Freeheeler Saison_Nachdruck_25.12.Low-res

Fabienne, my future wife, at her work in
the Verbier Post Office the second day in
town. She took pity on the clueless Californian
and helped me out.
Tent living and washing-up in the Migros
bathroom sink lasted two weeks.
Then the slightly loopy but lovely, Place
Centrale Verbier butcher lady Madame
Orieller, set me up with a tiny room. I
had a hot-plate and access to a shared
bathroom and shower. Another two
weeks and I had a job lined up. It started
getting busier in town, snow finally fell,
and I felt that I was on my way. Fabienne
and I were living together in her cool
Place Centrale apartment by February
and thus life and skiing in the Alps truly
began. Apprenticeship with amazing
ski and mountaineering mentors led to
many, many turns, and profound mountain
experiences. And although I didn’t
know it at the time, all this was leading
inexorably in new mountain directions,
into the greater mountain ranges of the
World - me, my partners, and my skis.
Leaving Los Angeles with a one-way ticket
to the Alps?
Best thing I ever did in my life.
Damāvand
Then Iran came up again.
Visions of Damāvand danced before my
eyes. Pictures of the almost perfectly
symmetrical volcano captured our telemark
imaginations. My Swiss telemark
partner Nico Jaques put together a team
of six and sorted logistics as the Alps season
was winding down, 2001.
With a week to go before departure I had
to deal with Iranian Embassy drama. I
was the only team member that would
be traveling with a US passport. Iran,
at the time, was branded by George W.
Bush as part of the Axis of Evil and thus
the government wanted to know where I
would be at all times, a point my European
passport-holding team didn’t have to
worry about. The problem was that half
my family still lived in Iran, and I wanted
to go visit my grandparents, uncles, and
aunts while I was there. The Embassy
said no way. I countered back that they
were being ridiculous. This went back
and forth until the day before we were to
fly. In the end, the Embassy capitulated
and off we flew. It was early April.
Our team acclimatised for a few days before
we found ourselves on Damāvand’s
flanks. We worked up from basecamp
to the 4100m Bhargaheh III shelter that
would allow us to make a bid for the
5610m summit. We arrived just in time
for a two-day blizzard that kept us holedup,
horizontal, and reading books. The
blizzard broke on our third morning so
we decided to bust a move. The cloud ceiling
was not far above our heads - was the
storm over or what?
Everything started well, the skinning
conditions beautiful, and we made our
way up steadily. Not having edge-to-edge
skins I started to slip as we got higher and
the slopes got steeper. Several of us then
switched to crampons, skis strapped on
the back. Several hours later the six of us
regrouped, all doing well. The weather
however, started deteriorating. A west
wind kicked up and it started lightly
snowing. Our route followed a huge boomerang
shaped snow-line with a long exposed
ridge of volcanic tuff on its inside.
It is this ridge that we aimed for, as it was
a well-needed reference in what quickly
became a whiteout. Steadily we moved
up snowfields, ramps and couloirs. It got
colder and started snowing harder.
We ducked behind a rock an hour later
at 5300m. It had gone from whiteout to
full-blown blizzard in 15 minutes. It was
less then 400m vertical to the top. We
cached our skis behind a rock and continued
slowly up into the tempest, the boys
in front appearing and disappearing
with every pulse of the thickening wind
and snow. I could hardly see and I noticed
that Nico was having similar eyewear
problems. I lost a crampon and by the
time I sat and replaced it, my hands were
like wood. I couldn’t get my hands back
into my gloves quick enough, the brutality
of having to deal with straps, almost
too much. Another hundred meters up
and the futility of continuing become ap-
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