Freeski mountaineering in Mongolia

It was mid-May 2013 and halfway through our expedition to the Tavan Bogd massif in Mongolia. It was storming and snowing, and we felt we had lost all contact with the outside world. It was colder, windier and icier than we had feared, but on a clear day the area was more impressive and expansive than expected, mostly under an endlessly bright blue sky.

We had come to this remote corner of the Altai Mountains to ski exciting lines and take in a few of the 4,000-metre peaks along the way. Melissa Presslaber, one of Austria's best big mountain freeriders, had the idea for this trip to Mongolia and put together a team of similarly ambitious ski mountaineers. Liz Kristoferitsch is Austria's most successful freeride snowboarder, Michi Mayrhofer is a busy contest rider, photographer Zlu Haller is a bouldering legend from Innsbruck, Tom Andrillon is an experienced filmmaker from France and I, Stephan Skrobar, run a Freeride Center in Austria.

The preparation took time, money and nerves; and yet it was part of the whole experience. We had to organize visas and border permits, brush up on vaccinations, beg sponsors, repeat rescue methods and ultimately put our equipment in bags that wouldn't drive airlines and their staff into a rage. Unfortunately, we failed miserably at the latter.

The final logistical steps were taken in Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia. Mongolia Expeditions was our partner for transportation and catering on the one hand, and for the all-important contact with the local culture and philosophy of life on the other.

Our first exploration destination was at the end of a long trail over the Potanin. Mongolia, China and Russia share the border at the summit of Nairamdal and that is the most spectacular thing about the mountain. Perhaps the view is also impressive. China on the left, Russia on the right, that was really cool.

It was time to tackle our actual intention, which was downhill-oriented freeski mountaineering, i.e. searching the mountains for interesting gullies and impressive slopes. We started with obvious yet fascinating colouirs on Burgit, the mountain opposite the base camp. We continued on the Naran, a playful, almost four-thousand-meter peak that stands between the two large glaciers Potanin and Alexander. Sometimes we were on our own, sometimes in small teams. This increased the certainty of being far away from any civilization and possible help, and intensified the need for maximum concentration and the general experience.

After a week, two snowstorms hammered through base camp. We practiced crisis management, discussed weather forecasts, moved our camp to a hardy ger - a traditional Mongolian tent, played cards or hid in our sleeping bags.

When the clouds had cleared, it had become even colder, the snow cover higher and unpleasantly transformed by the wind. We stoically made our tracks on the huge north-facing slopes, which looked impressive but were a far cry from classic soul skiing. On the last day, we finally peeled ourselves out of our tents early to ski the impressive Khuiten North East Face. Khuiten is the highest mountain in Mongolia, and the report promised cold, windy but precipitation-free weather. This was not the case. When we reached the summit ridge after seven hours, a snowstorm blew the summit and descent fantasies out of our faces. We did what is generally considered "sensible" and turned back, even if it was frustratingly painful at that moment.

We returned to base camp and subsequently to Olgii with ambivalent feelings of unsuccessfulness. But of course it wasn't a failure. It was an incredible adventure in a great country.