The Kalkkögel Affair.
A ten year fling with a ‘petite’ Austrian mountain range.
From Issue 104 2022
Words Neil Williman | Images Daniel Bear & Michi Bernshausen
I grew up skiing a small, now deceased, club field between Blenheim and Nelson called Mt Robert. The terrain was mellow, the snow scarce, but the vibe always maximised. When I was 17, I moved to Wanaka to finish school. The mountains felt comparatively massive, steep, and populated by people who looked amused at my straight skis, rear-entry boots, and gear they’d long since consigned to Wastebusters.
After a few seasons of dropping my jaw and craning my neck in Tahoe and Chamonix, I arrived in Innsbruck. And still it blew me away. The peaks were steep, raw, and comparatively uncrowded. Each of the five valleys had interesting, different terrain that you could access on one (relatively inexpensive) season pass.
They weren’t as high as the Swiss dominated Western Alps, but many spots were sheltered from the wind by shady bowls and improbable towers. Leading to nicknames ranging from ‘Little Alaska’ to ‘The Austrian Dolomites’, it took us a little while to learn that this mountain range separating the Inntal and the Stubaital valleys was called the Kalkkögel, which translates to Chalk Peaks, due to the abundance of limestone.
We referred to it as Couloir City until our local pals got embarrassed enough to correct us.
As I’m sure anyone reading this magazine can attest, if there’s fresh snow at a New Zealand resort, the froth factor is beyond extreme. There are sharpened elbows in the lift lines and effective skier compaction achieved by mid-morning, maximising inbounds stability. Tahoe’s pre-opening queues for the KT22 chair start at 5am. Chamonix has high angle lines of people just waiting to abseil into couloirs.
Rocking up to Axamer Lizum, it boggled my mind when barely anyone bothered to hike 30 minutes to ski a fresh line until days after a storm. It turned out that with a bit of scoping and a couple of hours of touring, world-class lines were readily available. And almost always empty.
My crush turned into love, and it was all with the blessing of the shred buddy who’d become my wife, as long as I shared all the juicy details with her. It wasn’t just the terrain, but the ease of access to the side country. It only takes a bus from downtown Innsbruck, straight into a funicular and an hour or two of skinning to feel like you’re an explorer in an alpine wilderness.
"My crush turned into love, and all with the blessings of the shred buddy who'd become my wife."
The character of the place suited me, too. Built for the 1964 Olympics, the retro funicular reminds me of the Broken River goods lift. A pair of old, slow, two-seater chairlifts run straight over fun terrain, with backside lines down to bus-stops where the waiting public wonders where you’ve been.
I thought that my infatuation would quickly fade, but memories of prowling Kiwi ski resorts for the very last square meters of untainted snow burned strong in me. People are fond of telling kids who don’t finish their food to, “think of the starving children in Africa”.
Although I’ve never been told that, I applied the same mentality to skiing. One of the few downsides to all this sun-sheltered snow and complex terrain is that the resulting shady aspects are the nemesis of photographers. For the number of days skiing, we have surprisingly few photos. Maybe we were just too busy having all the fun, which I feel very OK about.
I suppose fond memories are “antisocial media”, as I don’t share them with many people. But I know that myself and the people whom I created them with will carry these memories for much longer than a mere flick of an online thumb.
Sunset hikes to the Grinzens run with an offline local crew was a standout. Duct tape and grins replacing shiny outerwear and phones. Looking down a golden-bathed valley, about to ski a long powder run to a suburban bus stop is one of the many moments from these mountains that I’ll never forget.
Over the past 10 years, I’ve spent more and more of each winter in the Kalkkögel. During that time there’s been an increase of people venturing into the range, but that just made me push even deeper into the barely touched maze of spires and faces. Sure, some were difficult to find, but for me that only increased the attraction.
I’m pretty sure my line on the north-east face of Ampferstein hadn’t been skied without a rappel before, but it’s tough to know for certain, as nobody pays much attention to that kind of thing around here. I suppose if they cared enough to do so, the classic lines would become more crowded.
Affairs by definition are temporary. I’m now moving back to Queenstown and looking forward to the hyped vibe of New Zealand skiing. But I’ll bring back this same, loving approach; an appreciation for every curvaceous cranny as yet unfound, and a smoldering resolve to seek them out.
My lovely wife, Tove, and I will raise a couple of Swede-as Kiwis to appreciate everything that the Southern Alps has to offer, as we’re big fans of the mountains of Aotearoa. They’re just going to have to share some space in our hearts with the Kalkkögel. One day we’ll return with our next generation to unleash another wave of froth on these hills. It’s just more motivation to help look after the world well enough so there’s still enough snow around.
Editors Note: Neil Williman worked as an engineer for a UK company during his time in Europe, but somehow convinced them to let him work almost exclusively “from home” in Innsbruck. During that time, he produced the best part of two ski movies in the Kalkkögel:
“Working Volks Freeride” https://www.downdays.eu/videos/movie/working-volks-freeride/
& “Innsbruck. Powder. People”.
