Words and photography by Julius Bauer for Bataleon Snowboards
Davos, Klosters. 7 A.M. I look out the window at Parsenn and Gotschna. On the other side, Jakobshorn looms in the distance. It’s been five years since I last snowboarded and seven years since I was last in Davos. Who came up with this idea, anyway? The brief was to “find rolling hills”—for what exactly, I’m still not sure.
It dumped snow all night; it’s cold, but the sun is shining. I’m crammed into a red rental car, squeezed between four pro snowboarders. Someone left their boots in the car overnight, and now the whole thing reeks. The culprit remains unnamed—maybe it’s the writer of this text, maybe not.
There’s a discussion going on in the backseat about Alaska: how to tackle it, how much the heli costs (a fortune), which faces to ride, and which videos should be studied before heading there. Jon Oluffson’s name gets tossed around.
Meanwhile, I spent the previous night setting up my bindings wrong. Apparently, the stance is supposed to be 15-15. We get out of the car, and Ryan stands in front of the group. “Pieps check,” he says. One by one, we pass through the safety check. I silently pray to whichever god I believe in, because I have no idea if my avalanche transceiver is on send or receive. I guess receive, which is definitely not a good look in front of ten pros, especially when I’m supposed to be the guide. It beeps as I walk through, and I exhale in relief.
Takeoff from Lisbon. The plane shakes in the downwind, and the city looks miserable below—low clouds, rain, a gloomy start to my journey toward the snow-covered Alps. Switzerland is the goal, with a quick stop at home along the way. I meet my childhood friend, Ole Pavel, to film and shoot photos. Europe’s winter had returned from a long sleep, and we caught the best of it. After a brief stop in Switzerland, we head to Innsbruck. That’s when Ryan calls, asking if I want to join the Bataleon Team Week in Davos. I say yes.
The next day, we meet at Nordkette, where I get to know part of the crew. My first introduction to shooting snowboarding: having a shovel in your hand 90% of the time seems to be the norm. 5% is spent riding, and the other 5% (which can increase depending on the mood) is spent scouting for spots. The standard for a jump’s height is measured in “diggles’—Ryan Scardigli’s height equals one diggle, and big jumps are two diggles high. It’s an internationally accepted system.
Davos, known as the highest city in Europe, serves as the backdrop for the remarkable novel The Magic Mountain (Der Zauberberg) by Thomas Mann (which I highly recommend). It’s also home to the World Economic Forum, held at a golden, egg-shaped hotel just outside of town, and has long been a favourite ski destination of the English Crown. Usually underrated, especially right now, as I look out the window at 6:30 in the morning, watching the sun slowly rise and bathe the valley in golden light. The breakfast buffet is an amusing sight—300 Biodeutsche, mixed with the occasional snowboarder, all rushing to put together a lunch package. In the lobby, the crew gathers. All backcountry experts, and then there’s me, their guide, scanning the map for rolling hills.
Looking out of the gondola, we realise we might be in for one of the best days of the season. For once, the forecast is right, my surfer brain thinks. We reach the first hill right off the Rhätische Bahn, and the crew tears into it, leaving deep tracks in some of the best snow I’ve ever seen. Laughter echoes like the joy of childhood. I almost fall backward trying to strap in but manage to keep my composure. Note to self: when shooting snowboarding, always use a backpack that opens from the back—cold fingers and stubborn zippers are a terrible mix.
After a few warm-up runs, we head for the zone. We take an old T-bar lift, which stirs up a rush of nostalgia. It feels like we’re in a remote corner of the resort, far from the main pistes crowded with bright outerwear. Yet, we’ve only taken a single left turn. As we’re pulled up, I think about being a kid, tucked between my parents’ knees, and how much the place has changed since then.
The lift shack snaps me out of my daydream—a small wooden outpost perched against the sky. It must be the best office in the world. We start hiking along the ridge, the view opens up, and the Swiss Alps stretch out endlessly before us. Below, there are spines loaded with snow—too dangerous to ride, but full of promise. Snowboarding is turning out to be more work than I expected. I briefly consider quitting smoking for the third time but drop the idea as we reach the plateau. Stepping up the last hill, I hear a flute playing. Is it Hace? It’s not Hace. Danny, Bataleon’s art director, is standing at the top, playing a tune for the mountains. We listen for a moment, then set off.
The zone below is our playground. Here I find myself in the perfect spot to almost get wiped out by someone flying out of a nose butter. I’m covered in snow, gear soaked. Shivering a little, I laugh it off, hands numb.
We scout every corner and lay down our tracks. Plans for tomorrow are drawn up. Then, it’s time to get the crew airborne. We build a jump for hours, only for a Swiss ski instructor to show up, trying to march his entire group through the landing. Trust a Swiss ski teacher to not understand why a landing needs to stay untouched. The landing gets wrecked anyway—frontflips, spins, head upside down, nose grabs, tail grabs—the usual.
Pro snowboarders are a breed apart. Cold and fatigue don’t seem to register with them. And their sense of risk is… different. Toshki launches into the air, light as a bird. He makes it look effortless. Roly has another agenda. Still bruised from a heavy crash the week before, he hikes up the hill like a mountain goat, next to the kicker. Drawing an amazing line on his way down, I turn around just in time to snap a picture of his turn. As the day ends, I accidentally lead them down the wrong side of the hill. It’s all ice and shadow, while the other side is drenched in sun and fresh powder. They don’t notice, and I’m not going to mention it. We found rolling hills, and that’s all that matters.
We ride at dawn the next day. More crawling than rising. I see sandals at breakfast. In winter. Ryan has caught something and doesn’t feel right. The agenda for today: check out the rolling hills we marked yesterday, build a kicker, and rotate over it. Sounds easy, but just remember the math from earlier. Conditions are the same as yesterday—dry snow. We arrive on the mountain. Ryan needs to lie down, so we leave him in a restaurant. The zone becomes our home, this place full of low-hanging fruit—our Garden of Eden. We find a beautiful wedge, and Toshki lays down a perfect turn, hanging horizontal mid-air, followed by a massive spray. He almost crashes into a rock after hitting an icy patch during the turn. It reminds me of surfing. Roly, the mountain goat mentioned earlier, basically hikes all day. Occasionally, I hear someone screaming, “Drop!” through the walkie-talkie. I look up and wonder how the hell he got up there with a broken rib.
Meanwhile, I’m shuffling again. The aforementioned rolling hills have been found and are now redesigned. I’m learning all about making snow blocks. Ethan is the lead architect of this monumental project, one diggle high.
Ryan, who is back on his feet, shouts every trick name to me. Apparently, there’s a no-grab zone on the board, and a cork means spinning sideways. I like tail grabs. Ethan has a good one. I snap a picture. We spend the entire afternoon spinning, flipping, with me pressing the shutter. Tomorrow is an off day. It’s fogged out, and temperatures are rising; the snow will be wet and baked. Exhausted but satisfied, the crew rolls down the hill. At the hotel, a fondue is waiting. I overeat and will have to face the lactose overdose the next day.
Since this is Wasted Talent, I should mention that Aperol Spritz was the drink of choice. There was plenty of it, judging by the bill. Rumours flew about a G8 Summit stirring up trouble in the local bars late at night, in the name of international understanding and cooperation. There was even a semi-illegal attempt to tap the hotel’s kegs after hours. Word is it was successful. Very successful, judging by the state of breakfast the next day.
