The Mountain Sets the Tone

They say the mountains don’t care about your plans — and maybe that’s why I keep coming back. They force you to be present, to adjust, to be vigilant and to earn every meter. Backcountry skiing is as much about reading the landscape as it is about reading yourself, your limits, your judgment, and your trust in the person beside you.

And for me, that person is often my dad.

We’ve skied together for years, from groomers to glades, from icy crashes on short rental skis to those quiet, surreal moments when you stand at 3.000 meters and no one else is around. Backcountry days like this one aren’t just adventures; they have been bonding rituals. No small talk. Just shared effort, shared views, shared silence.

Throw in a camera, some clunky touring bindings, and a snowpack that demands respect (more on that later), and this trip to Ischgl became something more than just another ski day. It was about figuring things out on the go, earning the descents, and embracing the unpredictability. On groomed slopes, you know what’s coming. Out here, every turn is a question mark.

This is the story of one such day. Half ski tour, half photoshoot. All memory.

Planning for the Backcountry: Snow, Safety, and Sony

Like I said, this wasn’t your classic “clip in and go” ski day. No lift queues, no slope maps, no midday schnitzel stop in a cozy hut. Backcountry skiing begins the night before, or even earlier — checking snowpack bulletins and weather forecasts, talking things through, usually leading with “what’s the weather doing?” or “are we sure we want to do this?”

We reviewed avalanche reports, cross-checked weather patterns, temperatures, and recent snowfall. Stability ratings were promising: low risk, consolidated layers, and no recent slides in the region we had in mind. Still, mountains don’t care much for optimism. So we packed accordingly.

This is what we brought:

Avalanche transceivers, beacons, probes, shovels — the bare minimum for going off-piste. It’s gear you hope you never have to use, but if you do, you don’t want to be figuring it out on the fly.
Layers for every part of the day. Light stuff for the climb, something warm for when we stopped, a shell for when the wind picked up near the top. Touring means constant changes — in weather, in pace, in body temperature — so you dress like you're expecting all of it.
Enough food and water to keep energy and decision-making sharp, because tired people make dumb calls.
And since this is still a photography website, camera gear — but traveling light is key here, because the backpack is already stuffed with essential ski and safety equipment (to make sure you won’t die out there. And yes, that stuff can get heavy). I kept it simple: the DJI Osmo Action 4 for chest POVs and the Sony A7 IV with the Sigma 24–70mm f/2.8 for stills.

Step by Step: Skins, Slips, and the Uphill Grind

We rented freeride backcountry skis — around 110mm underfoot, wide enough to float through powder but still light enough to haul uphill without cursing the weight on every switchback. They were paired with alpine touring (pin) bindings and a set of stubborn climbing ski skins, which quickly became our first test of patience and coordination.

If you’ve never used ski skins, imagine sticky strips glued to your skis, letting you glide forward but not slide back. You unclip them at the top, peel them off, fold them up, and stash them before skiing down. Sounds simple, right? In theory, elegant. In practice? A series of slippery starts, crooked alignments, and fiddling with frozen clips while your fingers go numb.

From the village, we took a few lifts to get as high as the system would take us. That’s where the real day began. We stuck the skins to our skis, clicked in, and started moving — step by step, knowing the next few hours would be a mix of steady climbs, short descents, and everything in between. The track cut through dense pine forest, icy boulders and with the occasional ray of sunlight cutting through the trees. The snow was untouched except for a few small animal tracks. The scrape of the ski skins was low and steady. We moved quietly, focused on each step, feeling the effort in our legs as the climb went on.

My dad — ever the show-off — found his pace quickly. Steady, calm, no fuss, but with just enough swagger to remind you he’s in charge. No complaints or gear drama, just quiet determination, and maybe a bit of “look at me” in the way he moved.

I’d fall behind sometimes — not because I was struggling, but because I needed to stop and line up shots, catch how the light hit the trees, or nail a composition that caught my eye. Sometimes I’d stop on a bend and let him move ahead just enough to turn him into a silhouette — one solitary figure against a vast white canvas.

Reaching the Summit: 3000m of Stillness

After hours of climbing — including a few wrong turns and one spot that definitely wasn’t on the plan — we made it to the summit at 3,000 meters. It dragged at times: legs burning, lungs doing their best, and more than one moment of wondering why we thought this was a good idea in the first place. But once we got there, things went quiet in that weirdly satisfying way they sometimes do. No more second-guessing, no more noise in my head — just that stillness you only get way up in the mountains. The view didn’t disappoint: endless ridges and peaks, fresh snow everywhere, and not a ski lift in sight.

It’s a weird feeling knowing the ride down will take maybe ten minutes, after spending hours getting up there. But somehow, every slow (sometimes even excruciating) step still felt worth it, even if my legs strongly disagreed.

Finding Our Line: Terrain and Trust

We scoped out our descent, checking slope angles and making sure nothing looked sketchy. A few cornices were hanging over the ridgeline — big icy ledges that looked cool from a distance but very much like “don’t-go-there” zones up close. Tempting, but we gave them a wide berth. Then there were the tree wells, those hidden pockets of soft snow under branches that look harmless until you’re suddenly thigh-deep and stuck like a rookie. We kept our distance.

It wasn’t about finding the steepest, wildest line out there. We just wanted something that felt fun — a little challenge, sure, but nothing that would have us clenching our teeth the whole way down. After a few test turns, some second guessing, and one spot that definitely looked better from above, we finally found a line that felt right.

We clicked in, took a breath, and dropped in.

From there it was trees, a few surprise rocks, and that perfect crunch of snow under your skis. Fast enough to get the blood going, but not so fast it turned into a survival exercise. After the hours of climbing, every turn felt like payback — the good kind. And yeah, that descent made the mountain-flavoured stairmaster session totally worth it.

The Descent: Painting with Skis

The first few turns were cautious — feeling out the snow, getting a sense of the line, reminding ourselves that this wasn’t a groomed run with comfy margins. But after a few edges held and nothing slid out from under us, the rhythm kicked in. Every carve felt smooth, almost weightless, like the mountain was moving with us instead of against us. We weaved through trees, around boulders, and dropped into tight gullies that steered us down the mountain like a natural halfpipe.

I had the DJI Osmo Action 4 strapped to my chest, catching it all — wind in the mic, heavy breathing, and the occasional laugh when one of us pulled off a good turn or just got a bit too hyped, sometimes resulting in quite the crash. The sound of skis cutting through fresh snow is weirdly satisfying — sharp, fast, clean.

For a few minutes, there was no gear to adjust, no checking slope angles, no lining up shots. Just movement. No overthinking, no second-guessing, just skiing the line in front of us and reacting as it came.

Back at the Bottom: Looking Up at Our Tracks

When we got back down, we stopped and looked back up. Our tracks were still there, winding down the face of the mountain — not perfect, but ours. You could see the moments we lost balance, the awkward sidesteps, even a couple of falls that left scrapes in the snow and probably a bruise or two. A few tight turns, some wider ones where we bailed on the plan, and a sloppy section where we both ended up laughing more than skiing.

That’s the thing about ski touring. You don’t just bring back photos, you leave something behind. Your turns, your falls, your mess-ups and moments that actually went well. It’s nothing permanent, and in the big picture it doesn’t matter much. But it’s there, your effort, your choices, your day. All scratched into the snow until the next storm buries it. Sounds kind of cheesy when I say it out loud. I know.

But still, I like that. It feels real. Whether I’m behind the lens or on skis, that’s what I’m chasing. Not something perfect or worth posting, just something that happened. Something that felt like it mattered, even if only for a bit. A fleeting moment, like I’ve written about before.

The photos are nice. But they’re just reminders. The good stuff is in the tired legs, the clumsy turns, and that grin you can’t help when everything finally clicks for a few seconds.

Ski Tracks and Storytelling - A Backcountry Adventure in Ischgl, Austria