A jet of fire hisses from the exhaust above the hatch and the turbine of the old MI-8 transport helicopter slowly starts to move. Spurred on by the flight officer's hop-hop-hop calls, we board the aircraft at a run, past the dented external tanks, and squeeze into a row on the two benches inside.
There's actually room for 20 soldiers
but with a large pile of snowboarding and skiing equipment at our feet, the conditions are a little cramped for 17 winter sports enthusiasts. The noise inside is deafening and the helicopter vibrates and shakes. Conversation is impossible and so we only exchange a few meaningful and skeptical glances back and forth. The two pilots and the on-board technician in the cockpit seem to be working through a checklist, because the helicopter sways first to the left and right and then forwards and backwards - at least the steering works. Now a loud sigh goes through the area where the turbine is presumably located and the noise increases to a roar and the vibration to a shake. Anton and Boris, our guides, grin reassuringly and encouragingly at us as our aircraft tilts forward with a sweeping backward swing and then rises into the air.
Two days earlier, we take off from Moscow in the middle of the night with Aeroflot. Our destination is Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan. The lack of snow in the local Alps made the decision to try out a completely different region for snowboarding in Uzbekistan an easy one. Everyone is hungry for fresh powder snow and highly motivated. And the prospect of affordable heli-boarding makes us extremely happy. But our joyful expectations of ploughing up huge, untouched powder slopes, as we hope to find them in the Tienshan Mountains, are already somewhat dampened by the conditions on the plane: a matronly stewardess, who looks more like a strict prison guard, tries to keep order for a while after take-off, but then soon gives up. The predominantly coarse men in black leather jackets simply cannot be dissuaded from searching for the best ringtone at the highest volume on their apparently new cell phones in order to then inform all family members of this with a short but forceful call - naturally with the request to call back immediately so that the colleague four rows further back can also enjoy these digital sounds. Satisfied, some then make their way to the on-board toilet to reward themselves for this technical masterpiece with a cigarette - later it is probably too cramped or too uncomfortable there and they smoke unabashedly in the aisle. Resigned, the flight attendants limit themselves to providing the few seated passengers with a meal, the highlight of which is a slice of gray bread, already bent from age and shrink-wrapped, and a corner of processed cheese.
With these impressions in our heads, noses, mouths and ears, we get through the hours of formalities at the immigration desk - it is now four o'clock in the morning and our desire for powder snow has given way to a longing for a made-up bed. The decrepit bus that is supposed to take us to the hotel still bears the advertisement of a German ski tour operator. The sign in the windshield identifying us as a wrestling group is more than fine with us. At least no one will think of stopping us tonight. After a short night in the hotel, we want to cover the almost sixty-five kilometers to the Tscharwak reservoir at the foot of the mountains, where the helicopter base is located, the very next day. From here, we will set off in search of the Uzbek powder.
Our guide Ramil, who is actually a water management engineer,
is a soul of a man. Not only does he speak perfect English, he also tries to anticipate our every wish and fulfill it immediately. It is his heartfelt wish that the guests from Germany feel at home and take home the best possible picture of Uzbekistan. He uses the drive of several hours into the mountains to introduce us to his country. No matter what the topic, he seems to know everything about it. Whether it's the country's history, culture or economy, Ramil has the facts - including detailed figures. And he is happy to share them with us in detail. Over the next few days, we will learn to prepare ourselves for a longer lecture when the sentence: "Let me just tell you one sentence to this..." rings out over the loudspeaker of our minibus.
The further we get away from Tashkent, the sparser the traffic becomes. The very well-built highway is in complete contrast to the dilapidated factories and industrial plants it passes. The road is also only used by a few isolated trucks and horse-drawn vehicles. Ramil's monologue about the astonishing leaps in modernization and environmental protection achievements of the local chemical industry - he points expansively over an industrial wasteland where dark purple clouds of smoke rise from dilapidated chimneys - is interrupted by one of the many checkpoints. He gives us a compellingly plausible answer as to why heavily armed soldiers are carrying out checks every few kilometers: as Uzbekistan is developing rapidly at the moment, it can be assumed that road traffic will also increase by leaps and bounds. And as road safety is very important to the state, preparations are being made in good time to ensure this. When the time comes... We nod in understanding and watch the donkey cart in front of us as it passes the post at a leisurely walking pace, squeaking softly.
The modern Chorvoq Oromgohi Hotel,
where we are staying for the next few days, consists of three green and white pyramid buildings that have been built on the shore of the lake. They fit into the area about as well as we do with our high-tech snowboarding equipment. A few hundred meters away from the houses is the heli-port from where we will set off every morning on our Tienshan powder adventure. The "Bschem" mountain range, which is located about half an hour's flight to the north-east and borders on Kyrgyzstan, is mainly flown to from here. The dimensions of the mountains are gigantic and the possibilities for descents are inexhaustible. The helicopter can take us up to almost 4500 m and the pick-up points in the valley are usually at 1500-2000 m, so that you cover a considerable number of vertical meters on every descent.
On our first approach to the mountains, we are overwhelmed by the sheer dimensions and wildness of the mountain landscape below us. At first, there are still gentle foothills with sparse birch and mountain pine vegetation and a few small huts and paths that can be made out through the portholes of our transport plane, but the picture quickly changes and steep flanks with rugged ridges and sheer bottomless chasms open up below us. There is no sign of civilization. Instead, more and more adventurous rock and mountain formations pile up in front of us and we spiral ever higher. We fly past sky-high rocky outcrops and peaks that look like table mountains and whose plateaus could accommodate entire small towns. Bright white snow cauldrons, as large as amphitheatres for giants, open up under miles of curving snow ridges and make the shadow of our helicopter on the slopes look like a tiny, scurrying insect.
Suddenly, a jagged black line is drawn across the entire slope
. We know this sight all too well. A huge slab of snow fell here only recently and what we see here is an edge of superlatives. Several meters thick and almost a kilometer wide, millions of tons of snow must have thundered down. The avalanche track runs all the way down the mountain and extends several kilometers out into the valley floor. If someone had got caught in it, even a beeper and a shovel would not have been able to save them. And that's how it looks everywhere here: Avalanche cracks and cones of all sizes as far as the eye can see. Well, this is going to be fun! We have almost reached our destination. The mountain ranges stretch out in all directions as far as the eye can see until they disappear into the haze in the distance. Hopefully the helicopter won't fail now... Suddenly it gets restless in the hold. The guides urge us to hurriedly get our equipment ready and prepare for the exit. A crest approaches and the helicopter's wheels touch the snow. The hatch is opened and a small folding ladder is pushed out. The noise is deafening. Powder snow is flying everywhere and you can't see exactly where you are stepping as we are pushed through the exit with loud shouts of "Buistra, buistra". "Quick, quick! Kneel down, keep your heads down and hold on to your snowboards!" The snow crystals flying around sting your face and everyone who already has their snow goggles on is happy. The noise increases again and the storm of rotor blades gets stronger. The helicopter rises above us like a giant dragonfly, turns to the side and descends into the valley. Then it is silent and we are alone. It feels as if we are the only people within a radius of a thousand kilometers. The view is breathtaking. Under a steel-blue sky, the mountain ridges stretch endlessly towards Kyrgyzstan. If it weren't for the deeply carved valleys and gorges, you might think you were looking at a vast plain. However, the first thing we see is a steep descent. The helicopter is nowhere to be seen, but we know that it will pick us up again almost three thousand meters below.
"Anton is just checking the snow situation...
...and then we'll ski down the steep slope one by one to that crest down there," Boris announces in his Russian-tinged English, "it's good powder!" Now Anton's head pops back up over the edge of the cornice and his grinning, weather-beaten face gives us the OK. "It's safe! Let's go! With a full jump, the first one plunges into the slope and disappears in a swirling cloud. Just a few seconds later, he comes back into view, tiny and low down. But his cheers can be heard all the way up here. One after the other, and when we come together again at the meeting point, everyone is certain: the Uzbek powder snow is the best. The excited descriptions of how dusty it was with every turn and how deep the snow was in this very line outdo each other and the excitement from the helicopter flight has given way to complete enthusiasm. We can hardly wait to continue. "From here on, we all ride together!" We are a little taken aback - after all, it is a basic rule in the Alps to ski alone wherever possible to increase avalanche safety. But the next slope is only moderately steep and so vast that our group of 14 people simply disappears into the distance. This is Uzbekistan and Anton, our avalanche guide, is anything but a daredevil. So I turn the tip of my powder board into the valley and start gliding. The speed increases and the wind starts to rush and rattle my helmet. I accelerate further and the noise becomes a roar. It doesn't get any faster now. I gradually lean into the bend and only realize how fast I'm really going when I feel the pressure on my thighs. The expanse of the surface takes away all your reference points and you lose your sense of speed. It's fantastic. Only a few turns later do I see any sign of my fellow travelers: In the far distance, a piece of red jacket has flashed briefly in a cloud of snow. Otherwise, there's not a soul to be seen. The size of the terrain has simply swallowed up the others. Now it gets a little steeper and I have to concentrate on my line again. An endlessly long snow edge invites you to skim and the ridge behind it to jump. And so it just goes on: powder as far as the eye can see decorated with terrain shapes to let off steam! It's a dream! And far below is the green and white helicopter, our "private lift"...
