Skiing the Gate Keeper of the Valais

My father's youngest brother, Philippe, used to talk about the mountain, usually when the family sat together at Christmas Dinner. He was only eight years old when he spent a remote year at the Beau Soleil boarding school in Switzerland, but he talked about the mountain as if it he'd stared at it for most of his life. He would say: "From my bedroom window in Villars I could see Les Portes du Soleil across the valley, where we used to ski with my class. Towering over the resort was Les Dents du Midi with its several jagged summits, casting its shadow over the valley floor like a gate keeper to the canton du Valais."

I don't know if those were his exact words, but the impression they left on me was that its magnificent presence would comfort him in those lonely nights when he wept for his parents, my grandparents, who were stationed in Belgrade at the time. In 1997, I left the west coast of Canada for Verbier and finally saw it with my own eyes. Its unmistakable peaks greeted me as I drove up the Rhone valley for the first time towards what was soon to become my home and winter playground. Although I would be staring at the opposite side of the mountain for the next seventeen years, the extraordinary sight of this grand peak also cast an impression on me unlike any mountain I'd ever seen.

Now, nearly twenty years later, I'm standing on the summit of the highest tooth-shaped peak on the clearest of days, about to drop into one of its most renowned descents, The Haut Cime. To the south, the Mont Blanc looms high in the sky like a big brother watching over his siblings. To the northwest, the beautiful turquoise Lac Leman shimmers on the valley floor between France and Switzerland. I understand why a gate keeper, if there ever was one, would sit perched atop this tremendous mountain, as it offers the perfect vantage point over the Alps leading into France and Italy. I carefully remove the crampons from my feet and place my skis on the steep slope so as not to loose one.

The adrenaline, still coursing through my veins from the exposed climb we just accomplished, jolts my concentration making me lose grip of my touring boot tongue, designed to stiffen the boot for the descent. Not quick enough to retrieve it, I watch it disappear from view as it rolls over an even steeper part of the slope below. Not more than 48 hours earlier, Ilir Osmani and I had been jamming our three days worth of gear into a lama helicopter for the eight minute flight up to the refuge des Dents du Midi. I had been commissioned to shoot a series of ski/mountaineering photos for a well-known ski brand and required the assistance of the heli to transport all the material we were to shoot over the three-day period.

We touched down beside the unoccupied refuge, which sits on the southeast face of the mountain about a half hour skin from the summit of the reputed Couloir des Dents Jaune. This couloir is one of several steep lines that makes its way down the north face, between the jagged peaks that stretch the length of the mountain. Born and raised in the Val d'Illiez, Ilir had skied the couloir many times. In fact you could practically make out his house from the summit of the couloir. We were essentially in his backyard. After a lazy lunch in the sun we prepped our kit for a sunset photo session in the nearby couloir.

A vibrant blue sky hung over us as we made our way up the gentle slope towards the couloir unveiling the most spectacular of views as we inched higher and higher. As a photographer it was hard to keep focus on the task at hand as every scene merited a shot, but the light was slipping away quickly and we had to get into position. We set up a rappel at the summit of the couloir, not because it was necessary to access it but because it was a fun thing to do. I snapped photos of Ilir as the sun descended towards the horizon, casting a pink hue on the snowy slope below.

From up here we eyed a line that Ilir was eager to ski the next day, but before we returned back to the refuge we skied several hundred meters of the couloir below in the most spectacular light. The next day's mission proved to be as successful as we imagined it would be. A steep funnel-like line, with massive exposure, etching down the north-eastern side of the Haut Cime made for the perfect terrain to capture some thrilling shots. It's hard for a photographer to watch athletes take risks, because they often do when a camera is present, but when shooting with Ilir I never get that feeling.

His calm demeanor was that of a mountain goat, sure of every turn he made, gliding effortlessly through the narrow choke and onto the chalky snow beneath skirting the cliff's edge without thinking twice. Now, back on top of the Haute Cime, I assess that it's better to ski the nearly thousand-meter run with no stiffened boot tongues rather than just one. Gutted by my clumsy fumble that happened only minutes before, I try to compose myself before starting the descent. For me, the first few turns are always the hardest as warmed muscles from the hike up are starting to cool. Compounded by edgy nerves, it's better to get the first turns out of the way sooner than later.

A few years before, I skied the Marenelli with Ilir and had a hard time linking my first few turns. Nerves had gotten the better of me and Ilir had noticed. Standing on the edge of the longest couloir in Europe, Ilir looked me straight in the eyes and said in a stern voice: "Start skiing, Garneau!" I didn't want to hear those words again. Lucky for me my boot tongue had stopped tumbling just a few meters below the blind roll over and I was able to gear up again with relative ease. As we descended in altitude, the southern face softened, transforming into perfect corn snow. My legs quickly warmed with every turn allowing the skis to slide through the moist spring snow like knives through hot butter.

Having anticipated this moment since hearing about the mountain from my uncle and seeing it with my own eyes, I couldn't have been more pleased with my first session on Les Dents du Midi.