Now or Never

"The fact that everything has its time also means that everything needs its time." I know every bush and stone around the Albona in Stuben. My father took me on the ski tour to the Maroikopf when I was a child. And almost every backcountry skier knows the view from up there: the majestic Albonakopf rising in the background. It is unique with its distinctive shape, which reminds me of the steep spines in Alaska. The "Albonaska," as it is also known, does not see many descents due to its technical difficulty and the challenge of catching it in perfect conditions. For me, the technical part is the challenge, the mountain itself a personal interest.

And as far as the conditions are concerned, I have the home advantage of being on the spot and able to act quickly. I spent almost two winters waiting for the ideal snow and weather. I check the weather forecast over and over as I climb to the foot of the Albonakopf. I am here to assess the situation directly on location. It's looking good. The cake does not take long to be taken out. Fluffy, with sprinkles and small chocolate chips. That's the way it has to be. I get lost in my thoughts and discover one or two critical spots with my binoculars. Some rocks are still clearly visible. Another frosting of snow plus the right oven temperature, and the snow will stay. I'm on the phone with Jakob.

For two years, we have been working on a documentary about the Arlberg. We want to produce some lines and landscape shots in the next days. After half an hour on the phone, we set a two-day plan and Jakob hangs up. Somehow it doesn't let go of me, my head is spinning and my gut says: "Now or never!" I call Jakob again and tell him: "Now or never! That's the best we're gonna get the cake baked this winter." Jakob agrees. The plan that has just been drawn up is thrown overboard, and things immediately develop a momentum of their own. The plan is to ski the mountain with Stefan Häusl. It's mid-February, Stefan just got back from Freeride World Tour stops in Japan and Canada.

I call him and tell him about the snow and weather situation of the last two weeks. I urge him: "We have to do it now, Stefan." He agrees without further ado and must trust in my observations and conclusions. He says: "We left exactly on the same day four years ago, that's a good sign." Stefan is a living freeride legend at the Arlberg and already skied two different lines on the Albonakopf. He knows how much effort this mountain requires and is immediately motivated to support my attempt. I pack my sleeping bag, mat, and tent for an icy night at the foot of the Albonakopf. We don't want to leave anything to chance and go early. We meet at the Albona cable car. Everybody's excited. We're just in time for the last ascent.

After the short hike to the Maroikopf, Stefan and I pull out our binoculars. We thoroughly inspect the face. The first beautiful day after the snowfall has passed, it has remained cold, and the fresh snow could settle a little in the sun. I discuss my line and the conditions with Stefan. It is looking good. There's a little nervous grin on our faces. It's going to be a cold night. After we have set up the tent, we cook some hot soup and go to bed early. 5.30 a.m., the alarm clock sounds. It's bitterly cold. We eat a quick snack and have a cup of hot tea. Half an hour later we stand in front of the tent and get ready for the climb. First, we hike along the ridge and then cross into the northern face of the Albonakopf. The north face is very steep.

We fight our way up to the summit in the hip-deep snow with our skis on our backs. Because of the deep snow, it takes us longer than we anticipated. The first rays of the sun squint around the corner and a little bit of warmth slowly spreads through my body. At the summit, I look down for the first time from above into the eastern side of the Albona head. I gulp. It's more impressive than I imagined, and it's still really, really steep. Some faces often look steeper from across the valley than they are; but the Albonakopf is not one of these optical illusions. It's just extremely steep. Stefan and I are preparing for the descent; we want to proceed soon.

He gives me one or two more tips for the exposed drop-in; then he starts the first countdown: "Two more minutes." I'm nervous, and I have to motivate myself. I think of earlier occasions when I was able to do that. I remember how to push away the nervousness and transform it into energy, concentration and flow. "Three, two, one – drop in!" I carefully find my way through the exposed southeast ridge and reach the steep entrance. I'm tense. I must not fall here. There's no room for mistakes. Carefully, I let go a little sluff, slide a meter or two and off I go. Concentrated and self-confident, I point my ski tips straight down and follow the line I memorized the day before. In the corner of my eye, I can see my own spray.

The fast sluff makes me a little nervous. But I am still 100 percent focused and draw my tracks into the untouched slope on this special mountain in my home country. When I arrive at the bottom, I almost explode with relief. After two years of waiting and watching, it was all done in less than a minute. Redemption par excellence. It feels great. This mountain was a tough one. But it was worth it. Just as it always pays off – whether it works out or not.