Carpe Skiem: Seizing the Gray in Iceland with MSP Films

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Note: This article appears in FREESKIER’s 2016 Resort Guide, Volume 18.2. The issue is available via iTunes Newsstand.

The 20-something Icelandic passport officer’s flowing blonde hair seemed extraordinarily long for a man in his line of work, but he was all business.

“What is the purpose of your trip?” he asked.

“Skiing,” I answered enthusiastically.

Without missing a beat he responded, “In Iceland?” I might have detected a hint of ridicule in there. I couldn’t be sure, but either way, our trip was off to a rather inauspicious start. Skiers have been coming to Iceland for years, and he should have known that. And not just backcounty tourers and heli-skiers. Ski areas are scattered around the island. One in Akureyri holds a freestyle comp that attracts skiers from all over Europe. Pro snowboarder Halldor Helgasson is even from there. But I guess the incredulity really lies in the question, “Why go to Iceland when there are sicker, more accessible skiing options elsewhere?”

Trailer: MSP Films’ “Fade to Winter”

It was easy to ponder that question while sitting indoors on our second day in the northern seaside village of Siglufjörður, watching it relentlessly piss rain and reflecting on our fi rst ski lines of the previous day. While waiting for the rest of our crew to arrive, Markus Eder and Tanner Rainville had hiked up an all but barren mountain rising above town to arc tracks down a few dirty, slithering strips of snow—the remnants of northern Iceland’s meager season. Now, the rain was laying waste to those lower scraps. Spring had sprung, and the two dubbed the country “Slushland.” We could only hope for better conditions above the prominent snowline sitting at roughly 1,000 feet. The problem is, Iceland’s peaks only rise a couple grand above that.

Ordinarily, this would have been a time of stress—when nature takes a sledgehammer to optimistic expectations. Dreams of late-May powder and wrapping up the filming of MSP’s Fade to Winter with a bang were being shattered into tiny pieces. But to be honest, I hadn’t come into the trip expecting much. I don’t think any of us did. Iceland is bucket list material, but not necessarily because of its potential as a ski destination. I could easily visualize featureless terrain; nuking winds; pitiful snow; and gray, stormy days, which do skiers no favors on white landscapes devoid of trees and definition. Flat light and zero features equals skiing by braille.

Instead, the allure of the place was its mystique and natural splendor: Wide open spaces, thunderous waterfalls, wild horses, geothermic hotspots, rugged coastline, beautiful women. Or so we were told to expect. I admit, the thought of getting in a surf session or two had me as excited as the prospect of skiing. Anything we filmed on snow would merely be a bonus.

You might also enjoy: MSP Films’ Fade to Winter premieres in Denver, CO

Maybe it was unfair to have that frame of mind. Because in hindsight, while Iceland’s peaks don’t rival Alaska’s plastered spines nor Norway’s fjord-land majesty, the skiing is legit—if you can time it right. We’d been invited to Iceland by Eleven Experience, a renowned travel and guiding operation, and their Instagram feed showed a crew shredding powder on the highest peaks just a week prior to our arrival, so our hopes for deep snow were alive.

Unfortunately, it’s safe to say our timing was a little off. Things had turned in a hurry. The glory runs plunging down the fl anks of the Troll Peninsula towards the ocean were instead dry, crumbly rock. And the coast—blanketed with golden grasses swaying in the breeze—reminded us more of central California’s shores than a coast mere miles from the Arctic. Regardless, we were in freakin’ Iceland. And we were going to find out what the place had to offer.

The region is a geological marvel: Hawaiian-like, gnarled mountains erupt from the sea, while slightly inland is a vast volcanic wasteland that can really only be likened to Mars. Geothermic activity rules the land, and everywhere you look there is steam rising out of natural fissures and hot creeks tumbling across the mountainscape. Resourceful Icelanders tap into nature’s energy, using the heat to power villages all over the island. Ironically, all that seemed to be missing in Iceland was the ice.

Just as the rest of the crew rolled in—Bobby Brown, PK Hunder and Aaron Blunck—a two-day storm petered out, providing us glimpses of the upper reaches of the surrounding peaks. Decked in a brilliant shade of white, they showed so much promise. We wasted no time loading the bird. There we were, flying above low lying clouds, azure blue waters and mountains not too far off in appearance from those in Alaska or Norway. Three thousand-foot peaks striped with basalt cliff bands appeared in every direction, and though coverage was thin, the place was teeming with potential had it been a bigger snow year. Given the right snowpack, there was no reason skiers couldn’t produce film magic here.

Then, we stepped out of the heli. Crunch. Jumping off the skid into the snow is supposed to sound like poof. All we got was crunch. Crunch. Ugh. One by one, we broke through the thick crust encasing a foot of new snow. It clearly had rained on even the highest summits at the tail-end of the storm, and the entire snowpack was saturated mank with an icy frosting. Only a chilly wind reminded us of winter. With the shaded aspects out of the question, our guides figured the sunny sides would at least be skiable, and we shredded some serious schmoo down to a heli pickup. Ever stoked, Markus smiled, shrugged his shoulders and said, “Still fun!” And that would become the theme of the trip.

Any preconceived notions of skiing rowdy lines, shredding powder, launching cliffs and general sendy-ness had been instantly erased the moment our ski boots broke the plane of crust. Markus philosophized, “The snow isn’t that good. But it’s still snow. So… it’s awesome.” With that attitude, our brains shifted into salvage mode. “What can we make happen? How can we still have fun?” Fortunately, skiing has so many answers. The joy is out there, waiting. It’s not always going to be dished out on a platter. Sometimes you have to go search for it.

And sometimes you have to make it. Take the raw talent of five of the world’s best freeskiers, add a touch of snow, mix it with an anything-goes attitude and good things will happen.

Those good things first manifested themselves in the form of a double-jump setup. With a planar topography comprised of minimal rolls or benches—coupled with the woeful snow conditions—these mountains offered few obvious features. But after a lengthy scout from the air, we saw potential on one peak for a handcrafted booter over a dry ridgeline to a half-decent landing. An immediate right turn would set the skiers up for the second hit: A feature with a small gap to butter pad with an okay—albeit shaded and refreezing—landing.

It was a given with the conditions that the skiers’ A-game was going to be kept in check, but the guys threw down nevertheless, with PK’s cork 7 nose to lazyboy hand drag 3, and Blunck’s cork 3 to switch 3 off the butter pad stealing the show. Doubts and anxieties were swapped for smiles and high fives. Apropos Rolling Stones lyrics floated in my head: You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.

A couple of days later, in an uninhabited valley under otherwise lifeless gray skies, two dozen preteen Icelandic kids on a field trip assembled on a grassy slope and screamed their lungs out as our crew sessioned the arching concrete roof of one of the north island’s many road tunnels. They had spotted us from a distant roadside pullout and then ventured over with four chaperones in tow to take a closer look.

Our skiers—four of them Olympians—had all performed in front of crowds, but never in this outlandish a setting. And while most of the Icelandic-speak was unintelligible, more familiar phrases occasionally rang out. A skier’s crash instantly spurred a fl ood of laughter and a call of “Epic fail!” Then came a chorus of, “Backflip! Backflip! Backflip!” Of course, the youngsters had no idea backflips were the least technical maneuver these guys were capable of, but everyone knows getting inverted always ignites the crowd. Bobby and PK obliged with a backy train, sending the children into an uproar.

The ethereal nature of it all only continued when a couple of days later, under ashen skies again, our Eleven Experience guides—who had assumed the role of camp counselors and bus drivers, shuttling us from one of Iceland’s spectacular natural treasures to the next—announced that the surf was up in a neighboring fjord. We frantically yanked on 6/5 wetsuits in the hotel lobby and drove 15 minutes to a fl awless right point. Sure, in retrospect it was a little soft, but it was also empty and beautiful. A break that would have 50-plus guys on it anywhere else was sitting there, chest high and reeling away, ours for the taking.

We danced with excitement and raced to the water. Eder and Blunck joined Brown and myself in the lineup, and as the clouds broke, we bobbed there in a warm sun shaking our heads, utterly blown away by our location on Earth at that very moment. Reality struck as a set marched in, and Bobby paddled into a solid wave, carved several turns on the glassy face and kicked out way down the line. His unbridled laughter carried over the roar of the waves.

A couple of hours after exiting the water, inside the heli, I could still detect the foreign scent of neoprene as we climbed towards a quarterpipe we had built the previous day, only miles from the surf break. Before long, the guys were launching above Siglufjörður, pulling flawless flat and cork 5s under the spotlight of a low hanging sun. At 10 p.m., we stood atop a peak gazing out at Iceland’s true grandeur. Below our ski tips was a corn run awash in brilliant pink. The gleaming Arctic Ocean sat before us, its rolling waves reflecting the fire of a setting sun that still wouldn’t disappear for another two-and-a-half hours. It was the spectacular culmination of a multi-sport day that definitely did not suck.

Now, I’ve had the great fortune of seeing a lot in this world from a helicopter perch, but this was likely the most foreign heli-skiing experience I’ve ever encountered.

After enduring some form of rain almost every day for two weeks, as our trip neared its end, yet another incoming storm appeared destined to squash any chance of a fulfilling finish. We rolled the dice and fled to the island’s southside, hoping for a single-day window of opportunity. We flew to the shoulder of Eyjafjallajökull (that’s the volcano Walter Mitty struggles to pronounce in his Secret Life and the one that blew in 2010, disrupting European air traffic for weeks).

Now, I’ve had the great fortune of seeing a lot in this world from a helicopter perch, but this was likely the most foreign heli-skiing experience I’ve ever encountered. It was all of the geological splendor of the island’s north side compressed into one sprawling mountain. The contrast of glistening blue ocean; golden and crimson flatlands below us; black volcanic rock; lush canyons split by towering waterfalls and draped in thick, green moss; and, finally, brilliant white snow was both bizarre and beautiful.

But our gamble would pay off as the guys discovered that unlike what we found to the north, the flanks of Eyjafjallajökull offered up a bevy of jump opportunities. The snow—still a mix of firm and slop with little goodness in between—may have toned down everyone’s game a notch or two, but we still seized the moment, sessioning two hastily built step-down booters with absolutely surreal backdrops. As the sun continued its fading line drive trajectory towards the horizon and energies waned, the guys managed to squeeze the most out of the final minutes by playing on a natural wave shaped wind lip while the whitecaps of the North Atlantic danced beyond the shores far below.

It felt a fitting end. We had endured two weeks of horrible snow and were left with a residual hint of “What if?”, but the overriding sensation was one of pure contentment. Iceland had thrilled us, tested us, awed us and teased us, and it gave us every reason to start dreaming about our next journey back. Perhaps Bobby put it best: “This has been one of the most eventful trips I’ve ever been on. A ski trip, but not really. It’s been more of just an adventure. A journey.”

Clearly that passport control officer I met in Reykjavík didn’t have a clue.