A Better Kind of Rhythm

I really despise German "Schlager" songs, folk music, and après tunes. The reason might be those road trips I took with my parents as a kid in the 1980s. They would torture me with this kind of music all day long when we traveled to the mountains in our old VW Beetle with its really bad stereo. I haven't contacted a psychologist yet, but I believe this early-childhood trauma is the reason I avoid many Austrian ski resorts and their party huts playing exactly this kind of music. I always try to avoid these acoustic torture chambers. Even in the Montafon ski resorts. At least that's what I always thought. But I did not have a choice. Who's to blame? My old freeride buddy Akki Bruchhausen and the weather forecast for the Alps...

It was a chilly night in February. Kilian Kimmeskamp and I were on the Autobahn to Bregenz in my aged and jam-packed van. Near Bludenz, the light snowfall turned into a blizzard, similar to an explosion in a down pillow factory. We immediately understood why the Montafon region is said to be a natural geographic barrier: weather fronts approaching from the northwest are always stopped by the Vorarlberg mountains. We experienced first hand how effectively this powder blockade works when we drove up to the small village of St. Gallenkirch, located on 900 meters: no chains, no chance. The path to the small wooden house that Akki had rented was covered knee-deep with dry, cold, and fresh snow.

We must have looked like a group of Santas when we finally knocked on the cabin's door after midnight. Akki seemed pretty pooped when he opened the door, obviously having indulged in the après action with its bad music and bar flirts during his first two days testing the ski resort. I expected the worst. Outside, the skies supplied more and more of the wonderful white material. The next morning was bitter cold, and the trees surrounding us bowed under the weight of the massive amounts of new snow. We didn't have time for breakfast, a quick vending machine coffee at the base station of the Gaschurn gondola had to do the job.

While we rode up to the top, the morning sun melted the remaining clouds and opened the views onto the massively snow-covered mountains. I also forgot about my nightmares involving DJs, pop songs, and live polka or folk music. Reaching Versettla on 2,010 meters, we were presented two entirely different scenarios: to my right, a giant Austrian mountain lodge with loud patio music confirmed all my preconceptions; but to my left, I saw pure natural beauty, making every freerider's heart go faster. All we could see to the southeast was white summits and no people at all.

Directly next to the Silvretta Nova ski resort and starting at the 2,247-meter Burg peak is a crescent mountainside perfect for skinning across her ridges and slopes all the way to 2,466-meter Madrisella. This entire area offers a variety of west to north-facing lines. To get used to the powder, we first made use of the lifts to take some warm-up runs. Then we put the skins on our skis and escaped the ski resort. The bowl-like area around Madrisella was more than sufficient for our first two days. Long turns in dusty powder, followed by a steep and deep couloir with a barely visible drop-in, and finally the Madrisella summit with a choice of three marvelous runs.

We first chose the line directly below the summit, a wide, fairly steep slope leading into several adjoining gullies and passages, and finally ending at the main lift hub of the resort after another short traverse across a plateau and along a mountain creek. After hiking back to the summit, we decided to ski a steep slope on the north face, which we entered through pretty exposed terrain directly behind the summit cross. For our third run down Madrisella, we skied a few turns to the southeast, put the skins back on and hiked to 2,390-meter Matschuner Joch, setting foot onto another long mountain ridge.

Up there, we realized that all of our previous runs were just foreplay compared with what this area had to offer: gigantic, untouched terrain with countless ascents and lines to choose from. To the east, we could see from the Bieler Höhe all the way to Piz Buin; massive peaks dominated the space between us and the Austrian-Swiss border to the south. We were almost intimidated by the unexpected vastness; maybe that was the reason we decided to settle with roughly 2,700-meter Heimspitze. An hour and a half later we sat at Heimspitze's summit cross, snacking on bread, cheese, water, and a large serving of humility.

With the afternoon's golden hour, we started our home run. 1,400 vertical meters with everything the Montafon has to offer: rocky terrain, huge and fairly steep couloirs, narrow channels, tree runs, and a winding logging road taking us to the small road from Gargellen, which would eventually take us to bus stop. Public transport did not disappoint us; soon we sat in a bright yellow bus taking us back to civilization. Conclusion: What first seemed like a trip to the epicenter of bad music turned out to be a trip to the epicenter of epic powder. Instead of drowning in crowds and being tortured by never-ending après action, I enjoyed secluded backcountry hikes, deeply snow-covered off-piste slopes, and unexpectedly vast Alpine terrain.

I became a true fan of the Montafon mountains and their rhythm, and I will become a regular visitor. But this won't change my feelings about après music...