Seeking Simplicity

My fingers are numb from the cold, aching as if the frost is seeping into my bones. The sun is almost gone now, a thin sliver of light stretching long shadows across the snow. The temperature is falling fast; each breath feels sharp in my chest. A cold wind nips at my face, a reminder not to ignore the signals. Step by step, I move forward, slow and deliberate – not from fear, but from respect for what lies ahead. The snow crunches under my boots, the only sound in the stillness. Then I see it: a cornice, curling over the edge, at once beautiful and dangerous. Beneath it, the drop fades into nothingness. I pause, my boot hovering over the snow. The radio crackles: “Stop there! Don’t go any further!” I don’t respond. I’m already where I need to be.

The last light spills over the Chugach Mountains. The wind rises. For a moment, I know: this is the right spot, the right time. Almost unreal. Alaska had been in my head for over a decade. There is no place like this. Snow clings to impossibly steep faces, creating lines that would be unskiable anywhere else. The mountains are massive, the snow quality unmatched, and some of skiing’s most iconic images have been captured here. They call it the “proving ground” for a reason. Access is tough; reaching the heart of the terrain on skis takes patience, strength, and time. But once you’re in, it’s all yours. This was the dream. That dream came a few months ago via an unexpected invitation to stay at a remote lodge in Cordova, Alaska.

I called my friend Simon Hillis, a professional skier from British Columbia. For both of us, it felt bigger than just a trip. Days later, we were standing on the deck of the lodge, above a silver fjord that spread toward the Pacific. Behind us, wilderness stretched in every direction, the Chugach Mountains rising so close we could almost touch them. Cordova isn’t a place you stumble upon; there’s no road access. You fly in – or you don’t come. The first days slipped by in a haze of weather and waiting. Storms rolled in from the ocean, the wind rattled the windows, rain drummed the roof before turning to snow. We passed the time with ping pong, gear checks and endless glances at the sky. On the fifth day, a window opened. We climbed through dense forest, then broke into the open: glaciers like frozen

rivers, cliffs dropping into shadow, spines and pillows stacked in every direction. Untouched lines; miles of them. Eighty inches of snow had fallen – dry, light, bottomless powder. That first day, we played it safe, riding lower-angle slopes to get a feel for the snow conditions. It was effortless – each turn throwing up cold smoke that hung in the air. The photos already felt special, but more importantly, we were learning: where the wind had loaded, where the sun might crust, what this place could give – and take. Then the weather moved in again. More hours in the lodge. More planning, imagining lines on maps, watching the mountains vanish and reappear through shifting clouds. When conditions finally allowed, we were ready.

Everything was close – just behind the lodge. The terrain felt dreamlike in its immediacy. We skied spines, dropped pillows, floated through untouched powder glowing in low light. Every run ended with quiet disbelief. Then came the ridge. High above the world, the cornice beneath my boots curled into the void. Beyond it were the spines I had dreamed about – steep, pristine, like they’d been waiting for us. Simon was in position, reading the terrain. I raised my camera, breath fogging the viewfinder, hands trembling. Months of planning had led here. Then his voice: “I don’t feel good about it. It’s getting late. I’m not sure about the snowpack.” In an instant, the dream line

was gone. We turned back without a word, the disappointment between us obvious. We descended to a glacier plateau. My eyes caught another face – smaller, quieter. A clean slope of windblown powder, shaped into a perfect hourglass where light and shadow met. No spines, no cornice. Just form and simplicity. Simon saw it too. Ten minutes later, we stood at the top. He dropped. Snowflakes hung like stardust in his wake. Click. I took the shot. Not the biggest line. Not the steepest. Not the most dangerous. But the kind of moment that captures why we chase this madness at all. Not for the glory. Not for the risk. But for simplicity.