SAMAYA x BRODY LEVEN

 

 

Professional skiers Brody Leven and Robin Hill left the United States behind to head to Tajikistan. In an inhospitable valley, Brody and Robin embarked on impressive ski descents on dizzying slopes. For Samaya, Brody tells their story.

 

“Kevin Kelly once wrote: ‘For a great trip, head for an interest rather than a place. Travel to passions rather than destinations.’ Tajikistan is the most mountainous country in the world. 93% of its land area is above 3,000 meters. If this region doesn't stir something in me, nothing else will. My long-time friend and adventure partner Robin Hill was, as always, very enthusiastic about joining me in this place where passion and self-transcendence intertwine.

 

I have already climbed and skied a lot in Central Asia, and yet this place continues to pull me in like a magnet: I can never get enough of it. This was only the second time in my career that I wanted to visit a country before even finding a goal to achieve there. Once on-site, we spent more time translating Cyrillic and Russian sites into English than reading useful information. It was incredibly difficult to get enough information that would guide us and allow us to make a decision.

 

Eventually, we decided to climb a 5,200-meter mountain named by the Soviets, Pik Energia, at the head of the Chapdara Valley in the well-frequented Fann Mountains. Our acclimatization to this altitude was simple. We started walking at 2,500 meters, set up our first camp nearby at 2,750 meters, established our advanced base camp at 3,700 meters (the highest we slept at), and climbed to at least 4,500 meters three or four times before reaching the summit. The last 300 meters were, of course, difficult. We chose a mountain of this scale because, in the past, we had already made ascents of 5,000- and 6,000-meter peaks that had provided us with intense feelings of pleasure and priceless shared emotions.

 

My expeditions usually take place in a style that is not described in books or shown on television. We do not use porters and do not spend more than a month on the glacier. We carry all of our own food and equipment, including to the base camp. It is as if we are traveling in alpine style from the moment we leave home. We are therefore extremely aware of the importance of weight and multifunctionality. In some cases, we sacrifice weight for quality, knowing that we simply could not afford for certain equipment to be destroyed. With Samaya tents, we didn’t feel like we had to sacrifice either. This was our first time using these tents, without having had the opportunity to test them before departure. The Samaya2.5 was light enough to be carried to the advanced base camp, while being large enough not to make us feel like we were in a "road tent," allowing us to sleep side-by-side with our personal gear stored next to each of us. Outside, the vestibule was the perfect size for one of us to sit and cook during storms while still containing our loaded ski backpacks and ski boots. For us, this is the ideal tent setup. I am obsessed with organization and a little extra personal space in a tent allows me to maintain it. Deep inside that Samaya cocoon, I loved listening to the sound of light snow sliding down the walls. I was galvanized by the feeling of the warm sleeping bag inside, simultaneously protected and hugged by the mountains.

 

This type of expedition offers phenomenal quality time with one's rope partners, which is almost impossible to experience otherwise. After years of interruption due to the global Covid-19 pandemic, I was so honored and excited to return to experience these emotions in such majestic mountains with my friend Robin. We not only laughed, but we also had difficult conversations that forced us to grow as individuals and as friends.

 

It’s important to be able to maintain such deep relationships, especially when things don’t go as planned. Perhaps that is part of what makes an adventure an adventure. This time, a very specific equipment failure led me to a complete emotional breakdown, questioning everything and wondering if I would ever go on an expedition again. I didn't think we would be able to overcome this challenge. We did. But the emotional cost incurred will stay with me.

 

We would have liked to ski more than one mountain, discovering new possibilities as we pushed further into the valley. After making a first descent on a gigantic, steep, icy face, we knew it was time to start leaving the mountains. If my repaired gear had failed on that mountain, I would have been dead. We didn't want to test our luck.

 

My return home always overwhelms me with mixed feelings, conflicting emotions, and big questions that I struggle to manage. I wrestle with the "why." I question a lot of things, both high in the mountains and down in the valley. I wonder if and when I will do something similar again. After 17 years of trips similar to this one, I still cannot articulate, even to myself, the reason why I put myself in danger. The reason why I ask friends to do the same. I now have a wife, an adorable dog, a wonderful home, and yet I regularly pack my ski bags and leave, assuming—but not knowing for sure—that I will return. I always intend to come home, if only to pet my dog and prepare for another adventure. I don't resist the urge to leave; I embrace it.”

 

©Photographs taken by Brody Leven and Robin Hill @brodyleven @chefrobinhill