“I did not know than Anton, Pyotr and Semyon were black marketeers when they invited me to join them for a drink.”

“I longed to discover, after four decades of cold war, their dreams, goals and fears.”

“I’m in! Russia! I am in! Humping my bags into the main terminal, I encounter a woman holding a sign with my name on it.”

AlpTour

www.alptour.su

“Valentin’s English is excellent and on the ride into the city he tells me that Alma Ata, which translates roughly to ‘Father Apple,’ is the capital of Kazakhstan”

“Valentin is right: Chimbulak has had a lean snow year.”

“I introduce myself at the bottom and discover they are coaches for the Russian Team. Using sign language, I ask if I could take some photographs. ”

“During the next three days I ski with Alexey, Vladimir and Misha during the day and explore Alma Ata at night.”

“‘KGB,’ he whispers, nodding toward two muscled stud horses who have just entered the sauna.”

“The tram lines are a half-hour long—too long for Sasha. Being a rescuer gives him certain privileges and, dragging me along, he cuts the line.”

“A local Balkar legend claims Elbrus hides her face from sinners. If that is true then Comanche must be the purest of heart, for riding the base double chair up Cheget, Elbrus shines dazzlingly in the distance.”

“For the rest of the night he will be the eloquent Tamadah, source of wisdom and favors.”

“Despite the visibility, the snow is exquisite—shin-deep and bitterly cold.”

“With each turn, I realize it might be years, if ever, before I return to Russia.”

“I try to put the past two weeks in perspective. In spite of the Soviet standards for lodging, food service and lift capacity, a sense of adventure and the Russian people make any physical inconvenience pale in comparison.”

I did not know than Anton, Pyotr and Semyon were black marketeers when they invited me to join them for a drink. Only that Galina Pavlova, my interpreter, had gone to bed. I was sitting alone and, in between vodka shooters, Anton’s table had been dancing up a storm. It’s important here not to use real names. Black marketeering is a jailable offense in the Soviet Union and, as I would learn later, these men were being watched. 

“Tovarisch (friend), why are you sitting alone on Soviet Service Workers’ Day?” a towering figure with black shoulder-length hair asked in Russian. A section of the Hotel Otrar’s crowded dining room had been cleared, and couples were slow dancing to a four-piece band. 

Catching only his greeting, I turned to face him. “I’m sorry, do you speak English?” I replied loudly enough to make myself heard. 

“You are East German?” he inquired with a slight accent. 

“No, American.”

“American?” he repeated, failing to hide his surprise. “Well, if that is the case, I insist, you must join us for a drink.” With his powerful build, dark eyes and certain self-destructive charisma, he reminded me of Rasputin—the Russian mystic who advised the Czarina Alexandra. Despite his earlier toasts, the vodka seemed to have no effect on him as he smiled slightly and indicated an empty seat. 

After a brilliant day of skiing with Soviet pop singer Misha Muromov at Alma Ata’s Chimbulak ski area, all I wanted was a bottle of mineral water and eight hours of sleep. But, skiing aside, I had come to meet the Russian people and in spite of nagging premonition that drinking with Anton could lead to trouble, I found his invitation too fascinating to refuse. 

There were eight people seated around the table, four men and their dates. A glass of vodka materialized before me and I raised it to Anton’s toast, “America!” With Anton translating, I reciprocated with a toast to Alma Ata, Chimbulak and the warm Soviet citizens. Semyon in turn toasted New York and before I could toast Moscow, Anton’s date, the lovely Tanya Ilovaiskaya of the alabaster skin, shining black hair and mega-volt figure asked me to dance. Agreeing that dancing was a fine idea, the others abandoned the table and crowded onto the already packed floor. 

“What…do…you…do?” I asked Tanya.

“I…am…sorry…” she smiled dazzlingly and replied, “…I…only…spik Russian.”

At that moment someone bumped Pyotr. I did not see who did it, only his reaction. Hesitating for a second, Pyotr shouted, “We need more room to dance!” then turned and kicked a full dinner table into the crowd. 

Almost instantaneously a punch arrived from left field, a starship that rang Pyotr’s bell but miraculously did not drop him. Then in the ensuing seconds as Pyotr, Semyon and three or four others traded blows, Anton shoved me back into the crowd, someone spilled vodka on the lovely Tanya Ilovaiskaya and the police suddenly appeared. 

Throwing their arms around each other, the bruised combatants became fast friends. While the police interrogated the dancers—none of whom had seen a thing—I realized this is the Russia I had come to see. Even a year ago, I knew I wanted something more than a two-week authorized tour of museums, cathedrals, state ministries and ski resorts. I wanted to go skiing in the Soviet Union. Alone. I wanted to meet Russians. After being taught in grade school to dive under my desk when the air raid alarm sounded. I wanted to see, smell and feel what makes them tick—what makes them angry and what makes them laugh. I longed to discover, after four decades of cold war, their dreams, goals and fears. 

Arriving at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport on SAS’s connecting flight from Stockholm, I realize I may have trouble with my visa but hope that Soviet immigration officials would fail to notice the error. At best it was wishful thinking, for seated behind a glass partition, the young guard is clearly disturbed by the discrepancy and now, holding my passport up to the glass and glancing from it to my face, he reaches for the telephone. 

Seconds later a second guard enters the booth. He, too, methodically reads the visa then compares its black and white photo first to my passport, then to my face. With their military brush cuts, green uniforms and teenage skin, neither can be much older than 18 yet their scrutiny is beginning to unnerve me. 

Alright…I confess, I’m a day early—seven hours to be exact. I also don’t have an “official” invitation. Not something—even if they do speak English—I can point to and say, “Of course, if there is a problem, you may verify my identity with Vladimir…” Only the visa stands between me and the peaks of Alma Ata, Elbrus and Dombai, and though I can’t read the Cyrillic writing on it, it must say something about skiing. 

Could it be the skiing they are suspicious about? A year ago I wasn’t sure if such a thing was possible in the USSR. 

“But, do they have chairlifts in Russia?” friends wondered. 

“Of course,” I replied. 

But where? And how many? Do they have hotels? Restaurants? And considering the recent insights on the Soviet economy—its chronic shortages of soap, toilet paper and toothpaste—can the Russians really afford to ski.

Standing beneath a bright fluorescent light while the agents study the visa, it occurs to me that this is a test of the Soviet bureaucracy. For all the changes that have occurred under perestroika, has the system in fact spontaneously generated a heart and soul?

“OK?” I finally inquire.

The guards glance at me, then fold the visa into my passport and slide it under the glass. “OK,” one nods, waving me through.

I’m in! Russia! I am in! Humping my bags into the main terminal, I encounter a woman holding a sign with my name on it.

“Hello, my name is Galina Pavlova,” she says with a cool British accent. “Alptour sent me. I will be your interpreter. Please, wait here for a moment. I will get the driver to help with your bags.”

On the ride from Sheremetyevo, Moscow first reveals herself as a monolithic wall of apartment buildings that gradually give way to broad tree-lined streets, state ministries, parks, statues of state heroes, graceful bridges and Russian Orthodox churches towering above muddy streets filled with diesel trucks. 

At one point Galina tells me, “I’m quite fond of your writers Hemingway and London.” She hesitates to point out a monument of Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space, then continues, “Fitzgerald is wonderful and your Steinbeck, Faulkner and Joseph Heller are so—perceptive…I think this is the proper word.” She names a dozen others she has read in their original English then pauses and inquires, “And are you familiar with our Russian writers?”

Hoping she doesn’t press me on plot or character, I tell her I have read Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoyevsky and Solzhenitsyn. 

“Yes, well, it is a beginning but, what about Pushkin, Lermontov, Bulgakov and Pasternak?” she inquires. 

“Naturally, they are brilliant,” I agree, avoiding eye contact. 

My room at the Sport Hotel is on the ninth floor. Dressed in a western jacket and tie, and loaded down with skis, a boot bag and backpack, I’m an easy mark. As I enter the elevator, a Muscovite in his early 20’s follows me in and says, “Hey man, what country you from?”

“U.S.A.,” I reply, thinking he’s only curious. 

“U.S.A., U.S.A.,” he nods, “Good! Look, you want change money? I give you good rate. Eight rubles, one dollar.”

I hesitate. He is offering me more than 12 times the official rate. If there’s a certain desperation to his actions, it is because the Soviet union now operates on two currencies—rubles on one side and dollars, francs, marks, pounds and other hard western currencies on the other. It is illegal for Russians to possess these currencies and yet only hard currency can be traded for luxury items. Even so, dealing on the black market is a jailable offense and so I decline. 

“Matryoshka dolls, first quality. Forty dollars,” he offers.

“Nyet.” I refuse. As politely as possible, offering him a couple of American cigarettes as compensation.

“Spassiba, thank you,” he nods, disappointed.

The following day Galina shows me Moscow. Born and raised across the river from Gorky Park, she insists I see the Pushkin Museum with its Impressionist exhibit. Along with her son Ivan we see St. Basil’s in Red Square, the Kremlin, GUM Department Store and the University of Moscow. At one point I ask how difficult it would be to get tickets to the Bolshoi.

“I think on such short notice it is impossible…Perhaps if you had a week,” she replies, but moments later she slips away and calls her friend, pianist Irina Alexandrova, who subsequently obtains tickets to the Moscow Symphony performance of Mozart. 

The following afternoon I am watching the stewardess serve a chicken, rice and sardine lunch on an Aeroflot IL-86 to Alma Ata. The six-hour flight is full and in front of me three soldiers are studying the issues of SKI I had in my carry-on. They carefully inspect each page, marveling quietly over the ads and color photos. “Spasiba,” they say, reluctantly returning them. 

Seated on my right, a 50-ish man in a worn black suit hands me a worn pin with USA-USSR embossed on it. “You are the first American I have ever met,” he tells me through Galina, then adds, “…I hope not the last.”

We are met at the Alma Ata Airport by Valentin Rekhert, who works for the local tourism board. Valentin’s English is excellent and on the ride into the city he tells me that Alma Ata, which translates roughly to “Father Apple,” is the capital of Kazakhstan, a Soviet republic that shares a common border with China. Situated on the ancient silk route, Alma Ata is little more than a hundred years old. In late March, winter-bare apple and apricot orchards fill the surrounding countryside, and roses, mature trees, museums, fountains, statues and the Kazakhstan State University line Lenin Avenue. 

In answer to my question about snow conditions, Valentin replies, “Well, I think Chimbulak has very little.”

“But enough to ski,” I persist, mildly alarmed. 

“Perhaps not, it has been a warm winter” he says by way of apology. “We will see.”

The following morning, Valentin arrives at the Hotel Otrar to drive us to Chimbulak. Located in a wide bowl in the Zailiysky Alatau Mountains 20 miles above Alma Ata. Chimbulak is a major training site for the Soviet National Ski Team. Along the winding mountain road we also pass the Medeo Ice Rink, a high-altitude training center for Soviet speed skaters. It is about then that I start to notice large numbers of people hiking with skis, boots and poles. 

“How far is Chimbulak?” I ask Valentin, thinking it must be around the next bend. 

“From here? Not far, three or four kilometers (about two miles).”

What he fails to add is that the grades hit 15 percent; buses are expensive and must be booked in advance, so the road is lined with people trekking slowly uphill. By the time we reach the base hotel 2,000 feet above, the clutch is smoking. 

Valentin is right: Chimbulak has had a lean snow year. With a vertical of roughly 3,500 feet, the slopes alternate from wide bare patches to icy moguls. I am invited to take tea with general manager Angelique Vasilevskaja, who estimates a 10-day package including lifts, room and three meals at 325 rubles ($520 at the official rate, $27-$40 at black market).

“We average around 200 people per day, with more, of course, on the weekends,” Galina says, translating for Angelique. I also discover that Chimbulak’s summit is closed in preparation for an upcoming downhill and thus the area’s three single chairs are not running. I take a base T-bar to the bottom of the expert slope where I transfer to a Poma lift that brings me to a high ridge. From here I could see the city of Alma Ata as well as an enormous out-of-bounds bowl known as Little Switzerland. 

Nodding to a group of Soviets who are discreetly studying my equipment, I start downhill. Chimbulak’s terrain is primarily north-facing and 10 turns into that first run the conditions turn from very hard to rough and ready. Grooming, as western skiers know it, is virtually nonexistent and with half the normal base, the troughs go right down to bedrock. I was also unable to locate a trail map and depending on who you talk to, the names of runs tend to be fairly flexible—Lift Run, Tree Trail, Slalom Training Face, Downhill Course. 

“Chimbulak has enormous potential for expansion,” Shaken Suleev, vice chairman of the Kazakh Sports Committee, would tell me later. Two triple chairs, planned for 1990, will access an enormous back bowl and effectively double the skiable terrain. 

“For the first time we are able to sign construction contracts with foreign firms without Moscow’s prior approval,” he added with some excitement. Under these radical changes, a tentative agreement has been signed for a new resort 47 miles from Alma Ata. Called Tau-Turgen, with 60 proposed lifts and 175 million ruble ($280 million) investment, it will be a cooperative effort between the Kazakhs, French and Yugoslavians. It will also be the largest ski resort in Russia serviced by direct flights from Western Europe into Alma Ata. 

On average, I think, Chimbulak skiers would be rated strong intermediates in the U.S. They are far from fussy about conditions, and for three runs I more or less survive the moguls until someone in a nylon windbreaker and a pair of blue wet-look ski pants blows by on my left. A second later someone in orange with fabulous knee action sails by on my right. Racing to catch them, I introduce myself at the bottom and discover they are coaches for the Russian Team. Using sign language, I ask if I could take some photographs. They laugh and shrug and for the next hour Vladimir and Alexey hit everything from crust to tight bumps while I shoot. Toward noon we meet Misha Muromov, who is using a camcorder to videotape film development team members. 

“So, you are the American here for the skiing,” Misha says in flawless English. “Well, I think maybe you are the first.” It turns out Misha is a popular Soviet singer whose song about Afghanistan, “Apples on the Snow,” is No. 4 on the Russian national chart. “A small lunch has been arranged,” he says. “Please, join us.”

A small lunch, however, translates into two hours, 10 people, six native Kazakh dishes (including horse), bottles of vodka and a performance by Misha. Even before Misha stops singing I am overwhelmed, for I know that the shortages make this a very rare and special occasion. 

After lunch there is sunbathing and more skiing, and late that afternoon Valentin suggests we see Alma-Tau, Alma Ata’s companion ski resort. We stuff 10 people into two cars, take a winding road through vast hillside orchards and arrive at dusk.

To give me a chance to see the area, general manager Sasha Matvienko fires up the Poma and, though the snow is slushy, I ski Alma-Tau’s three cable lifts, six major runs and thousand vertical feet with a wild Soviet truck driver cum self-appointed guide. 

Afterward Sasha invites us to the base restaurant for a small snack, which turns into another six-course meal, toasts and songs. I arrive back at the Hotel Otrar just in time to meet Anton and his merry band of black marketeers. 

During the next three days I ski with Alexey, Vladimir and Misha during the day and explore Alma Ata at night. The city’s après-life consists of a local circus, scattered restaurants and dancing at the Hotel Otrar. One night I meet two wobbly University of Wisconsin students on tour who sing the “Star-Spangled Banner” in the Otrar’s bar. On another, Galina and I are invited to dinner and slides at the home of one of her friends.

Galina insists if I see nothing else in Alma Ata, I must see the public baths. So on my last morning, I meet Anton, Semyon and Pyotr in the Kazakh Sauna. Built at a cost of 5 million rubles the baths are a scene out the Arabian Nights. Taking a towel and thermos of scalding tea, we step into a large vaulted mausoleum. Gold mosaics cover the walls and large slabs of heated marble, large enough to hold eight men at a time, are arranged on the floor. Starting at 20 degrees C., the slabs increase in 20-degree increments to 60.

We have been lying on the 40-degree slab for almost a half-hour, the heat is stifling and the sweat is pouring off me as the Russians lie on their backs with their eyes closed. Turning on my side, I ask, “Anton, how much can you make trading currency?”

He thinks for a moment then speaks to the others who open their eyes and reply in Russian. “Average, perhaps, 500 rubles per month,” he says, translating for them. “I have an engineering degree. At most I can make 150 rubles.” In Russia 500 rubles is an enormous amount and I am about to question him about the mechanics of their business when Semyon puts his finger to his lips. 

“KGB,” he whispers, nodding toward two muscled stud horses who have just entered the sauna. They are both in their early 30’s, clean-cut, 6 foot even, 195 pounds, big legs, narrow waists, heavily muscled shoulder and arms. They glance around the room then cross to our slab. Semyon shifts to make room, then nods slightly in greeting as they lie down. 

Not wanting to arouse their suspicions, I keep my eyes down and my mouth shut, letting Anton and the rest talk around me. Ten minutes later we move to the 60-degree slab and they follow, lying next to us until they tire of our silence or the heat. As soon as the door closes behind them, Anton smiles and pours the tea. 

It takes a three-hour Aeroflot flight to Mineralnye Vody and a five-hour bus ride to reach the Elbrus Valley. It’s almost 9 p.m. when we drop our bags in the Hotel Itkol’s lobby. Elbrus is Persian for “snowy mountain,” and with its extinct twin volcanoes is the highest peak (18,500 feet) in the Caucasus, Greek mythology claims Zeus chained the Titan Prometheus to Elbrus for stealing fire, and Ptolemy wrote that Amazons once ruled the area. 

The resort itself is known as Prielbrusye (before Elbrus) and it sits in a narrow valley surrounded by jagged, ice-capped peaks. The three major tourist hotels—Itkol, Cheget and Azau—can accommodate roughly 1,100 people and though there are numerous smaller private dachas, reservations are, at best, difficult to obtain, Prielbrusye is located between the two ski areas, Cheget and Elbrus. Since Galina is a beginner, she introduces me to Sasha who, though he speaks no English, is both an excellent skier and a “rescuer” on Elbrus. 

From the base, the 50-passenger Elbrus Tram rises 2,550 vertical feet to the Old Prospect station, where we catch a second train that rises another 1,800 feet to the Mir station. There we catch a single chair that rises a final 1,200 feet to a circle of weathered Quonset huts that serve as a mountain condominium. We are now at 12,600 feet, and our plan is to hike to Preuit’s Refuge of Eleven, a three-story dirigible-shaped structure that serves as a staging hut for skiers and climbers attempting Elbrus. 

Using sign language, I ask Sasha if we could ski Elbrus. 

“Impossible,” he replies in Russian as we labor through breakable crust toward the refuge. I learn later that the mountain is only safe to ski in summer. In winter its flanks are vast sheets of blue verglas.

We are a half mile from the refuge when we hear the sound of a diesel cat laboring in the thin air. Carrying six skiers to Preuit, it stops to offers a lift. Minutes later I discover the refuge is closed until late May. Taking only a minute to inspect its darkened rooms and spectacular views, we step into our skis and start down. The crust is challenging and we gorilla-turn back to Mir, where we pick up the trails down to Prospector below. 

The tram lines are a half-hour long—too long for Sasha. Being a rescuer gives him certain privileges and, dragging me along, he cuts the line. To do this we must push our way up a packed stairway where a beefy 250-pounder suddenly blocks my way. 

“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he growls in Russian. Sasha turns and, without raising his voice, must tell him I’m Gorbachev’s American nephew for the crowd suddenly parts like the Red Sea. It’s my first and last attempt at cutting Soviet lines for even the attempt smacks of Ugly Americanism. 

Sasha is a fabulous skier, and for the rest of the day we ride the tram between prospector and Mir. Alternating stair step bumps with wide bowls, breakable crust and a skiff of new powder, Elbrus offers enormous diversity. It is the vistas, however, that truly set the skiing apart—as far as I can see, 13.000-foot peaks stand shoulder to shoulder.

My key to Russia was a Soviet climber named Vladimir “Comanche” Lukiaev—a friend of a friend, who forwarded my letter to Alptour. The following morning I learn he has traveled from Moscow to ski with me. His black hair, slight build and vaguely Turkish features identify Comanche as a Balkar, one of the indigenous locals who have inhabited these mountains for centuries. He is also a world-class alpinist, with numerous climbs throughout the Caucasus and Pamirs. 

A local Balkar legend claims Elbrus hides her face from sinners. If that is true then Comanche must be the purest of heart, for riding the base double chair up Cheget, Elbrus shines dazzlingly in the distance. From the Cheget base hotel, the runs rise 3,900 feet to a long ridge line that leads to an enormous amount of steep terrain off three sides. Comanche and I reach the top, then ski the heavy bumps back down to the Café Ai, where he introduces me to friends of his from Moscow. Along with four or five other local hot skiers, we spend the day alternating bump runs, drinking tea and eating lamb shashlik. During lunch I learn a lift ticket costs 5 rubles ($8) per day, the hotel is 11 rubles ($18) with three meals per day included, add 60 rubles ($96) for a flight from Moscow and 5 rubles ($8) for a bus and a two-week vacation amounts to roughly 500 rubles ($800) –or roughly three months pay in the USSR. 

Late that afternoon, Vladimir leads us off the back side, down the shadow line of Nakratau. In places the snow thins to grass and rock. We traverse down melting trails to vast untouched fields until 3,500 feet below we meet in a narrow canyon that eventually winds back to the hotel Cheget. We ski around downed trees, rocks and a rushing stream. At one point Vladimir tells me, “It is spring now and the snow is rotten, but during January when the powder is on this slope…” He shakes his head, at a loss to describe it. 

On my last night Machmood Vazokyr, director of the Elbrus Sport Committee, invites us to dinner. He has arranged a traditional Balkar lamb feast in a small log cabin set in the woods. The lamb is pulled off the fire shortly after we arrive, and moments later a fresh lamb bone is passed among the men, who try to break it with their bare hands. According to Balkar tradition, the man who succeeds will earn the title of Tamadah, or Chief of the Feast. The bone makes three circuits of the table and to Western eye, it’s looking like we’ll need an ax, when Machmood suddenly snaps it. The women crowd around to congratulate him. For the rest of the night he will be the eloquent Tamadah, source of wisdom and favors. 

As the meal progresses, Tamadah awards delicacies from the cooked lamb’s head—the eyes going to Anna, the ear to Vladimir, the nose to Galina and finally I am awarded the brain to help me “truly describe (my) experiences and the warm feelings of the Soviet people of Elbrus.” Toast follows toast and Tamadah, in closing, says, “The U.S. and Soviet Union are like two climbers roped together. If one falls, both fall. But working together as a team we can conquer any summit.”

Dombai Ski Area is only 25 miles from Elbrus. By car, however, it’s a nine-hour ride down the Elbrus Valley and back to Pyatigorsk. From there the road turns west across the rolling plains to the Tiberdah River Valley that, legend claims, Jason and the Argonauts followed in their quest for the Golden Fleece. It is a Saturday afternoon in early spring and along the way we pass old women in flowered scarves whitewashing roadside tree trunks, families tilling private gardens, horse-drawn carts blocking the road and open-air-markets filled with apples, carrots, onions and homemade sweaters. 

We arrive at night only to discover that Dombai is completely booked. During the past nine days I’ve learned that the words “completely,” “impossible” and Galina’s cryptic, “you will see” mean “forget it.” Because unrestricted travel within the USSR has only evolved during the past two years, the system is now forced to work at capacity. 

Because Dombai itself is full, we must stay 12 miles down-valley at the Sport Hotel in Tiberdah. The Dombai tram fires up at 8 a.m. Since the local buses are usually full, the following morning I am invited to join a tour group of East Germans. Atsa Sell, a Berliner, tells me that the group is upset about their accommodations. “Me, I come for the skiing,” he admits, lowering his voice, “But some of the others—well, the rooms are small and cold and the food…” He shrugs, “It cost 2,000 deutsche marks—as much as some make in a year.”

“You are a journalist?” Karin, another Berliner whispers to me across the aisle. “Perhaps we meet later. I can tell you some things!”

The Germans have been assigned a Dombai ski instructor named Viktor, who leads us through a wet snowfall to the Dombai tram station. The new snow has obviously discouraged the rank and file, and 12 minutes later we unload at the upper station 2,800 feet above. From there I pay the attendant 60 kopeks ($1.25) double that rises a final 1,500 to the summit. On top it’s a total whiteout. Six thousand vertical feet and 12 degrees, however, make a world of difference. Despite the visibility, the snow is exquisite—shin-deep and bitterly cold. Protected by layers of polypro, hollofill and down, I grit my teeth and pole away from the upper shack. Viktor’s nylon windbreaker is snapping like a spinnaker in a Force 8 gale and he isn’t wearing gloves, goggles or glasses. The wind has doused his cigarette and now he sardonically flips it into the storm and starts down.

I never see Viktor turn, only follow his tracks until I discover the leftovers from a monumental eggbeater. He is alive, barely, and is slowly piercing himself back together. I take six more turns and drop beneath the whiteout. Beneath me lies 1,300 feet of untouched powder, and I link turn after turn down a perfect fall line.. I know this reads like fiction, but it was as good as it gets. There was no lift line and I tossed a ruble to the attendant and poled into an empty chair. 

Though the ride is bitterly cold and the visibility comes and goes, the skiing is incredible. By noon I’m six runs richer and 5 rubles poorer when I catch a chair with Atsa. The seat of his ski suit has been ripped open to the stuffing hand he advises me to “vatch out for za chairs.” On a western lift, you unload down a slight hill, in Dombair the chairs unload onto a slight uphill. To break free, you must skate vigorously to one side and let the chair pass. Unfortunately, a number of the oak slat seats have large splinters and while you are distracted by the poling and skating, they impale your suit.

Back on the bus I discover Atsa is not the only one who was attacked by the chairs. Karin and three others are angrily displaying their shredded suits. The atmosphere has gone from grim to ugly. 

Like Alma Ata and Elbrus, Dombai has plans to expand. Some things differ little from East to West. One afternoon Evgeniy Koudelia, chairman of the Karachaaevo-Cherkessk Tourism takes me to see the “Gorge.” From a distance it is an enormous east-facing bowl accessed by a makeshift road, that “Eugene” excitedly insists offers more skiable terrain than Dombai.

But even as we study the vast bowl, the cloud layer lowers and that night it dumps with a vengeance. The tram is closed the following morning resulting in a three-hour liftline. The night before, a harsh wind had whistled through the cracks in the Sport Hotel and by the time I reach the summit the mountain had been scoured down to its hard blue base. Overnight, conditions have changed from exquisite to evil. I manage to stick it out until noon when the visibility closes in and it starts to snow.

This was supposed to be my last day of skiing. In order to make our flight to Moscow, Galina and I must take the afternoon bus back to Mineralnye Vody. The storm, however, continues through the night and dawn reveals a vaulted blue sky and four inches of new snow, so I decide to risk missing the flight for a final three runs. Riding the 8 a.m. tram, for the first time I see the Caucasus in all their incredible beauty. With each turn, I realize it might be years, if ever, before I return to Russia. The conditions should make me delirious, but dampening that joy is the realization that the turns are like seconds counting the time until I must leave. The three runs seem to pass in as many minutes and far too soon I sadly exchange addresses with my skiing companions. 

Galina and I barely catch the bus to Mineralnye Vody, where we board a packed Aeroflot flight back to Moscow. During the three-hour flight I meet Miro Belica, a Czechoslovakian climber who’s returning from Elbrus. “Do you ski tour?” he asks me. When I confirm I do, he insists I meet his friends Sasha Rusinov, a Soviet climber who’s planning to ski the Russian Haute Route. 

Sasha meets us at the airport and insists upon giving us a ride into Moscow. His car turns out to be a souped-up Fiat with no headlights. Somehow we manage to pack bags, bodies and skis into its cramped interior. Sasha puts his foot to the floor and we depart with full racing shifts. With the rain pounding and no headlights, Sasha drives insanely, weaving in and out of traffic while brutally exceeding the speed limit. He tells us that on the way to pick us up, he was fined for no lights. About then an enormous Moscow policeman standing on the curb waves a nightstick in our direction. 

Sasha swears and screeches to a halt. The policeman gently taps the headlights with his stick and invites Sasha to step out into the rain. An animated discussion ensues and somehow Sasha gets off. 

Though Galina and I spend the following day sightseeing in Moscow, my peek behind the Curtain ends in the rain outside the Sport Hotel. There Sasha and Miro ask if I’d someday like to ski their Haute Route from Elbrus to the Black Sea. I tell them I would be very interested. 

I try to put the past two weeks in perspective. In spite of the Soviet standards for lodging, food service and lift capacity, a sense of adventure and the Russian people make any physical inconvenience pale in comparison. 

Too soon I am standing Sheremetyevo Airport waiting to board the SAS flight to Stockholm. With only a few minutes remaining, Galina reminds me of my promise to read Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. I promise her, say my good-byes and turn, find the gate and start down the jetway. There, just before I board, a single Soviet guard takes a long look into my eyes. Looking for what? Someone with something to hide. And I shoulder my carry-on with its rubles, vodka and caviar and walk slowly by.