1. 147146 WINTER | 2012
somewhere
in
I’m going to start this story off with a
quote from Leonardo DiCaprio in The
Beach, circa 2000. You remember that
one, right? There’s that secret tropi-
cal paradise in Thailand that young Leo
hears about from an old drunk guy. He
eventually finds the place, but shit goes
down when a bunch of other people show
up because he told them about the place
during his voyage there? Anyways, this
is what Leo says: “This island may not
actually exist. And even if it does, I don’t
know if we can get there or not. There
are only a few people who know exactly
where it is, and they keep it absolutely
secret. I just feel like everyone tries to do
something different, but you always wind
up doing the same damn thing.”
with Dom Vallee, Shayne Zwickel, Miikka Hast and Jonas Hagström
by Eric Greene, photos by Geoff Andruik
italy
Shayne enjoying something other than a box of cooking wine.
Best birthday ever.

2. 149148 WINTER | 2012
O
ur story is similar to that of The
Beach, minus the tropical setting
and savage murder. I’ll take you
back to the very start to clarify where we
step in. A young pro snowboarder from Ita-
ly is riding halfpipe contests on the World
Cup tour. After months on the road in for-
eign territories, he eventually befriends a
Finnish guy. The Italian tells the Fin about
a secret powder paradise hidden in a quiet
corner of his homeland that nobody knows
about. On the average day, there will be
five to 10 people riding this ski resort with
steep trees and waist-deep fluff. It sounds
too good to be true, but stranger places
do exist in this world. One night, the two
friends are out having drinks during a
contest trip in Chile, and after one too
many drinks, the Italian lets the name of
the place casually slip out. The Fin scars
it into his memory bank for a later day.
Fast-forward a few years to a time when
the Fin has left the contest tour and ma-
tured into a powder-hunting backcountry
hustler. He meets a new friend from Swe-
den who is like-minded in his quest for
powder, and the two of them set out to find
this Italian paradise that may or may not
be real. Well, they find it. And it is steeper
and deeper than anywhere they have ever
been, and there’s nobody there. The two
Scandinavian friends stay there for weeks
upon weeks and the snow doesn’t stop.
They leave in the spring and set off to
occupy their time somehow until it snows
again in the fall and they can return.
This is what happens next. The Finnish
guy ends up in Indonesia, surfing away
the dreary fall weather at home, and he
bumps into a Canadian girl who he knows
from the halfpipe contest scene of his
former life. They end up making out, and
as their relationship develops romanti-
cally, he mentions the powder paradise
to her one morning—pillow talk, I believe
it’s known as. The Canadian girl shows a
very keen interest in accompanying him
when he returns to Italy, and as the Fin is
lost in passion, he consents to her request.
A couple of months later when is
it decided to return to the powder of
unknown Italy, the Canadian girl men-
tions that she still plans to join the
Scandinavians in their quest, but she
will also bring two friends and a camera-
man with her from home. Perhaps this
sounds a bit intrusive considering the
secretive nature of this destination, but
alas, she is a woman, and he is a man
left with no choice but to succumb.
So here we are. The Finnish man is
Miikka Hast, and his Swedish friend is
Jonas Hagström. The Canadian girl is
Dom Vallee, and her friends are myself
and Shayne Zwickel, with Geoff An-
druik as the cameraman. As a result of
this chain reaction of untold secrets,
we are all here in the illusive pow-
der paradise, somewhere in Italy.
“How did you hear of this place?” the
man asks politely. We’ve just arrived
at the lone pizzeria in the quiet vil-
lage and are checking into a small
dormitory room that they rent by the
night. The man is having dinner alone,
as there are no other customers in
the restaurant. He is smiling, but his
eyes are stern—worried almost. Large
snowflakes hammer down outside
in the dark, and had we been an hour
behind schedule, I doubt we would’ve
made it through the mountain pass.
“I’m sorry, but the person who told
me of this place made me promise
to not repeat their name,” I answer.
“Nor am I to mention the name of
this place to anyone else.” His smile
widens and his eyes soften as he
reaches for another slice of pizza.
“Good,” he says. His nicotine-stained
teeth shine in his mouth through a mass
of half-chewed pizza, and he laughs
in hysterics. “Welcome, my friends!”
he adds. “And do not say your friend’s
name who told you of this place or we
will kill him.” His laughter continues
as he turns back to his meal and we
drag our luggage off to our room.
‘Welcome, my friends!’ he adds.
‘And do not say your friend’s name
who told you of this place or we will
kill him.’ His laughter continues as
he turns back to his meal and we
drag our luggage off to our room.
One playground in plain view of another.
Greener hits the adult version.
Eric launches into neck deep dust.
What’ll you have sir?
Eric manning the taps.

3. 151150 WINTER | 2012
J
onas and Miikka both claim
this town is haunted. They’ve
spent about a dozen weeks
here in total and say they haven’t
slept a single night. They just roll
around in the bunk beds and check
the clock every few minutes until
daylight creeps through the cur-
tains. We gather around a table in
the empty restaurant for breakfast
the following morning, and it has
snowed more than a metre over-
night. I slept like a drunk infant after
the long journey from Canada, so
I immediately dismiss their sug-
gestion of any nighttime curse.
We’re skeptical if the mountain
will even open, but when we walk
over to the lone chairlift and the
proprietor sees us, he starts warm-
ing up the gears. We hand him a few
euros in cash, and he tests all of our
avalanche beacons before send-
ing us up. There are high elevation
Alps at the top of the ski resort, but
it is still dumping buckets so we’re
forced to remain lower in the trees.
The entire fall line of the mountain is
quite steep, so even though there is
no hope of keeping our boards above
the surface, we’re still able to ride
through the snow as it barrels off our
chests. Face masks are absolutely
essential in the powder paradise.
By the afternoon there are about 12
people in total on the mountain. We’re
a group of six. We bump into one of
the other guests at the bottom of the
chairlift and discover that it’s none
other than Filippo Kratter, Italian pro
snowboarder and national celebrity.
He’s shocked to see us and immediate-
ly offers up the already familiar, “How
did you find out about this place?”
Dom replies with as vague an answer
as possible, explaining the sworn
secrecies, and it seems that Filippo
and his friend accept our presence.
After one day, we’ve been in town long
enough to realize there are four business-
es: the pizzeria/hotel, a café, a market
and the ski hill. We’re basically the only
guests utilizing said businesses, and I
have a rough idea of what electricity, food
and alcohol cost, so I can easily put two
and two together to know that these busi-
nesses aren’t even breaking even from
our investment. On top of this, the locals
all seem to drive expensive new cars and
talk on their iPhones all day. Some-
thing smells like fish in this place, but
given the fragility of our presence and
knowledge of the area in the first place,
I’m not about to raise any questions.
We quickly sink into the only routine
that seems possible in these mountains.
We wake up and have a long breakfast
that consists of eating bread, drinking
coffee, and talking about powder. After
that, we gear up and walk over to the
chairlift where we ride powder all day
until our legs give out. Next, we have
a bit of downtime to dry out our gear,
stretch, read, or whatever. Dinner takes
between two and three hours, as we each
try our best to conquer an entire pizza,
balancing the food consumption with a
bottomless cask of wine. Dinner is fol-
lowed by coffee and grappa before we
retire to our rooms to sleep. It’s a simple
routine but entirely fulfilling. Italians
have it all figured out in my opinion.
In our communal room, Shayne takes
over the bunk that’s stuffed into a narrow
hallway that leads nowhere. It quickly
becomes a nest of dirty laundry, pizza
boxes, avalanche gear, and empty bottles.
I catch him sitting in there one night
with a questionable-looking box of wine.
“Did you buy a box of cook-
ing wine?” I inquire.
“Yeah,” he answers. “It was one euro.”
“But you could have bought a decent
bottle of wine for two euros,” I argue.
“I know, but this box was half the price,”
he states calmly. I turn away in defeat.
“On the average day, there will
be five to 10 people riding this
ski resort with steep trees and
waist-deep fluff. It sounds too
good to be true, but stranger
places do exist in this world.”
Packing 101.
Midway through the sketchy lap,
Mikka sends it in the sun.

4. 153152
T
he sun finally comes out, so we
make sure we’re at the chair-
lift waiting as soon as it starts
turning. We build a couple of step-down
jumps and narrow gaps through the trees
to get busy. I find some stumps to launch
off, and we all agree that it feels pretty
damn good to jump off of anything when
you’re landing in neck-deep dust. We
head down to the village in the afternoon
because Shayne had mentioned an urban
feature he noticed the night before when
he was wandering around aimlessly by
himself. The feature ends up being pretty
cool. It’s an ancient hotel wall that could
easily have a jump built off the nearby
street corner to launch onto it. We get it
set up quickly and don’t see a person in
the streets the entire time we’re there.
But just as we’re about to start sending, a
young and attractive female police officer
shows up to kill the party. She is extreme-
ly nice but mentions that she’s under
strict orders from the mayor to send us
home if we don’t purchase a permit that
allows us to shoot photos and shovel
snow onto the street. My confusion is that
the streets are already covered in snow
and we merely kicked a bit of it around to
smooth out the surface. Our arguments
prove futile, and in order for Shayne to
jump the wall, Dom and I have to walk
over to the mayor’s office to purchase
the “permit.” When we arrive, we are
informed that the “permit” is 100 Euros,
payable in cash only. I take it as another
clue about the sneaky money that seems
to circulate around this town as I buck up.
The next day is March 5. I know this
because March 5 is my birthday and
it’s a day I recognize every year. I’ve
never been a big birthday person, but I
always enjoy a small gathering and a few
cocktails in good company. This year,
however, I awake with a sense of melan-
choly and, although we’re in exotic Italy
and should not be complaining about
anything, I know that finding a party of
any form in this village will be hopeless.
But the sun is out and the snow is deep,
so off we go to celebrate in the best way I
know how. After a few runs, we stop on an
open ridge giving way to a picturesque
view of the underlying valley, and all of a
sudden the others start unloading picnic
items from their backpacks. When riding
in the Alps, backpacks should commonly
be used for avalanche and safety gear,
but I’m touched by their efforts, so I keep
this thought to myself as they spread
out an array of wine, pizza, cheese and
baguettes. Shayne handymans up a fire
and Dom reveals a corkscrew from her
pants pocket, speakers are connected to
an iPod, and we begin to feast and laugh
and drink and cheers with each other.
Maybe I’ll claim it as my best birthday
ever because I can’t think of a better one.
Later that night we feast again on pizza
and turn the pizzeria into a discoteca
with everyone we can find in town.
There’s a decent turnout, but the large
restaurant could probably accommodate
about 600 more guests. In the morn-
ing I can’t remember when I went to
sleep, but I know that Andruik closed his
night down around 4 a.m. We drag our
asses back up the mountain about two
hours behind Miikka, Jonas and Shayne,
who have begun a long hike around
the highest peak to score one of those
once-in-a-lifetime-Warren-Miller-film
runs. Andruik sets up his long, National
Geographic lens from across the valley,
and we witness the boys get some glory
turns that are just not possible to find
in Canada. After the big mountain show,
Dom steps to some aggressive straight
lines and pillows in the trees before
Shayne closes the day down with an old-
school tuck-knee Indy off a large cliff.
With days upon days of sun, we
continue to venture further and further
across the peaks. After a lengthy morn-
ing traverse, Miikka and Jonas suggest
we ride down a ridge that aims directly
away from the village because they’re
“pretty sure” it will take us to a nearby
town a ways down the road that we can
easily hitchhike home from. These boys
have already proven themselves to me
tenfold, so I’m the first one to drop into
the precarious wilderness. Not far down
we run into an abandoned village that
is in ruins and buried in snow. There are
at least 20 buildings including a grand
scenic church. It normally would have
seemed a very creepy setting, but the sun
brightens up the sketch factor of the rows
of deserted homes. Miikka builds a jump
between two crumbled buildings and
greases a handful of tricks off it. It’s near
dark when we continue down the valley,
and before we realize it, we’ve run out of
snow and are jumping over water holes
and crevices in the bottom of a dark over-
hanging ravine. It’s night when we finally
connect with the road, and although it’s
close to the dumbest, most dangerous
run I’ve ever taken in my life, I’m still
appreciative of the Scandinavians who
just can’t seem to let the adventure stop.
...We all agree
that it feels pret-
ty damn good
to jump off of
anything when
you’re landing in
neck-deep dust.
Now you don’t. Zwickel gets white-roomed.Now you see him.
The lady that secured the destination.
Ms. Vallée enjoying the private mountain.
WINTER | 2012

5. 155154 WINTER | 2012
I
’ll interject with a brief note here
to declare that this type of routine
continues on for some days, so I’m
not really sure as to what happened of
significance and in what order. We did
the same stuff for what felt like a very
long time: rode a lot of powder, ate a lot
of pizza, blah, blah, blah… I’ll spare you.
The next interesting thing we
discover is the river that runs paral-
lel to the village. Actually, the river
is nothing special, but on the far side
of this river lies a collection of steep
fluted spines that run down to the flow-
ing water. They’re so blatantly obvi-
ous that you don’t even notice they’re
there. I walk over a bridge and up to
the top of the ridgeline, and after I look
over the edge, I turn and sprint back
down to grab my board. But the light
sucks, so Andruik begs us to wait.
The following morning we go back to
the river at sunrise, and Shayne and I
track out the entire face in less than half
an hour. The slope is steep, fast and ba-
sically inside the town. The final line I
ride would run straight into a children’s
playground had it not been for the river
at the bottom. After the rapid descents,
we unstrap and take 10 steps across the
street for a morning coffee at the café.
During our stay we’ve become so ca-
sual with those who work at the pizzeria
and the café that they encourage us to
act as if we’re at home. At the pizzeria
we’re allowed to prepare our own pizzas
and even step behind the bar to pour a
drink if we feel like it. At the café they
insist on hosting a dinner for our entire
group on our last night in town. We
burn through about eight courses, and
Jonas pulls out his guitar after the meal
to belt out some Paul Simon and Neil
Young covers to everyone in attendance.
It’s some good, small town Italian fun.
So, there you have it. We depart the
next day and make our separate ways
to different airports and train stations,
heading off to wherever we’re aiming
for next. As I sit in Rome by myself,
I wonder why it felt like I was riding
powder for so long that nothing else
existed in life, yet now it feels like it
all occurred so fast that I can barely
appreciate it. I guess I’ll just have to go
back next year when it snows again.
We all swore to keep a pact to never
mention the name of the powder para-
dise, and I will stay true to that. But may-
be I’ll sketch a map someday and hide
it somewhere clever. After all, what’s
the fun in keeping a secret if there isn’t
a bit of danger of letting it slip out?
We’re basically the only
guests utilizing said
businesses, and I have
a rough idea of what
electricity, food and
alcohol cost, so I can
easily put two and two
together to know that
these businesses aren’t
even breaking even
from our investment.
This wallride was paid
for. Literally. Zwickel
sessions a $100 wall.
Dom takes a moment to
reflect on the chain of
events that led her here.
If you can spot an address or landmark
in this shot you could be one of only a
few to know the name of this town—
Dom Vallée being one of them.