Anatolia
by Porter Fox
photos Dave Heath
Muzaffer's A-frame tent, wedged between two bright yellow Gore-Tex domes, flickers light blue. I walk over frosted scree and peer in. He is sitting cross-legged, a small stove supporting a blackened tin pot between his feet. His dark, wrinkled skin hangs beneath wisps of gray hair that poke from under a black wool hat. His hand shakes slightly as he reaches for the lid. He is brewing a cup of Nescafe;. "Muzaffer, we have to go," I whisper to him. "Yes, yes," he responds in a tired, syrupy voice, thick with a Middle Eastern accent.
Behind me, the massive Siyirma Vadisi canyon beckons. It runs east through the Ala Dag Range of Turkey's rugged Taurus Mountains, toward Iran and Syria. Small cleaves in its walls stretch like fingers toward all points of the compass. The mountains comprise the westernmost edge of the Greater Himalayan Belt. Three miles up the canyon, the gorge abruptly stops and hooks north. There, a wide glacier leads to the backside of 11,906-foot Cebel Mountain. The limestone massif is jagged, carved into a sharp fin from 10 million years of erosion. The powerful Arabian sun has melted most of the snow from its southern face. But it is the northwestern aspect that our small team, now huddled around a smoldering campfire, is visualizing. It is there that Muzaffer has promised we will find powder. I believe him. I know the Turks take pride in their word. But I know other things about this ancient culture I learned in our two weeks ski mountaineering here that scare me. Things that make me question whether our 66-year-old guide, who has become a grandfather-like figure to us all, will survive the climb.
We bootpack the first third of the ascent, moving fast on hard snow. Ski pioneers Mike Hattrup and Mark Newcomb break trail while photographer Dave Heath and I take up the rear. A northerly whipped off the Mediterranean a week ago and dropped the first foot of snow on the Ala Dag since the fall-a little late, seeing as this is the first week of March and the range averages 15 to 20 feet of snow annually. While we drink water and shoot photos, Muzaffer catches up. His joints are sore. He lagged behind on two warm-up climbs over the last week, and today he seems exhausted. He pushes ahead twice, his small legs rhythmically plunking into the snow, his awkward canvas rucksack wobbling from side to side. I try to talk to him, ask how he is doing, but he does not respond.
By 8 a.m. we are on skins. By 10 a.m. we reach the end of the valley. Forks meander in all directions. Once deep ravines under the Mediterranean, they now hold snow and limitless touring possibilities. A travel company that employs Muzaffer part-time conducts ski tours in the canyon, and university outdoor groups from Istanbul and Ankara visit the area occasionally, but today the range is empty. We follow the main draw north and after a short skin reach the backside of Cebel. The hard snow has turned to corn. I look behind me and freeze. Our group has diminished to four.