Outer Edge Magazine

Heliskiing in the most militarised area on the planet can be both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

The rotor wash attacks any exposed skin as the helicopter lifts off and rolls into the valley searching for lower and thicker air. My altimeter reads 4080 metres and my lungs feel it as our Kiwi guide, Whitey, scouts for an aspect with preserved snow for us to ski. The ridge to the south catches morning light and hurls toward us jagged, purple shadows from the steep spines and gullies that wrack the face. Across the valley to the north, the Himalayas rear up, thrusting Nanga Parbat to 8,126 metres. Three ridges to the west lies Pakistan.

Buckled and cinched, we push off down a pastel blue sliver of snow, not yet fully in the sun, still cold and untouched. We ski shin-deep powder in pitches, our contrails lingering in the breathless air. We descend 800 metres, dancing with our shadows as they duck and weave in unison to our effortless turns. On the flats we stamp out a landing and our pilot, Jason Laing, swoops in to whisk us back up again. My headphones crackle and through the static he asks: “Where do to you want to go?”
I point to a cirque further south and the helicopter banks toward it. “Not sure if we have skied in there yet,” he replies. It seems we may be the first.

This is heliskiing at it’s best and the intriguing territory of Kashmir in a way few may have ever seen it. Myself and photographer, Blake Jorgenson, along with Salomon Freeski athletes, Chris Rubens and Tristan Knoertzer, had come to Kashmir with the intention of heliskiing in the most militarised region on the planet. Any trip dependant on weather and conditions requires a group to check their plans at the door, but when a healthy dose of dependence on the Defence Department for flight clearance is added to the mix, we had no idea what to expect or hope for. Despite being my third trip to Kashmir in three years, one might think I had some idea of what lay ahead, but there were still plenty of unanswered questions, not to mention a few still unasked. As was the case in my previous adventures, the skiing inevitably played second fiddle to the chaos that punctuated the long, dreamy, alpine ski descents. Either way, it was guaranteed to be memorable.

We touched down in Srinagar and wrestled our way through a throng of eager porters and touts before locating our driver. Outside the airport we were greeted by innumerable military bunkers adorned with razor wire and a venerable display of weaponry. Our driver chain-smoked as he navigated the outskirts of the city where soldiers milled about busy bazaars, while people went about their daily business. With the Pir Panjal Range as our compass, the city eventually gave way to terraced rice paddies and orchards with increasingly more snow as we gained elevation. By the roadside, groups of children played cricket while old men sat placidly in clusters smoking hookahs, warming their hands in wicker and clay baskets filled with coals.

Once famed for its hospitality, mild climate and sublime landscape, Kashmir was a mecca for well-to-do gentry in the early 1900s. The ornately carved houseboats on the idyllic Dal Lake had attracted the likes of George Harrison in the 1960s and our destination, Gulmarg—meaning meadow of flowers—sports a long history of alpine pursuits along with an 18-hole golf course. Described as a “paradise on Earth” by the Mughal Emperor Jehangir in the 17th century, Kashmir spiralled into turmoil following the partitioning of India and Pakistan in 1947, when both nations lay claim to the disputed territory. Tensions came to a head in 1989 with a violent militant insurgency that lasted a decade and by proxy sent Pakistan and India to the brink of Nuclear war, garnering Kashmir the unsavoury title of the “most dangerous place in the world” by Bill Clinton in 1999. The conflict essentially shut Kashmir’s doors to foreigners.

Since then, the violence has largely subsided and with the installation of the Gulmarg gondola in 2005, a steady stream of foreigners have been returning, lured by powder snow and a unique cultural experience. An attraction in its own right, the gondola reaches 3950 metres, making it the highest skiable gondola in the world. From the top there are boundless options for skiers and snowboarders, and beyond that, infinitely more. Until now, said “beyond” has been the realm of dedicated backcountry ski tourers, but with the advent of Gulmarg Heliski, we were to be spared a whole lot of sweat and oxygen depravation.

Our magic-carpet-ride was to be a brand new B3 “Squirrel” Eurocopter—the Ferrari of helicopters. It sat parked on the golf course out front of the Gulmarg Heliski office and was in stark contrast to the spluttering jeep with bald tyres and one snow-chain we had just climbed out of. A gaggle of Kashmiris, Kiwis and Indians were in the midst of digging out the helicopter skids when we arrived ready to go skiing. Without a hangar to house the machine, it had frozen solid during the storm that had just deposited over 20 cms of fresh snow.

Comically, a grizzled Indian security guard stood with a hair dryer defrosting the tail rotor. We weren’t going skiing anytime soon.

Billa Bakshi, the Kashmiri director of Gulmarg Heliski greeted us beatifically, obviously beaming at having succeeded in getting the company off the ground after trying for six years. He barked an order at a Kashmiri shovelling snow, who promptly departed only to return with a thermos of aromatic Kashmiri kahwah tea. Brash, charismatic and not altogether as pious as most Kashmiris, Billa has carved for himself an unlikely livelihood in Gulmarg. A skier’s skier and entrepreneur, he went against his family’s wish that he graduate university and work in the United Arab Emirates to ski instead. With the development of the gondola and the opportunity it presented, Billa went into partnership with Martin Jones from New Zealand and together they started Gulmarg Powderguides, a ski shop and guiding service. In 2010 they prevailed in their attempt to launch Gulmarg Heliski.

“You can’t believe the bureaucracy in India, not to mention that most people behind a department desk in Srinagar or New Delhi have no idea what skiing is, let alone helicopter skiing. Getting permission from the Defence Department was a whole other story,” explains Billa as the helicopter finally begins to start-up. And with that, we are off.

Given the late start, we manage three incredible runs high in the alpine, pushing the capabilities of the helicopter. “If we were going any higher we would have to split the group and lift you in two loads. The air is just too thin at these altitudes,” Jason had explained as he adjusted his nasal tube connected to an oxygen tank behind the seat.

The weather moves in that evening and the forecast predicts snow. Lots of snow. While sharing a Kashmiri feast of rice, lamb, chicken, vegetables and yet more tea with the Gulmarg Heliski crew, we quiz them on the trials and tribulations of flying and skiing in such close proximity to the Line of Control (LOC)—the defacto border between India and Pakistan. At this Jason chuckles and recalls how earlier in the season they were doing a reconnaissance flight, exploring terrain for ski runs and landing zones, when the control tower in Srinagar abruptly ordered them immediately back to home base. Upon landing they were escorted the few kilometres up the road to the “High Altitude Warfare School” where the commanding officer proceeded to enlighten them to the fact that they had flown too close to the LOC. It was strictly forbidden, but nothing a few whiskeys and games of pool in the barracks couldn’t resolve. It was perhaps one of those questions better left unasked, but they assure us they know the boundaries now.

The following morning we wake to 30cms of snow blanketing the village. The clouds hang heavy and dense along the Apherwat ridge, the guardian of any spoils the day might offer. Drinking tea in the Kiwi Hut while the Indian engineers clear equally as much sleep from their eyes as ice from the helicopter, Billa points effervescently towards the north. He describes steep tree glades just out of reach from the gondola and perhaps Gulmarg’s best kept secret. With cold temperatures and this much snow in the village, we can only imagine what awaits us higher.

Following more tea, Jason shuffles through the door, announcing we may have a weather window and he is willing to try. With over 4000 hours flying in the New Zealand Alps heliskiing and “Middle Earth” working with Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings, he is good to his word. While the clouds continued to swirl, we lift off and hug the tree line before hooking up a faint ridge with enough visibility to spot a safe landing. He stuffs the heli into the snow up to its nose and orders us out. We don’t know if we will see him again today.

The clouds fold in again, leaving us to our own devices, albeit at the summit of what looks to be a tree run like nothing we had skied before. Deciduous paperbark trees fall away below us, forming perfectly spaced chutes that demarcate fall-line powder shots. Gnarled birch branches arch in both graceful and grotesque curves beckoning us down. Completely prepared for what we were about to ski, but less so beyond that, we plunge down. Cold, fluffy powder explodes around us with every turn. Flakes large as down feathers tip and sway as we cascade through them.

Half-way down we regroup. Chris’ beard is caked with snow and Tristan simply shakes his head in amazement. Despite our heavy breaths, we collectively pick up the sound of a faint calling. Like a pungent smell from next door, or a cold draft, the midday call to prayer from the local mosque has sought us out. The experience is surreal standing in the forest while more virgin flakes waft silently down, filling in our tracks.

Once the faithful have been summoned, we consider our options. It is snowing too hard to expect a heli pick-up. This then would be our only run of the day so we decide to ski the broad finger we are on all the way to the meadows below, rather than traverse early back towards the gondola and village. Somewhere below us is the military base where we should be able order a jeep to escort us back to Gulmarg. With a consensus reached, we barrel onwards, slashing turns through the trees, revelling the entire way down.

An hour later as we breach the fog, the camp comes into view. As we approach, a military lorry slowly exits the gates, humping the deep ice ruts in the road. Chris motions to a round faced Nepali soldier and proceeds to unlatch the tailgate. The soldier doesn’t seem to mind and in the next instant we are bouncing off the khaki canvas canopy completely intoxicated by the sensory overload.

It continues to snow for two days and with the gondola closed we explore the possibilities below Gulmarg. We drop into light, perfect snow, moving through majestic old growth forests before following the river into the agrarian village of Drang, where dozens of children run out to greet us. They stand on our skis and clutch our waists as we skate along walking paths, shrieking with delight when they fall off. A kind-faced man wearing a traditional plaid grey pheran cloak invites us into his home for tea before we thumb a jeep back to Gulmarg.

Over a local brew—Kingfisher Strong—we spend the evening exchanging stories of various escapades both on and off the snow with other travellers from near and far. After more than a week in Gulmarg our group can’t help but liken it to The Beach. People seem stumble upon it through a recommendation by a friend-of-a-friend, an article they read, an uncle who drove a Kombi through here in the 1970s on the Hippie Trail. It is an eclectic mix of skiers and snowboarders, some Russian capitalists, other ex-pats working in Dubai or the IT hubs in India, plenty of Australians and they all congregate to educate the local people on freeride and fun. Not to mention the itinerant ski bums looking for the next untapped locale where you can still buy beer, which is where we most likely fit in. It is an obtuse place where the liftie slings an AK-47 and the locals ski on a golf course in faded hand-me-down jackets and dated skinny skis. Not dissimilar to The Beach it feels like the end of the world, a skiers utopia, and despite a benign military presence, a largely hedonistic scene.

After a down day to digest all that we have encountered, the weather graciously takes respite from snowing long enough to grant us access once again to the paper trees where we indulge in the 70cms of snow that has accumulated during the storm. We wade waist deep through the trees, popping off snow mushrooms and pillows before all vision disappears as we touch down again in an eruption of white. Both the skiing and the chaos that rushes smiling at us when we make it back to town a blur.

Watching the thrum of the city from the deck of our houseboat on Dal Lake before we depart the following day, we muse on the incredible serendipity we have had, not to mention the quality of the skiing. We might have hoped for more clear weather to explore the vast alpine that we only glimpsed, but that would have come at the expense of some of the best tree skiing any of us have ever done. The trip had exceeded everyone’s expectations as any trip does when you ask nothing more of it than to take you for a ride. The only question now was, when are we coming back?

Story: Anthony Bonello
Images: Blake Jorgenson