Skiing the Nun

Expeditions have shaped me as I am now. During my teenage years in Chamonix, we formed a group of friends drawn by the same ski dreams and the same vision of the mountains. At 19, we made our first trip to Peru’s Cordillera Blanca, skiing a few 6000m and 5000m mountains. Since then, our group has chased snow across Pakistan, Morocco, Alaska, and Patagonia.

Expeditions are so special in the way it makes you grow up and create unbreakable bonds with people you share it with. This is the kind of camaraderie you can only forge while waiting in a tent for the storm to pass, or sharing a sunrise on top of a mountain before riding it. The thing about an expedition is that it is shrouded in mystery – you don't exactly know where you are going, how your body will react, or what you’ll find. Kind of like life itself, but with more powder turns.

This spring, Gaspard, Mathieu, Jules, Nico, Adrien and I set our sights on the Nun, a Himalayan pyramid-shaped summit at 7,135m in northern India. Jules and Mathieu had tried three years earlier but were stopped at 6,400m.

The dream remained.

After a magnificent flight over the Himalayas, our plane finally landed surprisingly gracefully on the tarmac of Leh airport at an altitude of 3,500m on the banks of the Indus. Located at the northernmost tip of India, the region of Leh, known under the name of Cachemire, is a melting pot where travelers for centuries – from all over the euro-asian continent, across the silk road – have left a legacy. In the same street you’ll find a mosque neighbouring a buddhist temple – while hindu devotees walk peacefully around.

Nestled at the edges of Pakistan and Tibet, this region has always been a hotspot. Today, disputes between Pakistan and India give this place a strange atmosphere of contrast – as a result of the militarization of the area, omnipresent checkpoints and, on the other hand, the overwhelming impression of peace given by temples, floating colorful flags and people’s peaceful attitude.

To help with permits and logistics we turned to Stanzin Chosdan, a professional and joyful presence with endless jokes. While waiting for delayed ski bags and Nico’s visa, we acclimatized in Leh – hiking desert hills streaked with snow, meeting local mountaineers, and watching Gaspard paraglide into a schoolyard.

With bags finally recovered, we left Leh along the Indus River. Buddhist architecture gave way to Arabic-style buildings as we reached Kargil, then Tangol, our last village. Porters were uneasy; May was too early, they said, with too much snow. But we pressed on. Hours later, after breaking trail in heavy spring snow, we reached a col and set our first camp. Once the porters passed the hill back to the village, we were left on our own.

Every act now felt vital: melting snow, soaking in the sun, eating. Day by day we shuttled loads higher, adopting a mantra of “slow and heavy,” far from the “fast and light” style of the Alps. When Nico finally joined us, the team was complete. The following days, we took advantage of the sunny weather to equip the higher camps. In the manner of the silk road caravan, heavily loaded up above the head, we were making perpetual round trips between camp 1, camp 2 (officially the base camp) and camp 3. Finally we reached an Ice field at 5,500m, where we set a siege camp beneath Nun’s intimidating west face.

It was a return to the wild that felt good. Every movement of our bodies, just like every moment of inactivity, was a vital need. Making water, setting up camp, resting in the sun to store warmth, eating – every choice is made and considered in the present moment. Nothing is wasted; everything is up for grabs.

And then you have the luxury of stripping down on things. Each item has been carefully scrutinized – and its presence must be justified. We have also revised our criteria at several stages, leaving behind a quantity of material.

I admit to having made a small exception, allowing myself the luxury of taking a mini wooden chess set bought a few days earlier in Leh, as well as a book belonging to my grandmother, Michel Peissel's travelogue retracing his exploration through Mustang in the 1950s. The goal was to fit all our personal belongings and equipment into one bag. To relieve our backs, our pockets became veritable treasure troves. Lighters, tissues, straps, boxes of chewing gum, spoons, foldable bowls, disposable cameras, toilet paper, radio, gloves – all these are items that are good to keep close at hand, to enjoy every moment of this new life.

Soon bad weather locked us in. Wind buried our tents and snow walls. We read, drew, played chess, and endured blizzards. Electrical storms forced us to hurl metal gear outside and pray not to be struck.

At last, a weather window opened. We crossed the plateau and camped at 6,000m beneath a serac wall. Frostbite threatened as we climbed toward the north ridge, finally pitching tents at 6,400m, on a narrow ledge above a sea of mountains. The Himalaya stretched endlessly, ridges upon ridges with no weakness in sight.

At dawn we set off. Crevasses, crampons lost, and fatigue slowed us. Some turned back. Nico, Jules and I pressed on, negotiating seracs and mixed terrain. Step by step, breath by breath, we reached the ridge. Prayer flags confirmed the summit. At 7,135m we hugged and cried. Jules found redemption after a failed attempt years earlier, Nico triumphed after visa issues kept him grounded in Chamonix just days before.

But the descent was not a victory lap. Avalanches cracked around us, snow slabs slid on ice. Still, we skied cautiously back to camp, collapsed into sleeping bags, and endured one last night at altitude.