Tunnel Vision

This story starts like any other trip to Alaska. I am a professional backcountry ski photographer, chasing perfect spines, cold smoke powder and clean lines across some of the biggest terrain on earth. This time, I am here with my good friend and favourite skier, Simon Hillis. We have been invited back, to a place that has become more than just another destination. Last season, we spent two unforgettable weeks here, exploring endless mountains and documenting some of the best skiing we had experienced. We left with images that ended up on eleven magazine covers, lasting memories and the feeling that Alaska had set a new standard for a ski trip. When the opportunity came to return, there was no hesitation.

We packed our gear imagining the steep faces we wanted to revisit and new lines waiting beyond them. The formula was simple. Go back, find good snow and create something even better than last year. We thought we knew what this trip would look like. We could not have been more wrong.

We arrive in Cordova on a stormy Saturday. Heavy rain. Thick fog. The ocean surface broken by endless drops. It is not the Alaska you picture when you think about skiing, but it has its own beauty. Cordova is a quiet fishing town, and Points North Heli-Adventures’ lodge sits at the edge of the ocean. Remote, calm, familiar. Down days here are not the worst. We settle into a rhythm. Ping pong. Coffee. Sauna. Ocean dips. Long dinners. Stories from last season. Sleep. Wake up. Check the forecast. Repeat. Except the forecast never changes. Rain. Fog. Storm.

Then Tuesday brings a small break. A few hours, maybe. We return to the mountains, back to the terrain we came for. Steep faces emerge from the white. For a moment, everything feels right again. But the snowpack is fragile. Avalanche danger is high. Natural slides release around us. The margin gets thin. After four hours, the call is made. Abort.

The storm settles in again. Days pass watching rain hit the ocean, while the mountains remain untouched and out of reach. Frustration builds. One afternoon, we scroll through last year’s images. Perfect powder. Bluebird skies. Then we stop on a forgotten set of photos from Sheridan Glacier. No pressure. No expectations. Just exploration. We look at each other. Maybe we have been looking in the wrong direction all along.

The next day, we drive thirty minutes out of Cordova. Rain taps against the windshield as fog drifts through the valley. A short hike brings us to the glacier. Massive, ancient, and alive. Broken ice lit with deep blues. Cracks, folds and textures shaped over centuries. We spend the day walking, scouting and looking. There is no pressure anymore. Just curiosity.

By the time we return to the lodge, we have a plan. The next morning, nothing has changed except our perspective. We stop chasing ski lines and start following shapes. The glacier reveals itself. Ice tunnels. Narrow corridors. Deep blue pockets glowing from within. Then we find it. A giant iceberg with a perfectly round hole carved through the middle. Simon laughs. Climbs up with his ice axe and airs straight through it. We look at the back of the camera in silence. The image feels unlike anything we have ever created. That is when everything changes. We stop asking what we came to shoot and start asking what is possible.

For hours, we roam without a plan. Every corner reveals another feature. Walls. Caves. Tunnels. The glacier keeps opening up. We move on instinct, like kids exploring for the first time. I stop thinking about the perfect shot and react to what is in front of me. Simon moves with complete confidence, perfectly in tune with the terrain. Then, we find an ice cave hidden deep inside the glacier. Blue ice surrounds us. Above, a steep opening drops into the cave like a frozen funnel. Simon climbs into position. He edges in, jump turns into the cave, and I press the shutter. I know instantly.

The image does not look like skiing. It looks like something else entirely. We came to Alaska expecting steep spines, perfect powder and familiar success. Instead, storms forced us to let go of that idea. The weather was never the real obstacle. Our expectations were. Tunnel vision.

Once we stopped trying to recreate the past, we began to see what was right in front of us. The glacier did not give us what we came for. It gave us something far better: unexpected, impossible to plan, and unlike anything we had ever seen.