Story and photos by Eric Blehm, originally published in Blue Magazine in 2000...

Like so many expeditions, this one was spawned by chance. At the premiere of a snowboarding movie in Los Angeles, I had happened upon world-traveling snowboarder Craig Kelly. He told me about his intention to go back to Iran “for some unfinished business,” and then he winked. I understood. I’d seen the photos from his initial exploration to the mountains of Iran five years ago. During that trip, severe avalanche danger had kept him on a short leash in the backcountry. Before seeing those photos, I had been ignorant of Middle Eastern geography but revelation is the humbling poetry of travel. I jumped at the opportunity to join the expedition to Iran with Craig and a few other snowboarders from North America. These included first-descent master Tom Burt and Canadian mountain-guide John Buffery, who would guide us in mountains that top out at more than 18,000 feet. Dutch–American photographer Ari Marcoupolos and cinematographer Bill Gallen completed our team.

The Alborz Mountains swallowed us as our minibus drove north from Tehran. Long, poorly lit tunnels linked impossibly high mountain passes. The frozen winter wrapped around my senses. The aroma of roasting pistachios from a roadside vendor clashed with gasoline that still stunk at 13 cents per gallon. Persian rock ’n’ roll screeched from a mono speaker on the dashboard as we continued upward, sliding around the icy curves. The occasional neon light blinked in shop windows, jet-lagged blurs in the dark of night.

Eventually, four hours north of Tehran we arrived at our lodging, a marble-floored hotel situated in a deep valley between staggering summits. The mountains were pure fantasy, glowing under the moon. The peaks and rocky designs were riddled with dreamlike terrain: couloirs waving down sheer faces, created as though Allah himself were a snowboarder. Avalanche terrain traps at the bottoms of most slopes made much of the landscape forbidding, and all we would have to navigate by were a handful of unreliable local topographical maps that Buff had collected.

But first, we warmed up inbounds at Dizin, one of Iran’s largest ski resorts built in the early 1970s by the Shah for his wife, who loved to ski.

Elevations close to 12,000 feet, modern gondolas, a dozen lifts and nearly 3,000 vertical feet make Dizin a deal at four dollars a lift ticket. Long groomed runs swept down above tree-line vistas and if it weren’t for the Farsi-printed trail markers and the language spoken on the slopes, you might think you were in Europe—perhaps Austria’s Arlberg region.

Upon walking through the gates of this world-class ski area, Craig discovered that a snowboarding revolution had occurred since his last visit. Hundreds of snowboarders had appeared at the resort, compared to perhaps a dozen before. It was a coming out, of sorts, where individuality had spawned togetherness. An Austrian known as Alex had formed a snowboard school. Competitions reminiscent of the early days of North American snowboard racing had crowned champions who handed us double-sided business cards in Farsi and English with “Professional Snowboarder” titles gleaming almost as brightly as their proud faces. There were no parks or halfpipes. There was a mixture of ancient snowboarding equipment and hip Iranians sporting the newest gear available via the Internet. In Iran, skiing and snowboarding are pastimes of the middle to upper classes. But, just like America, rental shops line the road to the mountains where the typical family from Tehran can afford an occasional day on the slopes. Decked from head to toe with rental attire and snow sliding tools, they look a decade behind. Virtual posses of female snowboarders didn’t all have on traditional black Islamic hejab (veil) coverings. Some did, but many women wore multicolored scarves or beanies revealing glimpses of hair and daring eye makeup.

Snowboarding is a perfect metaphor for change in Iran, where more than half the 65 million citizens are under the age of 25. Twenty years ago, men and women couldn’t ski or snowboard together on the same slopes. Everything was gender-separated after Iran’s monarchal leader, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, fled the country and the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini triumphantly returned from exile and sparked the Islamic revolution—a return of religious order. Today, there are still reminders of the country’s fundamentalist platform, such as separate lifts for men and women. But on the slopes, groups of coed snowboarders, unmarried yet at ease with each other, ride the mountains together. This recent development in Iran is one of the signs of the reforms the current liberal-minded President, Mohammad Khatami, hopes to continue.

The teachings of Islam make up the moral tone of the nation and are upheld by religious soldiers and citizens alike. Alcohol, dance, and female singers are frowned upon. It was strange walking into a music store to find not a single female artist on any CD or cassette. Even though women are members of the Tehran Symphony Orchestra, female artists don’t perform at the cafès and restaurants of Tehran. American stars like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera would suffer a severe defeat in Iran—at least on the open market place.

Hungry for information, we pushed the envelope with Afshin, our government-licensed guide. He was a friendly man who also taught English at various Tehran universities. At 12 dollars a day, Afshin’s job was to keep track of our whereabouts. He kept our cameras pointed in the right direction, away from military establishments, and provided clear and concise answers to most of our questions—as long as they weren’t political in nature. Afshin only bent the rules as far as he could without risking his well-paying job, or worse.

In the lift lines and on the slopes, Iranians picked us out of the crowds to not only welcome us, but to discreetly share viewpoints and solicit our impressions of Iran. We found some were happy with the new liberal reforms, while others seem to miss the stringent religious codes of the late Ayatollah. Others wouldn’t comment and seemed to distrust our curiosity. Their love of their country and in some cases, resentment of clerical rule were evident in statements like, “I know what your life is like in the West. I have been there. That is life. This? This is not life.” Others recounted in perfect English good times spent in the West, but made it clear that they preferred Iran because of Islam and reasons as romantic as love and poetry.

A twenty-something snowboarder we met at the base of the resort with his beautiful girlfriend, quoted the 13th-century Persian poet, Jahal Al Din Rumi. He spoke of surrendering to love as a falling bird, but in falling he’d been given wings. I was taken aback when he asked me, “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” I had heard that it’s safest to ignore women in Iran, especially in the presence of their men. Bill, who had studied a bit more, got me out of the bind saying, “Yes, she is, mashallah!” He explained as we walked away how when a personal compliment about someone is made, always say, mashallah, or “God has willed it,” to avoid invoking divine retribution, for beauty and goodness are gifts of God and can also be swiftly taken away. The two unmarried lovebirds headed off to their separate lift lines, no doubt with plans to rendezvous later up on the mountain.

On one gondola ride I was offered homemade Iranian hooch. Not wanting to offend the beaming skier who had it concealed in a ZamZam soda bottle (an Iranian brand I noticed more often than Coca-Cola), I took a small swig and felt the burn all the way into my intestines. Smiling, I gave him a thumbs-up. He continued the process of trying to get me drunk until the gondola hit the summit. I held my hand over my heart in a gesture of the most sincere thank-you, and bowed out before someone less liberal smelled my breath.

Despite the official ban on alcohol in Iran, smuggled liquid gold is available on a highly limited basis. Underground clubs exist in Tehran, but nobody seemed willing to provide the locations or names of these nomadic parties. Smuggling or possessing alcohol is a dangerous game and could result in public lashings. More powerful recreational drugs, such as hashish, are available. One rider even opened his shirt to reveal a golden marijuana leaf necklace. A subtle wink, showed me these items aren’t always beyond an Islamic country.

Beyond Dizin the mountains were wide open and we began to sample the backcountry on our split boards. The Alborz host terrain and climate similar to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado: dry snow with depth hoar, a nasty instability that bonds crystals about as effectively as a layer of ball bearings. Iran’s highest mountain, Mount Damavand, at 18,600 feet, has attracted mountaineers, nomads and legends to a latent volcano. Legend has it that a giant called Zahak lives in a cave on the peak. Smoke or rumblings are often heard deep within the mountain. Villagers living near the base of the volcano still remark that Zahak is straining to be free. On a clear day, the cone is visible from Tehran, 50 miles away.

The mountain towns strictly stifle travel after storms, allowing the snow to settle out and the people rely on faith to protect them. There are no local avalanche safety hotlines to call in Iran. Avalanche control is almost nonexistent at the resort—with historically dangerous areas roped off after storms and runs opened after snow groomers have tested the slope’s strength. In the backcountry, there is no control. Avalanche education is key.

The Iranians kept track of our movements and crowded alongside roads with binoculars to watch us ride down routes the locals said were reserved for avalanches. At first, some locals considered our group crazy for venturing beyond the safety of the groomed runs, but once they observed the mastery of two of the world’s best mountain riders, Tom and Craig, most warmed up to our exploits. In fact, some were inspired by our example and started hiking up the sketchy terrain [we had carefully ascended with avalanche safety in mind, sticking to ridgelines as opposed to right up the center of an avalanche path.]

Taking responsibility for the new backcountry routes they had introduced the locals to, Craig, Tom, and Buff spent time educating those most likely to follow our tracks into the wild snow away from the resorts. Buff held an avalanche safety seminar to explain to a crowd of riders and skiers the importance of carrying an avalanche shovel, probe poles, and transceivers.

We learned that three skiers had been killed the season before by an avalanche in that very spot, a dark omen that helped explain why such a magical run was left untracked. Respectful of the more dangerous pitfalls, I slowly fell in love with zone after zone of Allah-made fun parks with their perfect transitions and powder landings. Life slowed down after more than a week of daily riding. I began craving piles of saffron rice and lamb kebabs, and drank my black tea by holding a sugar cube between my teeth and straining the hot liquid, as the locals do. In the mornings we ate flat bread with honey and feta cheese.

But there were dangers other than avalanches, as Tom and Buff found out while exploring a ridgeline to the north of Dizin. With boards in split mode, they skied past coils of rusted barbed wire buried in the snow and a defunct-looking concrete bunker at the edge of a deserted compound. Tom led the way and stopped at a knoll to reconnect his skis for a surf back down to the parking lot far below. Suddenly, a soldier appeared in white snow camouflage and motioned for Buff to stop. Not wanting to yell out in English, he instead made the international finger-pointing signal:

“We’re going down! Down. Sorry.”

Without looking back, he pushed off. The first gunshot put Buff’s shoulders up around his ears and made his eyeballs bulge. Tom, meanwhile, dragged his skis behind the cover of a boulder and clipped in just as a second warning shot echoed off the surrounding peaks. Extreme downhill split-board skiing commenced as they negotiated a steep boulder field of shallow snow at speed.

At the bottom, they blended in with the locals. A lone soldier stood on the peak far above watching them dissolve into the crowd. Apparently they had toured past very serious no trespassing signs written in Farsi and skied down the center of the Shah’s old mountain-palace-cum-military headquarters for the Iranian mountain special forces. Oops. Down at the bottom, some of the locals speculated that the shots were homemade bombs or firecrackers made for the revolutionary holiday that was fast approaching. Avoiding a scene, Buff and Tom agreed, “Yeah, that’s what it must have been.” Later, we learned that it is illegal to shoot anyone in Iran for trespassing, and even the army would suffer severe consequences for letting a better-aimed mystery bullet fly.

“Down with USA” murals hung on occasional buildings in Tehran, but one-on-one with the locals there was zero anti-American sentiment. The snowboarding scene became an easy place to forget politics, a youthful and relaxed atmosphere where party invitations at secret locales were whispered under breath. Parties that promised forbidden alcohol, women without face or hair coverings on equal ground with men. Even black-market music recorded in evil places such as Los Angeles and New York. Alas, the youth were wise beyond their years. And so I considered sneaking out of our hotel windows, figuring what Afshin didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

These impromptu party invitations were just aspects of the Persian hospitality we received during our stay. Our stomachs were constantly filled with round after round of hot tea bought by any local who saw us without a cup. Even a child approached me with a cookie while I sat on a bench at Dizin. Her mother said, “She would like to welcome you to Iran.” I took the colorfully sprinkled treat the child brought me, and soon had food delivered by well over a dozen children.

One day on the mountain, three suspicious-looking snowboarders pulled me from the back of the gondola line and carried my board to the front. I wondered what was in store for me, but nobody seemed to mind as I slid past and joined them in the next gondola. After brief introductions, the three started tapping the windows and sung me a song about a girl so mysterious and beautiful, her eyes alone could conquer your love. The song lasted the entire gondola ride and was, in their words, “a gift.”

The Islamic call to prayer, or adhan, is sounded at sunrise, and repeated three times throughout the day. One noontime, while chants sounded from distant speakers on a distant, unseen mosque, a class-two slab avalanche cracked above me as I exited a gully and traversed a slope of peanut-butter snow on my heelside. I willed my snowboard to go faster as the snow around me started to crumble. I had mentally prearranged a safe spot and inched ever so slowly out of harm’s way. The slab picked up speed and deposited itself in a massive debris pile below.

Writer Robin Wright, quotes Crane Brinton in her book, The Last Great Revolution, “Revolutions are like fevers. And like fevers, they progress through stages. The initial phase is marked by the onset of a raging temperature and other extreme conditions, including delirium. The next stage witnesses the breaking of the temperature and a long and fitful convalescence, often marked by a relapse or two. Finally comes the recovery and restoration to normal health.”

Wright likened the delirium to the images spread throughout the media of gun-toting mullahs and chador-clad women in the 1980s; the morgue slabs of bullet-riddled bodies of officials from the Shah’s monarchy and other loyalists who were summarily executed in the course of revolutionary justice. The seizure of the US Embassy and 52 American hostages who were often paraded blindfolded in front of news cameras as effigies of Uncle Sam were burned in the background by angry youths.

But that was then, and this is now. Perhaps not forgotten, but essentially forgiven are my country’s own mistakes: the shooting down of an Iranian commercial airliner full of innocent families, the seemingly fickle nature of my government’s support for Iraq then, against Iraq a few years later. Complex politics with interests beyond me. Beyond Tehran.

On our last day, we were at the reporter branch of the Cultural Ministry offices in Tehran, where the authorities would check out our cameras and film before the journey back home. I continued to jot notes down in my journal as a hijab-covered woman approached. We spoke for some time about my job as a writer and her job as an interpreter in Iran. She was eloquent, professional and hip. She wore a hint of eye makeup and jeans protruded from the bottom of her capelike covering. As we parted, I automatically shook her hand.

Later, I realized that she was amazingly brave. For a woman, shaking a man’s hand is considered radical. In fact, illegal. A man and a woman, unless they are married or immediate family, must not intermingle in public. As we conversed at length, our brief interaction crossed into shaky ground. Shaking hands is strictly forbidden.

And so I left Iran, with a Persian carpet wrapped around my snowboard and plenty of unfinished backcountry business left for another time. We found that snowboarding is a love that spans borders and brings people together. For us, Iran is no longer just a name on CNN. Iran is a flood of familiar faces with whom we left most of our avalanche safety gear: probes, shovels, and even our transceivers. Our only real enemy in Iran was an unstable layer in the snowpack.

Hopefully, Iranians will continue to embrace and respect the freedom that the mountains represent and follow through with President Mohammad Khatami’s recent words about a modern-era revolution that is “introducing an Islam in which the people enjoy freedom.” It’s a goal in line with the singular political theme of the modern era: Freedom to the farthest reaches including equality for diverse ethnic groups, races, religions, and genders. And all ski areas in Iran allow snowboarding, which is more than we can say in America, even today.

www.thelastseason.com

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Note from ACW: I asked Eric to write an epilog to this piece; an update on the situation in Iran. He did and I responded to it -- the DGMS (Don't Get Me Started) Syndrome kicked in. Click here to go to the epilog.

Note: One of the key characters in the story—legendary world champion snowboarder and my friend Craig Kelly—died in an Avalanche in Canada on January 20, 2003. Ride like the wind, Craig! (Eric's requiem to Craig will appear in an upcoming isse of The Bandito Browser. Subscribe or miss it.)

Click here to check out the theatrical release of an amazing new documentary about Craig Kelly's life.