Maybe you’d be curious to go there, to see those similarities and differences yourself. You’d probably be just as curious if they had told you, “Guess what? I saw someone who looks just like you, only their hair was a bit different and their eyes were a slightly different colour”. Wolfi – Wolfgang Hell – is an alpinist and ski-mountaineer from Lagundo, South Tirol with thirteen years of experience on the Italian national ski team. In December 2015, he got an email from a helicopter-pilot friend. He said that he’d seen mountains in Georgia similar to the Dolomites, only a bit different. They are even called the Chauki Dolomites. Wolfi was curious, especially as the attached photos showed remote, imposing peaks with steep, narrow couloirs that resemble the Sella massif, to some extent. The snow looks really interesting – good powder, the kind that allows you to go more or less where you want and how you want, and enjoy every single centimetre of descent. The most noticeable difference is the lack of people. In the Dolomites, you’re never that far from civilisation. There are houses in the valleys and mountain huts to sleep in and get a plate of Spaetzle (noodles), or Kaiserschmarrn (pancakes). This is not the case in Georgia. The closest place to the Chauki Dolomites is Juta, a small village that barely appears on the map.
Simon Gietl and Andrea Oberacher are climbing over an impressive roof, right under the arête after which the wall turns west. They are making the first free ascent of “Das Erbe der Väter” (The Heritage of our Fathers), the route that Simon opened with Vittorio Messini. It’s bold and traditional, ground up, protected with trad gear and pegs and involves sport climbing difficulties up to UIAA 9-. This is the way Simon likes it: modern routes climbed free. Pure alpinism, similar to the ethics of our forefathers. You just have to watch him climb. Just look at the topo. Just look at how the route picks its way up through the sea of yellow rock. Respect. Simon grew up just outside Luttach, in the Aurina valley. He has always been a hard worker, first on his family’s farmstead, then as a carpenter. His first contact with climbing, fifteen or so years ago, was totally by chance. He was hitchhiking from Dobbiaco to Brunico, and a climber gave him a lift. After chatting and listening to the stories and tales shared during that drive, Simon decided to give climbing a go.
Simon Gietl and Andrea Oberacher are climbing over an impressive roof, right under the arête after which the wall turns west. They are making the first free ascent of “Das Erbe der Väter” (The Heritage of our Fathers). It’s bold and traditional, ground up, protected with trad gear and pegs and involves sport climbing difficulties up to UIAA 9-. This is the way Simon likes it: pure alpinism, similar to the ethics of our forefathers. You just have to watch him climb. Respect. Simon grew up just outside Luttach, in the Aurina valley. He has always been a hard worker, first on his family’s farmstead, then as a carpenter. His first contact with climbing, fifteen or so years ago, was totally by chance. He was hitchhiking from Dobbiaco to Brunico, and a climber gave him a lift. After chatting and listening to the stories and tales shared during that drive, Simon decided to give climbing a go.
Simon Gietl and Andrea Oberacher are climbing over an impressive roof, right under the arête after which the wall turns west. They are making the first free ascent of “Das Erbe der Väter” (The Heritage of our Fathers). It’s bold and traditional, ground up, protected with trad gear and pegs and involves sport climbing difficulties up to UIAA 9-. This is the way Simon likes it: pure alpinism, similar to the ethics of our forefathers. You just have to watch him climb. Respect. Simon grew up just outside Luttach, in the Aurina valley. He has always been a hard worker, first on his family’s farmstead, then as a carpenter. His first contact with climbing, fifteen or so years ago, was totally by chance. He was hitchhiking from Dobbiaco to Brunico, and a climber gave him a lift. After chatting and listening to the stories and tales shared during that drive, Simon decided to give climbing a go.
Wolfi picks up the phone and calls a couple of friends. The first is Daniel Ladurner, a young ski-mountaineer from Cermes, near Merano. The second is Aaron Durogati. Aaron is not just a ski-mountaineer, he’s also an experienced paraglider. Ale d’Emilia also joins the team. Ale is a ski instructor, climber, highliner and photographer. Wolfi doesn’t take long to convince them. After all, how often do you get to visit an unexplored valley and ski a whole stack of lines? Aaron not only packs his ski-mountaineering gear, but also his speed wing. If you’ve ever found yourself having to rig an abseil down an awkward section right in the middle of a steep ski descent, you will appreciate the allure of speed riding. Normally, if a jump is too high, you stop, build an anchor, prep an abseil, abseil down, pack your gear away and finally get back to some skiing. It’s neither good nor bad, it’s just part of the deal – but it definitely breaks the rhythm of a great descent. Speed riding (or ski gliding), i.e. skiing with a speed wing, makes things rather different. Approaching a rock step, you pump the brakes, pick up your knees and let the wing carry you over it, switching from snow to air, and from sliding to flying. The transition is strange, it’s as if the two elements exist to be linked up. Skiing on powder and flying in the air, enjoying the landscape without interruption, exploring the two elements simultaneously and committing to lines which would otherwise be impossible is a unique experience. Once you’ve passed the rocks and see fresh powder again below your feet, you pull the hand brake, bend your knees slightly, and as you prepare to make contact, enjoy feeling your weight gradually shifting from wing to skis. Descents like this are not just about speed or convenience. You get to explore one line, but two elements at the same time, and discover something completely new in the process. March 27, 2016: Our four friends take the plane to Tbilisi. They spend a night in the city, enjoying the frontier atmosphere at the crossroads of Western Asia and Eastern Europe. Early next morning, they’re in a jeep, travelling towards Juta, the village in the Kazbek National Park they have chosen as their initial base. The conditions are disastrous.
And he’s been climbing ever since. It didn’t take him long to decide that climbing, or rather, that specific way of climbing, was what he wanted to dedicate his life to. Or at least part of his life. He is also dedicated to Sandra, Iano and Iari, his wife and two children. This is why he inspires such admiration and respect. Simon is a man who understands the consequences of the choices he makes. He knows that his life is not only about himself. Every decision, including electing to open a route of that difficulty, from the ground up, on that rock, is tempered by a great sense of responsibility. The sun is starting to set behind Cima Ovest. Simon and Andrea are out of sight. They’ve reached the great ringband terrace and then the summit. The wind carries an exuberant shout of joy far towards the distant meadows of Misurina. A small flock of choughs flies past with complete indifference, heading towards who knows where. Das Erbe der Väter is a unique route. Without a doubt. It’s an innovative feat, opening a line of that level of difficulty using a traditional approach. It’s more than just a route, it’s a tribute to the climbers who laid the historical foundations of alpinism and a prophecy of the climbers who will envisage and create its future – on this same mountain – in years to come.
It didn’t take him long to decide that climbing was what he wanted to dedicate his life to. Or at least part of his life. He is also dedicated to Sandra, Iano and Iari, his wife and two children. He knows that his life is not only about himself. Every decision, including electing to open a route of that difficulty, from the ground up, on that rock, is tempered by a great sense of responsibility. The sun is starting to set behind Cima Ovest. Simon and Andrea are out of sight. They’ve reached the great ringband terrace and then the summit. The wind carries an exuberant shout of joy far towards the distant meadows of Misurina. Das Erbe der Väter is more than just a route, it’s a tribute to the climbers who laid the historical foundations of alpinism and a prophecy of the climbers who will envisage and create its future – on this same mountain – in years to come.
It didn’t take him long to decide that climbing was what he wanted to dedicate his life to. Or at least part of his life. He is also dedicated to Sandra, Iano and Iari, his wife and two children. He knows that his life is not only about himself. Every decision, including electing to open a route of that difficulty, from the ground up, on that rock, is tempered by a great sense of responsibility. The sun is starting to set behind Cima Ovest. Simon and Andrea are out of sight. They’ve reached the great ringband terrace and then the summit. The wind carries an exuberant shout of joy far towards the distant meadows of Misurina. Das Erbe der Väter is more than just a route, it’s a tribute to the climbers who laid the historical foundations of alpinism and a prophecy of the climbers who will envisage and create its future – on this same mountain – in years to come.
It is too warm, rainfall up to 2,500 metres. The snow is a horrible mass of slush which generates constant heavy avalanches. Even thinking of putting on skis is out of the question. Aaron, Wolfi, Daniel and Ale are stuck in Juta. Spending their days as guests of one of the three families who live permanently in this place, they start to see how these Dolomites are different to ours. From December, when avalanches start blocking the road, these people are completely cut off from the outside world. They live the way people used to live in “our” Dolomites – one hundred years ago. The men work as blacksmiths and look after the animals; women cook and look after the house. Meals consist mainly of pickled vegetables and preserved meat. After a few days, the conditions seem to change. The falling snow is still wet, but Aaron can feel something different in the air. Grabbing his skis, he sets off to explore one of the valleys leading away from the village. His intuition proves correct: cold weather is on its way. Properly cold temperatures that will freeze and stabilise the old snowpack. And dump metres of fresh powder. The four friends push on from Juta and set up base camp in an isolated valley at a safe spot protected from possible avalanches. The hike in is difficult, as there’s a lot of equipment to move. The only way of doing this is on skis with skins. But it’s worth it. The skies clear, the sun comes out and the clouds lift, revealing a maze of couloirs and a white expanse it’s likely nobody has ever traced a single line before. The team spends two perfect weeks there. Every day Aaron, Wolfi, Daniel and Ale wake up early, very early; climb five hundred to one thousand metres; ski a new couloir, a new line, all of it on gradients up to 60 degrees. During the afternoons, they sort their gear and plan the next day’s objective. In the evenings, they try to get some sleep in the tents, but it’s not easy when it’s minus twenty outside. Every day brings something new, something that has never been done before, more unexplored chutes. The climbs are easier to bear when they realise that no one has ever trodden here before. And the descents are really special – they feel similar, but different. Both on skis and with the wing. And it’s not just that a rescue would be difficult here (there is no backup). Dropping a cliff or whizzing through a narrow couloir as the rock walls close in, you have to be super careful. Ultimately though, it’s the curious mix of the familiar and unfamiliar that makes it so special. Returning home after an experience like that is not straightforward, emotionally. In “our” Italian Dolomites, everything is easier. There are roads and supermarkets. There are restaurants, hot baths and saunas. You don’t need to spend the night shivering with cold, or the days lugging heavy loads. But there is something missing. The thought that maybe you’re the first person to scrape ice from your beard here, ski a turn there, or eat your Schuettelbrot (bread) and `Speck` is hard to beat.
Just before Paul starts the engine and before he takes off for this new adventure Ken appears, still a bit sleepy. The American discretely knocks on the fuselage, he strokes it. “We definitely did a good job with this bit of scrap iron from ’59, didn’t we? It looks impressive now.” Paul comes out of the cabin, he steps down, and nods. “Well, you did a great job, I just acted as your busboy. Ken, I just don’t know how to thank you enough. You are an amazing person, and a friend.” Ken minimizes, sneers then mumbles, he doesn’t like receiving compliments. “Listen” Paul urges on, “why don’t you come as well? It’s been a while since we’ve flown together.” Ken strokes the shiny blades of the Supercub’s rotors, lost in his thought. !I would love to come. Fly with you, teaching you how to fly over Alaska was awesome. I think… when you show someone the place you live in, it is like having the opportunity to see it with a fresh look. Well, I might have taught you a few bush pilot tricks, but you’ve reminded me why I am so in love with this darned ice.” Ken furrows his eyebrows and curls his lip “...and today I need to go to Anchorage for the monthly shop, and I have to go by car.” Paul and Ken laugh as accomplices. Pats on the back, farewells, and Paul back in the cabin is ready to take off. Ken walks lankily back home.
Paul pulls the window down. “Hey, Ken!” The shaggy Alaskan turns around, and stares at the Austrian. It could be the light of dawn, but he sees something more than a simple pilot, and something more than an adventurer. He sees a man who had no fear to take a new road, to follow a dream, to understand the true spirit of Alaska, beyond the rhetoric of the last frontier. He sees someone who flies to fly, someone for which air is not only what your wings, or your sail fly across. Someone for which the never ending kilometers of tundra, lakes and mountains are not a distance to merely fly across, but a space in which to express oneself. It could be the light of dawn, but Ken is almost touched by the thought. “Ken, I wanted to say…no, forget it. Thanks, you are awesome, see you in four days. Buy some beer!” Ken lifts his thumb. Paul turns on the engine, taking off with elegant precision from the narrow strip which by now he calls air field. He gains height, while the intense morning light starts to caress Seward’s Folly. Four hours later his plane is parked on the edge of a nameless valley, somewhere east of Peter’s Dome. Paul is running fast; behind him the paraglider inflates, and his feet lose contact with the ground beneath. Around him a never ending expanse of new and incredible places, there is no sign of a person, a house, or a trail. “Flying to fly” he giggles happily, fixing himself in the saddle. “Yes, this is exactly what dreams coming true taste like.”
- AARON DUROGATI -
THE CHAUKI DOLOMITES
Imagine someone told you that there was somewhere in the world with mountains similar to your local mountains, only a bit different.
- SIMON GIETL -
THE CHAUKI DOLOMITES. SIMILAR, BUT DIFFERENT
Imagine someone told you that there was somewhere in the world with mountains similar to your local mountains, only a bit different? Maybe you’d ask them what they meant by “similar”, and what they meant by “a bit different”.
Maybe you’d be curious to go there, to see those similarities and differences yourself. You’d probably be just as curious if they had told you, “Guess what? I saw someone who looks just like you, only their hair was a bit different and their eyes were a slightly different colour”. Wolfi – Wolfgang Hell – is an alpinist and ski-mountaineer from Lagundo, South Tirol with thirteen years of experience on the Italian national ski team. In December 2015, he got an email from a helicopter-pilot friend. He said that he’d seen mountains in Georgia similar to the Dolomites, only a bit different. They are even called the Chauki Dolomites. Wolfi was curious, especially as the attached photos showed remote, imposing peaks with steep, narrow couloirs that resemble the Sella massif, to some extent. The snow looks really interesting – good powder, the kind that allows you to go more or less where you want and how you want, and enjoy every single centimetre of descent. The most noticeable difference is the lack of people. In the Dolomites, you’re never that far from civilisation. There are houses in the valleys and mountain huts to sleep in and get a plate of Spaetzle (noodles), or Kaiserschmarrn (pancakes). This is not the case in Georgia. The closest place to the Chauki Dolomites is Juta, a small village that barely appears on the map.
Wolfi picks up the phone and calls a couple of friends. The first is Daniel Ladurner, a young ski-mountaineer from Cermes, near Merano. The second is Aaron Durogati. Aaron is not just a ski-mountaineer, he’s also an experienced paraglider. Ale d’Emilia also joins the team. Ale is a ski instructor, climber, highliner and photographer. Wolfi doesn’t take long to convince them. After all, how often do you get to visit an unexplored valley and ski a whole stack of lines? Aaron not only packs his ski-mountaineering gear, but also his speed wing. If you’ve ever found yourself having to rig an abseil down an awkward section right in the middle of a steep ski descent, you will appreciate the allure of speed riding. Normally, if a jump is too high, you stop, build an anchor, prep an abseil, abseil down, pack your gear away and finally get back to some skiing. It’s neither good nor bad, it’s just part of the deal – but it definitely breaks the rhythm of a great descent. Speed riding (or ski gliding), i.e. skiing with a speed wing, makes things rather different. Approaching a rock step, you pump the brakes, pick up your knees and let the wing carry you over it, switching from snow to air, and from sliding to flying. The transition is strange, it’s as if the two elements exist to be linked up. Skiing on powder and flying in the air, enjoying the landscape without interruption, exploring the two elements simultaneously and committing to lines which would otherwise be impossible is a unique experience. Once you’ve passed the rocks and see fresh powder again below your feet, you pull the hand brake, bend your knees slightly, and as you prepare to make contact, enjoy feeling your weight gradually shifting from wing to skis. Descents like this are not just about speed or convenience. You get to explore one line, but two elements at the same time, and discover something completely new in the process. March 27, 2016: Our four friends take the plane to Tbilisi. They spend a night in the city, enjoying the frontier atmosphere at the crossroads of Western Asia and Eastern Europe. Early next morning, they’re in a jeep, travelling towards Juta, the village in the Kazbek National Park they have chosen as their initial base. The conditions are disastrous.
It is too warm, rainfall up to 2,500 metres. The snow is a horrible mass of slush which generates constant heavy avalanches. Even thinking of putting on skis is out of the question. Aaron, Wolfi, Daniel and Ale are stuck in Juta. Spending their days as guests of one of the three families who live permanently in this place, they start to see how these Dolomites are different to ours. From December, when avalanches start blocking the road, these people are completely cut off from the outside world. They live the way people used to live in “our” Dolomites – one hundred years ago. The men work as blacksmiths and look after the animals; women cook and look after the house. Meals consist mainly of pickled vegetables and preserved meat. After a few days, the conditions seem to change. The falling snow is still wet, but Aaron can feel something different in the air. Grabbing his skis, he sets off to explore one of the valleys leading away from the village. His intuition proves correct: cold weather is on its way. Properly cold temperatures that will freeze and stabilise the old snowpack. And dump metres of fresh powder. The four friends push on from Juta and set up base camp in an isolated valley at a safe spot protected from possible avalanches. The hike in is difficult, as there’s a lot of equipment to move. The only way of doing this is on skis with skins. But it’s worth it. The skies clear, the sun comes out and the clouds lift, revealing a maze of couloirs and a white expanse it’s likely nobody has ever traced a single line before. The team spends two perfect weeks there. Every day Aaron, Wolfi, Daniel and Ale wake up early, very early; climb five hundred to one thousand metres; ski a new couloir, a new line, all of it on gradients up to 60 degrees. During the afternoons, they sort their gear and plan the next day’s objective. In the evenings, they try to get some sleep in the tents, but it’s not easy when it’s minus twenty outside. Every day brings something new, something that has never been done before, more unexplored chutes. The climbs are easier to bear when they realise that no one has ever trodden here before. And the descents are really special – they feel similar, but different. Both on skis and with the wing. And it’s not just that a rescue would be difficult here (there is no backup). Dropping a cliff or whizzing through a narrow couloir as the rock walls close in, you have to be super careful. Ultimately though, it’s the curious mix of the familiar and unfamiliar that makes it so special. Returning home after an experience like that is not straightforward, emotionally. In “our” Italian Dolomites, everything is easier. There are roads and supermarkets. There are restaurants, hot baths and saunas. You don’t need to spend the night shivering with cold, or the days lugging heavy loads. But there is something missing. The thought that maybe you’re the first person to scrape ice from your beard here, ski a turn there, or eat your Schuettelbrot (bread) and `Speck` is hard to beat.