And sometimes you have to make it. Take the raw talent of five of the world’s best freeskiers, add a touch of snow, mix it with an anything-goes attitude and good things will happen.
Those good things first manifested themselves in the form of a double-jump setup. With a planar topography comprised of minimal rolls or benches—coupled with the woeful snow conditions—these mountains offered few obvious features. But after a lengthy scout from the air, we saw potential on one peak for a handcrafted booter over a dry ridgeline to a half-decent landing. An immediate right turn would set the skiers up for the second hit: A feature with a small gap to butter pad with an okay—albeit shaded and refreezing—landing.
It was a given with the conditions that the skiers’ A-game was going to be kept in check, but the guys threw down nevertheless, with PK’s cork 7 nose to lazyboy hand drag 3, and Blunck’s cork 3 to switch 3 off the butter pad stealing the show. Doubts and anxieties were swapped for smiles and high fives. Apropos Rolling Stones lyrics floated in my head: You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.
A couple of days later, in an uninhabited valley under otherwise lifeless gray skies, two dozen preteen Icelandic kids on a field trip assembled on a grassy slope and screamed their lungs out as our crew sessioned the arching concrete roof of one of the north island’s many road tunnels. They had spotted us from a distant roadside pullout and then ventured over with four chaperones in tow to take a closer look.
Our skiers—four of them Olympians—had all performed in front of crowds, but never in this outlandish a setting. And while most of the Icelandic-speak was unintelligible, more familiar phrases occasionally rang out. A skier’s crash instantly spurred a fl ood of laughter and a call of “Epic fail!” Then came a chorus of, “Backflip! Backflip! Backflip!” Of course, the youngsters had no idea backflips were the least technical maneuver these guys were capable of, but everyone knows getting inverted always ignites the crowd. Bobby and PK obliged with a backy train, sending the children into an uproar.
The ethereal nature of it all only continued when a couple of days later, under ashen skies again, our Eleven Experience guides—who had assumed the role of camp counselors and bus drivers, shuttling us from one of Iceland’s spectacular natural treasures to the next—announced that the surf was up in a neighboring fjord. We frantically yanked on 6/5 wetsuits in the hotel lobby and drove 15 minutes to a fl awless right point. Sure, in retrospect it was a little soft, but it was also empty and beautiful. A break that would have 50-plus guys on it anywhere else was sitting there, chest high and reeling away, ours for the taking.
We danced with excitement and raced to the water. Eder and Blunck joined Brown and myself in the lineup, and as the clouds broke, we bobbed there in a warm sun shaking our heads, utterly blown away by our location on Earth at that very moment. Reality struck as a set marched in, and Bobby paddled into a solid wave, carved several turns on the glassy face and kicked out way down the line. His unbridled laughter carried over the roar of the waves.
A couple of hours after exiting the water, inside the heli, I could still detect the foreign scent of neoprene as we climbed towards a quarterpipe we had built the previous day, only miles from the surf break. Before long, the guys were launching above Siglufjörður, pulling flawless flat and cork 5s under the spotlight of a low hanging sun. At 10 p.m., we stood atop a peak gazing out at Iceland’s true grandeur. Below our ski tips was a corn run awash in brilliant pink. The gleaming Arctic Ocean sat before us, its rolling waves reflecting the fire of a setting sun that still wouldn’t disappear for another two-and-a-half hours. It was the spectacular culmination of a multi-sport day that definitely did not suck.
Now, I’ve had the great fortune of seeing a lot in this world from a helicopter perch, but this was likely the most foreign heli-skiing experience I’ve ever encountered.
After enduring some form of rain almost every day for two weeks, as our trip neared its end, yet another incoming storm appeared destined to squash any chance of a fulfilling finish. We rolled the dice and fled to the island’s southside, hoping for a single-day window of opportunity. We flew to the shoulder of Eyjafjallajökull (that’s the volcano Walter Mitty struggles to pronounce in his Secret Life and the one that blew in 2010, disrupting European air traffic for weeks).
Now, I’ve had the great fortune of seeing a lot in this world from a helicopter perch, but this was likely the most foreign heli-skiing experience I’ve ever encountered. It was all of the geological splendor of the island’s north side compressed into one sprawling mountain. The contrast of glistening blue ocean; golden and crimson flatlands below us; black volcanic rock; lush canyons split by towering waterfalls and draped in thick, green moss; and, finally, brilliant white snow was both bizarre and beautiful.
But our gamble would pay off as the guys discovered that unlike what we found to the north, the flanks of Eyjafjallajökull offered up a bevy of jump opportunities. The snow—still a mix of firm and slop with little goodness in between—may have toned down everyone’s game a notch or two, but we still seized the moment, sessioning two hastily built step-down booters with absolutely surreal backdrops. As the sun continued its fading line drive trajectory towards the horizon and energies waned, the guys managed to squeeze the most out of the final minutes by playing on a natural wave shaped wind lip while the whitecaps of the North Atlantic danced beyond the shores far below.
It felt a fitting end. We had endured two weeks of horrible snow and were left with a residual hint of “What if?”, but the overriding sensation was one of pure contentment. Iceland had thrilled us, tested us, awed us and teased us, and it gave us every reason to start dreaming about our next journey back. Perhaps Bobby put it best: “This has been one of the most eventful trips I’ve ever been on. A ski trip, but not really. It’s been more of just an adventure. A journey.”
Clearly that passport control officer I met in Reykjavík didn’t have a clue.
