at the mid station we saw telemarkers everywhere, hundreds of us. The lift lines looked daunting but in reality moved efficiently, the wait never too long. What I had forgotten from 16 years before was the terrain—it was huge and steep, with couloirs, hanging glaciers and snowfields. All around were peaks and ridges and a thousand possibilities. Olli later told me that the wilder stuff doesn’t get skied that often, only a small band of hard cores and an occasional visiting film crew taking advantage. The dangerous side was apparent as well. Add Stubai to the other surrounding Innsbruck ski stations such as Hungerburg, Axamer-Lizum and Igls and you have yourself an incredible region to have a ski-off with Ullr.

The conditions, to our delight, were fantastic. The flat light didn’t bother us in the least because the snow was perfect grippy hardpack. The pistes up higher were so large that no one was ever in the way. And the packed snow off piste was even better. Then we would get in line for the six-person chair and invariably hook up with other telemarkers. We met and skied with Italian Mountain Guide Simone Elmi and his partner Stefano Bordoni. Simone, it turned out, works and skis with all our Italian cohorts: Luca Gasparini, Paolo Tassi, Simone Moro etc. His Italian sense of humor, dry as it was, just kept the whole vibe going. Marko and I checked out the racers competing in the four-at-a-time skier-cross, some serious action going down on the steep course, fun viewing for the entire family. Then we hit the manufacturers stands set up at the bottom of the course, next to the perpetually full aquarium-like snow bar.

lone telemarker

Scarpa, Garmont, and Crispi were all represented. We hung with Andy Schimeck from Marmot Europe, talking future projects. Arc teryx, the North Face, Lowe, and Patagonia were there, the latter manned deftly by Ingrid and Olli. Andreas Schaefer, European Manager for G3 showed us their newest line. Black Diamond’s latest was on display—BD’s new skis looking especially sweet. The opportunity to try all this new gear, from skis, bindings, and boots, to gloves and shells, was open to all, and from what we saw our telemark brethren were taking full advantage. We met Frank am Rhyn, Swiss telemark freerider skiing out of the pearl that is Andermatt, and rep for a small freeride ski company called Masurao. Those good-looking skis were seeing a lot of action.

Nonkersurf cranking turns. Photo: lone telemarker

Tassled hats off to all the manufacturers and representatives, as well as the organizers for making this key part of the festival run so smoothly. Well done everyone! (And please excuse me if I forgot to mention anyone).

Olli took a break to show Marko and I a run he was into but we lost Marko on the way over. After the run—which was wild—I continued doing solo laps. Then I saw the stranger below me doing very nice tele turns and as he was solo as well, I caught up to him. He was built like a brickhouse, but I’ll say bierstube, because he was Austrian. And he told me in his Ahnold voice that it was his first day on tele gear. I skied down a bit, then he sweetly skied up to me and asked, “how vas my style?” I told him, “fantastic for your first day, wow!” I noticed the Austrian Ski Team jacket he was sporting and he confirmed that he used to be on the National Team and was now a trainer. Then it all made sense.

Marko deals with “depth of field” in his photography, but that phrase can also be used to describe the Austrian National Ski Teams and their dominating nature. His first day on tele skis, jeez…well, skiing is just skiing, after all.

(Take any World-class alpine skier and put her in T1 style boots and alpine skis; after two or three days you would be hard pressed to keep up. Telemarking is not hard any more—it used to be. The ease of learning how to telemark—and this is a good thing, I’m not saying it is bad—is directly proportional to the height and stability of plastic boots, and the width and torsional solidity of today’s skis. Physics my friends, physics. I mentioned in another story how telemark skiers will never achieve the power and stability of an alpine skier locked down. And this was debated back and forth on the TelemarkTalk Forum. When I wrote that, I was not thinking of some mere seconds in a racecourse, or stylin’ down Superior, or some comparison of powder-skiing prowess. I live in Europe.

I was thinking life or death. I wrote that in the context of Anselm Baud’s prolific ski guidebook, Mont Blanc et Aiguilles Rouges à Ski. The hardest route that has been free-heeled—to my knowledge—is the Mallory Route N. Face of the Aiguille du Midi, rated TD+, 50-55°/500m (pass. 58). The route consists of 1800 ft. vert of the diciest terrain imaginable. Anyone who has been on the snow arête off the Aiguille du Midi will tell you skiing left, towards Chamonix Valley, seems suicidal. Yet that is the beginning of the route. Most people would prefer to take up the sport of base-jumping than to put on skis in such an area. And that’s before you get to the first technical part. We all know that descents such as these are condition dependent. Nevertheless, keep in mind that one of America’s best alpine ski mountaineers fell and died on Mont Blanc du Tacul’s Gervasutti couloir, a route rated TD. Now, keep in mind that the TD+ Mallory is two full levels below (from TD+ to ED to ED+) what has been alpine skied. It is one thing to say, “oh yeah, I can, or I know someone who can freeheel anything an alpine skier can”. It is another to actually come here, grab Anselm’s book, and go at it. From TD+ to ED+? Prove me wrong, just don’t hold me liable…back to the story).

Aiguille du Midi with the Mallory Route down the middle. Photo- from Mont Blanc et Aiguilles Rouges à Ski

Marko and I retired to the restaurant at the base for the first of many weissbiers that would be sampled this aprés ski. Later, we could only shake our heads at the scene in front of the hotel/bar situated in the middle of the parking lot. It was like Dante’s Inferno under the cool overcast day, sardines cooking to techno, marinating in bier steins, the girls gyrating trancelike on tables raised up as if on pyres. Freaking awesome! Ski racing ain’t the only thing the Austrians dominate.

Marko decided to chill and take it mellow with Frankie.

Mellow, hah! I freshened up and called a cab because the Dorf Pub was awaiting and I had many a Fat Leg to party with.

But, I stopped in a quiet bar to start the night, everything just perfect. Planting my butt on a barstool next to a couple of valley locals, I noticed the World Cup being broadcast live from Park City. I started chatting to the two next to me trying to get a sense of the people around these parts.

Then Hermann Maier shot out the start gate —California might have the Terminator, but the Austrians still have the Herminator. It was obvious that, although he didn’t podium, Maier was finding his form. (He finished 7th this day; but won a Super-G at Lake Louise a week later, and the Beaver Creek Downhill a week after that…) This guy blows me away—the doctors were talking of amputation after his motorcycle accident two seasons ago.

The conversation bounced from the World Cup and skiing to nightspots in Neustift and that’s when I heard of the Hully Gully and the girls who danced there. I stored the info into the “for sure later” file in the recess of my cortex. Some would say I deposited it into the Bank of Bad Habits.

Bidding adieu to Deep Throat—well, he was my info source, and I never identify my sources—I headed to the Dorf walking in just as the merriment was beginning its upward curve. Chilling at the bar speaking with some Scotsman, I heard Italian (and felt the slight breeze from all the hand gestures) being spoken behind me. I turned to check it out and saw one of my best Italian mates, Grande Tito Bertoni, a doctor from Corvara. It was a Grande surprise and we hugged warmly as we had not seen each other since last season. We had been on ski trips to Russia and Norway together and had a lot to catch up on. It wasn’t gonna happen, however, because the decibel level went up with each introduction to his eight Italian telemarkers buddies seated around the table.

And it all spiraled from there…

The music was pumping at this point and the crowd was rocking in waves pulsating to everyone’s inner tele-beat. Nonkersurf was jetlagged having recently come in from So Cal and was counting on a big ski day the following morning. Nonk was ready to head home.

But I would have none of that. What would BT think? There were sober people in Iran, for heaven’s sake! It was overboard, I knew it, and it felt good.

Andrew L, nonkersurf, Tim, and our Austrian bud, you must understand, hit it off very well and I was having too much fun with these guys not to continue with the merriment. So nonkersurf had more biers.

I finally scrawled my Ahnold Hancock on the credit card slip a couple of hours later and we all vowed to hook up for a ski the next day. And with that, we poured out the door.

But I was not finished, oh no. I had forgotten the name of the place Deep Throat told me about but remembered it rhymed. Spotting some youths hanging out I moseyed on over hoping for directions. I told them I was looking, for the strip club, uh, called Hooger Booger, or uh, something like that.” They were freaking beside themselves with laughter! Hooger Booger! The youths never heard something so funny—I had to tell them that you hear funnier things as you get older. After they stopped busting a gut, the pimpled one said, “You mean Hully Gully!” “Yeah, that’s it!” Way to go, mate.

Directions filed, I took off and found the place tucked away discreetly. It was a regular disco as far as I could tell so I sat and had a bier and grooved to 50 Cent. The dude next to me showed me the door leading into what I was looking for.

I entered through the half-round draped red velvet curtains, not many people, small stage to my right complete with chrome pole and, my word! What a beautiful blonde! Bar stool near the stage, boom, that’s me. She was getting it on, performing a variety of tasks with the pole. Another gorgeous blonde came over asking if I, “vanted private lap dance, darlink” trying to work my credit card, get my Vlad Hancock. I told her, “beautiful Russian girl, let me think about it,” as she harumphed away. More girls and more biers, a pole dance supreme, spinning, handy, the way of trained pros. Russian girl, Rah! Ukraine, Rah! Doing the wave solo; Latvia, triple Rah! It was a pleasant way to pass the time, skinny ski getting fat, giving a whole new meaning to Neustift (which actually means ‘new church’).

Sunday Nov. 23

Franziska recovered sufficiently allowing her to join the arc-fest that occurred under the overcast sky. We had a blast banking down the pistes and bounding around the edges, the snow once again so carvable for such early season conditions.

The organizers graciously offered everyone on the program a sumptuous brunch complete with live music, the guitarist foot tapping Neil Young in his Terminators. (I wanna play next festival, Richard!) The ttips crew—nonkersurf, Andrew L, and I—were joined by frank and his petite s.o., as well as lone telemarker; friends joined by the handiness of the world wide web. It then got clear out, as days like this should, and we all went skiing.

Frank. Ph - lone telemarker

Left: lone telemarker. Ph - Andrew L. Above: frank, lone telemarker, nonkersurf, Andrew L.

The Xth International La Skieda Telemark Festival

.

Sunday Mar. 28, 2004

Ahh, La Skieda! I had been hearing nutziod stories about this long-running festival for years, tales of drinking, tele-ing, and debauchery, tales second only to Mötley Crüe’s best seller and all-around textbook, oops sorry! I meant confession book, The Dirt.

La Skieda, hosted by the alpine village of Livigno, Italy is one of the oldest and best-attended telemark festivals in the world. Two of my most inspiring adventure partners, Luca Gasparini and John Falkiner, also happen to be the Godfather, and le Grande Guida, respectively, of this crazy week. The boys have been twisting my arm for years trying to get me to come and add to the Skieda chronicles but scheduling conflicts never allowed me to. I was finally able to squeeze a three-day session in, knowing that this Skieda, being the Xth anniversary, would be the most kick-ass yet. I was psyched, to say the least.

Already packed, I said sayonara to work and was out of Verbier at 7am plenty of cassettes beside me for the long solo drive to Livigno. Past Zürich I flew, being drawn, like an obsidian arrowhead on an ancient bead piercing tough buffalo hide; John Lee Hooker doing it his way, keeping me company, past Bad Ragaz yet again, stopping to take photos of magnificent looking peaks on either side of the motorway, east and up valley until the end of the road and the slopes of Klosters framed my drivers window. I scored some cold tall-boys at the kiosk, as one should before driving ones car onto a flatbed car of a train. Which I did, kicking the seat back to recline, cracking a Calanda Braü dripping icy condensation, and popping in Kamakiriad. (Ahh, the joys of roadtrippin’).

Past the tunnel and immediately into some of the most eye-popping peaks imaginable: meters of snow blanketed high, hanging bowls, couloirs and steep faces; it was a skier’s smorgasbord! Hot damn! I said to myself. How come there are no tracks (Was the second thing I said to myself)? Then I realized: I was in Switzerland’s only National Park, which meant no skiing allowed! Ouch! The big mind-eye shutdown from the government.

My essence shot through another tunnel into the unbeknownst but oft heard of. The anticipation of a mythical ski-land, a pilgrimage I was meant to do but wasn’t able to; the pilgrimage to be fulfilled…
I drove around the lake and Voila! Livigno.

Thunderbolt and lightning
very very frightening
me Galileo Galileo Galileo Galileo
Galileo Figaro Magnifico oh oh oh oh

Lifts rose one after the other to the left of the long ago sculpted U shaped valley. I scanned my eyes to the right and caught more of the same. The terrain—stretching, like my college geology textbook glacial valley diagram—was vast.

I’m just a poor boy Nobody loves me
He’s just a poor boy from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity

I caught a glimpse looking north up a side valley and scoped these impossibly steep looking couloirs ribbon-tropping off the top.

Easy come easy go Will you let me go Bismillah
No we will not let you go (Let him go)
Bismillah We will not let you go (Let me go) Will not let you go (Let me go)
Will not let you go
No no no no no no

Then I spied a big main tent surrounded by a bunch of teepees next to a piste that had to be two football fields wide, being assailed by dozens of telemarkers. I pulled into the parking lot.

Oh Mama mia Mama mia Mama
Mia let me go
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for
me for
me for
me

Cue: Headbang!

I had finally made it to La Skieda! Finally made it to Livigno. Ahh Woo! Rock n’ Roll! I was psyched.

The first thing I did was search for that sly little Italian Beelzebub, the King Kahuna himself, Big ‘G’ Gasparini. Luca, who has donned many different La Skieda organizing hats over the years, had the easy job (not!) of coordinating the manufacturers Freeheel Expo that promised to be the largest of its kind ever. “Ah, Bob-a you made it! Welcome to ediXion ten-a,” the Grand Poobah said as he eXited the tent. “My paisan, you are welcoming me empty-handed? Let’s party!” I retorted. “Yes-a Bob-a. But first a quick tour.”

Luca Gasparini. Ph - Mazarei

We started with the Scarpa stand where the theme was Formula One inspired. The boys had spare parts a-plenty and tools quick at hand for Scarpa ‘Pit Stops.’ If you had a broken buckle, no problem; “new spoiler on your T2’s?” Easy. Like modern pickle-tub riveters, the boys were game for any repair or boot mod. Ski in, wham, bam, thank you San-dro, and ski out. It was great.

Some of the manufacturers stands—like Scarpa, Garmont, and Crispi—were located conveniently on snow next to the Pemonte lift, while other manufacturers were set up under the large main tent just off the snow. Entering the main tent, I gawked at all the latest goodies that were available to try.

Exhibitors included Voilè, Black Diamond, Scarpa, Garmont, Crispi, G3, Rottefella, 7TM, Burnt Mountain (maker of Luca’s new favorite binding, the cableless, step-in 3-pin Tele Bulldog), Linkin, Salomon, Karhu, Rossignol, and K2. Smaller, more specialized ski companies such as Masurao, Faction, and Indigo Snow were present as well.

Trying all the new gear couldn’t have been easier, everything close at hand—or foot, I should say.

Out back of the main tent stood five party teepees in a half-circle. I grabbed a beer and drank first to the four elements: fire, earth—oops that beer is done, gotta get another—air, and water.

Then I had my tele-Vision Quest.

I got on one knee and tele’d to the North, which gives us patience and purity (I had to be patient, indeed to pace myself, for pure festivities).

I tele’d to the East, which gives us energy and emotions (I had to conserve myself so I would have energy to, oh yeah, ski—with no emotional crying in the beer).

I tele’d to the South, which gives us discipline and direction (I had to have discipline not to mix drinks, and which direction to the bathroom...?)

I tele’d to the West, which gives us rest and reflection (I reflected on how much rest I’m gonna need after La Skieda).

It was then that I knew I was, in this space and time, at the center of the telemark universe exactly over the center of the Earth (no, I didn’t have any peyote).

“This place is great, Gaspa. What’s that thing?” To the right of the teepees stood an abstraction X meters high, an artists idea that bounced around his cortex until the electric impulses burnt on an ion grid and manifested into this giant totem before me, looking for all the world like the plumage of a fiberglass and p-tex peacock, or a giant spread-for-display 100-bladed multicolored Swiss army knife. (Edward Scissorhands would have fallen in love). This giant ski totem keeping watch over the party teepees was nothing less than La Skieda’s homage to Ullr and the father himself, Sondre Norheim.

Lasting a week, La Skieda has been described as the No. 1 International event for Freeheel skiing; over a thousand telemarkers from over 40 countries (yeah—a lot of kneepads) participate annually. The main organizers—Cinzia Confortola, Rudy Mottini, Poohbah Gasparini, as well as all the volunteers, must be commended for their efforts and abilities. It can’t be easy to put on the most out of control—I mean that in a good way—weeklong telemark party in eXistence.

Gaspa left me to fend for myself—bidness to attend to and all of that—so I ga-ga’d gear for a bit longer, smiled and waved to some pretty telemark females then headed off to find my hotel.

I learned within 15 minutes of arriving at the Hotel Posta that it was the spiritual aprés-ski hang out of La Skieda. For one, this is the spot Gary Bigham plays music most Skieda’s. His wacky antics on the bandstand attract many telemark cognoscenti, other skiing notables, and most notably of all, Scandinavian women. Festivities at Skieda week abound with no shortage of places to go, a fact the town prides itself on. But the Hotel Posta scene was undoubtedly the vortex of coolness. Maybe it was the unique Italiano merged with classy Americano ambience I was drawn to—more likely it was because I was charmed by owner Kathy Martin, a long-time Livigno ex-patriot originally from Old Town, Maine. Her union with Livigno’s Luigi Martinelli spawned La Posta, as well as their very popular with the girls, handsome son, Domenico. The internationality of La Posta within the context of La Skieda is befitting as well: the week is a celebration of cross-pollination, of regions and countries, style and culture, ideas and feelings. On one hand, what we do as skiers isn’t just about sliding down a mountain; it is a way to learn about the world as well as ourselves. On the other hand, that is exactly what it is: sliding down a mountain in pure pursuit of sensation; sliding as a way of gaining profound feelings of joy and accomplishment. Checking into my spacious and cleanly appointed room, I dumped my bags and popped in to visit Gary for a spell.

Comfortably chilling cross-legged on his bed like a cherubic sheik tent-bound on an oasis, Gary welcomed me, and with a gleam in his eye, knowing that I understood, showed me his new black Gibson Nighthawk. The guitar was given to him, he explained, by a New York mate of his who often visits Gary in Chamonix. Originally from Detroit of all places, Gary is a legendary freestyler from the time of bandana’s, facial hair, Spademan’s and slow-dog noodles. And being based for decades in and around the Chamonix Valley—and more recently under the shadow of the Grands Montets; skiing the terrain of gods, playing music with his band the Crevassholes, producing unique ski films and over the top slide shows, Gary is an institution in Chamonix.

(If you plan on skiing Chamonix I highly recommend Vitamin Ski Holidays, meaning, staying with Gary in his chalet—you won’t soon forget it. It is a highly personal and unique way to experience the area. Same goes with his slide shows, starring characters like skiing lambchop, Capt. Powder, and Extreme Cham-Man whose harness and pack are fully equipped with all the necessary mountain protection: ice axe-check! ice screws-check! egg whisk-check! colander-check! Don’t miss it if you have a chance because it is riotous).

Grabbing the Gibson, we made ourselves downstairs, Gary mentioning something about Dickie Hall. “Dickie Hall! He’s here? That guy is a legend! He’s one of my hero’s,” I blabbered. So Gary introduced me to Dickie Hall and his lovely wife Deb. Dickie—no stranger to tele-festivals himself—is Mr. NATO, a true torch-bearing Hero of Telemark. I was honored to meet Dickie. Then I turned to my left and spied Capt. Powder in all his glory. The Captain is here too!

Bob w/Dickie & Deb Hall Ph:Mazarei

Gary and the Crevassholes started in with mood music in the comfy lounge bar and I knew, as I gazed off into the gleaming twilight beyond the band, that I was definitely in the right place and tonight was certainly the right time. Ex-British freestyle champion reborn as the Duchess of Telemark the incomparable Sarah Ferguson, and I toasted and kissed as Dickie took the stage with my Yamaha SLG 100S.

Capt. Powder giving face shots. Ph: Skieda

He and Gary busted into “Under The Boardwalk,” two troubadours of glisse, Bic lighters being flicked as the crowd swayed to the smooth chords.

Left: Kasha Rigby, Melissa McManus, and Beth Lockhart. Ph - Mazarei
Right: The lovely Naheed Ahmed and the suave Italian journalist, Andrea Gobetti. Ph - Mazarei

And just ahead, damsels certainly not in distress, my old ski mountaineer partner, the beautiful and powerful Kasha Rigby, and her cohorts in prime: adventure photojournalist, Melissa McManus, she of the enchanting blue eyes; the dark and mysterious tele-freerider, Nahid Ahmed; and the feisty and erotic snow sports photographer, Beth Lockhart. More kisses and toasts because skiing rules! I had died and gone to heaven hanging with so many fit specimens with snow on the brain. There was Scarpa’s Maso, a true footwear craftsman and a young 50-something, bobbing his head, enjoying his wine and chatting with his Italian mates.

Bob and Kasha. Photo: Mazarei

Raconteur Rob Story was hanging out with ttips own Teleclyde—Clyde Soles. They happen to be two of my favorite scribes so I went over and chin-chinned about something or another. Then Luca Smooveparini showed up with Paulino Tassi.

The Captain and I went and hung with John Falkiner and his lovely Italian girlfriend, Anna, toasts and more toasts; then I went up on stage to sit in a song or two but only got a wailing feedback out the amp. Lord Baden-Powell must have shifted in his grave at my unpreparedness, as I didn’t have a spare battery to replace the problematic one in my Yamaha. Denied! And so I went back to bouncing around and partying, more photos and hugs, meeting another ttipper, the longhaired Seattle tele’r "HOP," aka Adam U. (but alas, no Bjarke).

This evening was just that: hop-ping. It was an evening of greetings, meetings, music, camaraderie and merrymaking excess that was beyond exceptional.

Left: Gary Bigham wailin'. Ph - Mazarei. Right: Troubador of Tele, NATO's Dickie Hall

Left: John Falkiner and Anna. Rt: Scarpa's Master artisan, Maso and friends. Ph - Mazarei.

Monday Mar. 29

What could be better, right? Well the same kind of deal only outside. The next day I picked up my pass and headed up the Pemonte lift not knowing what to expect. Livigno’s set up couldn’t have been any different than the other bookend, Stubai: the latter being an end of the road glacial experience, more rugged, and generally more alpine-like, and the former being set in a long U-shaped valley with lifts stretching up from different bases on both sides, summits generally rounded with large well maintained pistes and big swaths of heavenly off-piste in between. The whole Livigno valley, I concluded, was perfect for ski touring. Ride the lifts, slap on some skins and lose yourself within the expanse. Or head up one of the side valleys with a picnic, a partner, and a bottle or three of vino.

I got as high as I could get in this sector, a great view of St. Moritz over the Swiss border on my left as I fell into place with all the other telemarkers clipping along the piste. Stopping next to some Italian telemarkers who happened to be doing their tele-certification routine, I asked about the party that was supposed to be happening. Where is it? “Ahh, you speak-a about the Trepallina party. It is a grande party. You will-a have a great time,” the jovial Italian at the back of the line said as he pointed off the backside. I dove into the breakable crust off the back, drawing and extending, plates of adhered snow flying every which way. “Down and-a to the left-a,” he shouted after me.

Farther down I spotted different groups of telemarkers making their way down to Trepallina. I witnessed the whole of telemark progression: the spectrum of tele-ability from neophyte’s headplanting doing close-up snowpack analysis all the way to blasting big-booted experts. The difficult snow made for a good show.

Then I spotted the Trepallina Party site next to some old buildings, many people already gathered and more arriving by the minute slowly filling the picnic tables lined up row after row; the outdoor beer bar one of the main focal centers. The large crew of volunteers started up with the barbecue. I ran into HOP and Teleclyde and we slid into line to score some grub. And still more skiers arriving all having to ski the funky snow to get to Trepallina.

Opting out of sitting at a picnic table I joined Falkiner to feast Bacchus-like on snow, the food tasty and hot, the beer nice and cold. The whole party was just one huge tribal, hedonistic aural and visual extravaganza. Telemarkers who had climbed up the north side of Trepallina gave a high speed powder blasting demo down a steep, wide gully while the on-snow DJ started up with hip-hop beats; freeheel-ers lined up to do backflips off a jump to an appreciative inebriated crowd while the beer and wine flowed non-stop; old and new friends cavorting and wrestling on snow, the sun kissing us adding the final touch to this Bacchanalian fete. Later John got up to start organizing skiers to try and break the record for la Grande Curva—the Big Turn—whereas skiers link hands and attempt an interlocked huge tele turn.

Setting up for the World Record attempt. Guinness required everyone to have a helmet. Ph - Skieda

The lovely three—Kasha, Beth, and Melissa were bouncing around, drink and photos, music, snow, and spirit. Then Paul Parker came over to keep me company, stories told and laughed at, the beers non-stop. Paul and I opted out of John’s Grande Curva; our butts planted sedately in the snow, happy just where we were.

Both Paul and I were surprised that John and Paulino actually got the Grande Curva together. With the cameras rolling 201 skiers completed a linked tele-turn. It wasn’t perfect but not bad—the Aussie-Italian organization somehow working. We hung out for hours, inverts continuing off the jump to our left, and extroverts, some natural and some alcohol influenced, everywhere else.

Curtsy on three. Ph - Skieda

And yes, I actually got to ski some more this day. Surprisingly.

Late in the afternoon skiers started drifting away on the traverse to a bus stop, which was the only way back to Livigno. Sometime later, on the bus and contouring around the mountain heading towards Livigno, I kept spotting killer ski shots through the trees out the right window. Andreas Schaefer of G3 Europe was sitting a few seats ahead of me and I could see that he was thinking the same as me: why are we riding the bus when we could be skiing this beautiful late afternoon back to town? So Andreas and I asked the driver if he would mind dropping us off and the driver kindly obliged. We walked back up the road until we found what we were looking for and stepped into our skis.

The light was still good as we dipped into the spring snow that covered a stream gully cutting through the forest. Andreas, on a pair of very cool looking prototype freeride skis by a first year company named Faction, dropped in tight behind me as I wound through trees, stones and various other obstacles that made things interesting. Both our attitudes were well adjusted from the all day party and that made us, well, unstoppable. Andreas was dicing the run inspiring me to be tight and nice, high tele-stances all the way. Finally we came flying out onto the football field-wide piste just above the teepees as the sun dipped under the horizon. We high-fived our great run and promised we would meet later. Andreas was off to the Posta but I had the spirit of the tribe exerting its pull, drawing me to the teepees as sure as a dowsing rod to water.

Tuesday Mar. 30

John Falkiner’s usual role at La Skieda is to lead tele-touring groups around the tour-tastic area that is Livigno. He does this every day of La Skieda. My roommate, Ace Kvale (who had shown up via a convoluted, long route from La Grave, where he was shooting photos with the inimitable Doug Coombs) and I got up early for this days tour with John (however unlikely that sounds after the previous days Vision Quest for the ages).

The gathering at the top of the lift grew minute by minute and I wondered what was up. John had told me on occasions about the large groups he sometimes led at Skieda. I had always pictured like twenty skiers or so—twenty being large in anybody’s book. But it was obvious today’s tour would be many more than that. Later, John along with Paolino and some other guides checked that everyone who passed had working transceivers. There was a lot of beeping going on, and when I got to John, I asked how many skiers were on this tour.

“Over a hundred, Bob, over a hundred.”

The skin line was humongous, a telemark nation unto itself, Chiefs and chieftains, warriors and tele-squaws, a nation made up of many nations. Looking up at the next ridge to be surmounted was like watching an ant procession up a spilt mound of sugar. The group splintered off here and there, as ants do, to join up once again further along. I looked over at Paul Parker and Oliver Steffan and we had to laugh at the ludicrousness of it all. But it was cool because the snow conditions were stable and we were out there for a laugh. Hanging back and gaining a final ridge, Rob Story by my side, (along with many others) we peeled skins, the sound a cacophony at 48 decibels, like 50 women getting leg-waxed down at Gina’s Beauty Parlor simultaneously.

In ones and twos we skied off into the crusty snow and down a ridge to a large staging plateau. John and Paolino knew exactly what they were doing because underneath us in a bowl that swept left then right was 10 cms of week-old light powder. In groups, we made our way down the steeper upper section heading back right where the angle eased. Ace wanted to get a shot of 80 or so telemarkers decimating the 10cm powder slope in one fell swoop and got us to stop while he set up. Appearing over my left shoulder was my main lady of tele, Sarah Ferguson. Everyone was waiting for Ace’s signal; Sarah and I were towards the front of the group. Sarah looked over at me and whispered sotto voce, “we’ll go early.” I nodded in agreement.

Ace gave the thumbs up and I took control yelling at everyone to go on the count of three. I counted: ok ready, one-two—and Sarah and I took off a step ahead of everyone else, two geese leading the V, nothing but fresh snow in front of us as we skied down side by each (as they say in Quebec).

I’m not sorry! Ha! And neither is Sarah! (Ok, we owe everyone a beer).

The snow stayed powdery for a while longer then transformed into spring conditions as skiers split apart working variations to the valley floor. There were a lot of good vibrations happening this day and it continued through the awesome lunch Ace, Teleclyde, and I had at a mountain top restaurant. (I brought Teleclyde’s book Climbing: Expedition Planning and he was so kind as to sign it for me—very cool. I have his Climbing: Training for Peak Performance as well. Both are excellent books and highly recommended).

It was piste supreme with some forays off into the trees the rest of the day, wind in the eyes and lots of smiles. Later I met Kim George and Richard Parrott of UK Tele-Masters and we arced a few for Sondre and Tonto before retiring to an outdoor deck to compare thoughts on tele and generally drink a bunch more beer. We were very thirsty, you see, from all the hard work we were putting ourselves through.

Party teepees! Hiawatha. Ph - Skieda

Later, we entered the teepee, the tribe in full swing, Chiefs and squaws squawking it up, liter shotgun beer glasses suspended off of tribe members necks, no frustrations with the initiations, the fire water flowing and the teepee steaming. It was only 5pm.

The big wonderful tribe arrived some hours later at the foot of the Mottolino lift. Why? Dinner and another party, of course, but this time at the top of the lift.

The Austrians got the aprés ski down pat but let me tell you, the Italians do it with just a bit more style.

All tickets were sold for this party and the room was packed. With the brilliant moon shining out the windows, the band kicked in with some fine rock and roll gems. The pleasure was all mine as I had as my tablemates the lovely Beth Lockhart and another gem, the bubbly and humorous Sarah Clemenson. The room was buzzing with electricity and I don’t need to tell you that the drinks were flowing faster than water out a beaver's collapsed dam. My pleasure level was like the Wall Street graphs you see on MSNBC reporting another record high—peaking, close to breaking all records. The food was killer too.

Back down at the base of the Mottolino lift, we continued, that is to say, we went into another bar. They were geared up for our arrival, the bar crew obviously seeing many a La Skieda over the seasons. I met Bones, who was in Europe to do some filming for his new project, sometime that night. And later, outside the door to the bar, his young telemark talents were chucking snowballs at each other as only Americans can, blasting each other, stoked to be raging in Europe. And as we have seen in his films, the young daredevils throw rodeos and such, just as well as they throw snowballs.

Finally.

Marko, Franziska and I want to thank everyone involved with the 3rd Stubaital Telemark Festival for putting on such a great event.

And nonkersurf, lone telemarker, frank and wife, as well as Andrew L, thanks, mates. It was a blast skiing with you, let’s do it again soon.

I also want to thank everyone involved with the Xth La Skieda Telemark Festival. As Carly once sang, Nobody does it better…

Cheers to all the great friends, new and old, that I met at Skieda. Fantastico!

As I have said before, it is the people we meet that is the most important part of our sport and festivals such as these are a celebration of this fact. We will be back next season and I urge everyone in Telemarktips.com-land to make an effort to come out as well. You will not be sorry.

Looking Ahead:

So there you have it, a tale of two festivals. Pull into the barrel, one bookend—Stubai. Get shot out of the barrel, the other bookend—La Skieda.

This seasons bookends will fall on the following dates:

4th Stubaier Telemark Festival

www.stubaier-telemark-festival.com

November 19th thru the 21st, 2004

La Skieda XI Telemark Festival

www.skieda.com

April 9th thru the 17th, 2005

Additional Links

www.stubaier-gletscher.com	www.skipasslivigno.com
www.telemarkfriends.com	www.thewhiteplanet.it
www.telemark-austria.com	www.hposta.it
Email Mazarei: bobATverbier.ch	Email Gary Bigham: garybighamAThotmail.com

"Bohemian Rhapsody" lyrics as performed by Queen. Composed by Freddie Mercury. Published by Hal Leonard. Used with permission.

.