Back toward the beginning of January, I went on a four day, three night film trip for Epic Montana to Yurtski, a six person shack of coziness on the southern edge of the Swan Range. We were met with wonderful hospitality by the hosts at Yurtski. Our group of four skiers (Brody Leven, KT Miller, Rachel Delacour, myself) and two filmers (Bobby Jahrig and Tyler Swank) made for an outstanding team, accomplishing quite a lot of safe skiing during a massive storm and the warmup afterward.
An edit from the trip is forthcoming soon, but I wanted to use a post to talk about my mindset and the nighttime shenanigans it lead to.
Film trips are first and foremost a group of skiers and filmers working together towards a common goal of the final product. Add that to the reality that backcountry skiing is complicated enough without the logistical hurdles posed by trying to film it all. Money and time are spent to get everyone there, keep them happy, and produce something worthwhile. In our case, folks drove from Salt Lake City and Seattle to be there. The trip was an opportunity to gather footage not only for the edit, but also whatever film projects come from my whole season of skiing. The stars of making good content align for a brief period, and all of this engenders pressure to perform well.
I’ve driven away from too many shoots feeling like there was more that I could have done, or a trick I should have tried a couple more times, or some other aspect of effort that could have yielded a better product. So in heading to Yurtski, I felt duty bound to drop the hammer as much as conditions and the crew would allow. We found stability in our pits and during the day, communicated well, and managed the avalanche hazards as a group. So with fresh snow, I found myself at the end of our first day wondering about going out for a night ski.
Headlamps are one thing. But fully lighting up the skiing enough to see it well on camera would need a bit more. Tyler provided the perfect solution in a 125 LED array box designed to be mounted the hot shoe of a camera. We rigged it to attach to a tripod, put it atop a selfie stick, and then rigged the whole thing to the back of my helmet with voile straps.
That first night, I toured up and skied a couple laps down to the yurt. The next evening, the whole crew got in the act, and we did some party skiing through a couple neat areas. We all traded the helmet around–here’s KT digging in.
The next day, we woke to clear weather and sendy conditions. Our first lap went fine, and as I was hustling back to the top, a backflip on my mind, when the whole face started to roller ball. It was a bummer, but the warming conditions meant increased stress on the storm snow, and it wasn’t anything to mess with. The day went out with nothing upside down happening. Dinner came and went, and while sitting at the table stuffed with delicious pasta, I realized that it was probably that night or not again on the trip. Thoughts of the moment and regret I’d feel later flashed through, so on went my boots, and I headed out to find a spot. The landing was zipper crust. The transition was so tight that my skis held me in the air while standing in it. The lip would probably hold. And once the jump was built, I came back to the yurt, the filmers rallied, and we headed back out.
On my first hit, I straight aired to give Tyler and Bobby a sense of where the light would be. Once skinned back up, I dropped in and gave the flip a try, only to underrotate, catch my feet in the pow, and flip forward. On their cameras, the light of my lamp disappeared as I rolled only to pop back up. The second try was the same, and I cursed in snow caked frustration.
Because the lamp lit what was ahead of me, it didn’t extend to the uppermost horizon of my vision–the part most important for seeing the snow surface and then reacting to pull my feet forward and land the flip. Both times, I’d seen the snow too late to land and couldn’t make it work in time. Up I went again, got the snow out of my helmet, and did the flip more by feel than by vision. Trees and Bobby were on either side of the runout down to the traverse road, though they’re hard to see in the video.
I was tired before I even left the yurt. The failed attempts had built up the anticipation. All the fear of not really being able to see what was happening each time, being so exposed in the backcountry, and needing to get this done brooded every time I was skinning back up. So when it all came together for the magical moment, and I rode away down onto the traverse, the yell of excitement became the release of all those tensions into the success of notching something cool there in the midnight darkness. Landing something scary always creates this feeling of instantaneous euphoria, because the work is all in the prep and then not thinking while you do it–the riding away is all wonderful afterglow.
And as we skied back towards the yurt with its three sleeping skiers, the excitement of adding another solid shot to the edit kept me awake. But as I lay down in my sleeping back, it was the satisfaction of doing something bizarre and making it work that lulled me off to sleep.
Thanks to Bobby and Tyler for staying up late and freezing while I got it done, and thanks to the rest of the crew for dealing with our clanking when we got back.
Check back soon for the full edit.