THE RELATIVITY OF A DREAM

We sat in Chris’s slightly darkened student room as the DVD slid into the laptop with a soft whir. It was the year 2004 when Matchstick Productions’ Focused ignited the spark of our seemingly unreachable longing. Alaska – a new world, nothing was bigger and at the same time nothing felt further away.

In the years that followed, we scraped together everything we had just to be in the mountains. Used gear and rusty VW vans carried us through the winters. Film projects and first sponsors followed – yet Alaska remained a vague vision, too absurd to seriously consider in our situation at the time. We explored Europe, skied in Chamonix, La Grave, Verbier and other renowned resorts, but Alaska still felt distant as we sat in a VW van in Engelberg eating tuna pasta outside a restaurant.

Season followed season, university years came to an end, and almost unnoticed we had entered working life – without ever having been to Alaska. We could feel the window for experiencing Alaska as young men slowly beginning to close. But the force of potential regret made us rethink everything. Every conversation brought new confidence, a quiet sense of euphoria began to grow.

Twenty years after Shane McConkey and Seth Morrison had shown us the promised land, we booked our flights to Anchorage – three weeks in Alaska, one of them with a helicopter. We could hardly believe it. We told ourselves not to set expectations too high, yet they were a constant companion.

The four of us – Markus and Stefan completing the group – arrived in Anchorage, picked up our slightly run-down camper and drove to Valdez. Decent weather and poor snow conditions did little to dampen our motivation. Standing on top of Acapulco, an endless mountain landscape stretched out before us. After all those years, it felt unreal to finally be there.

A massive low-pressure system abruptly ended our days in Valdez, and we set off for Haines. More than ever, our thumbs nervously searched for reliable weather data while we clung to every bit of hope.

Haines taught us otherwise – expectations don’t create powder days in Alaska. At Haines Pass there was dense fog and strong wind; in town, rain deepened the mood, and no improvement was in sight. The days passed, and it became increasingly difficult to stay motivated. Small ski tours felt like attempts to make something out of nothing.

Our final week began at the heli lodge, but once again it meant waiting. One short run, then standstill. The distillation of 20 years of imagination and expectation covered the landscape with disappointment. Was that it?

Not quite. We got our Alaska moment. Blue skies, fresh snow – and us, finally. Cathedrals of snow, sculptures of rock and ice, rose above the vastness. We had arrived. Overwhelmed and relieved, we experienced, for a few hours, what Alaska can be. We tried to squeeze everything out of that moment – some wishes were fulfilled, others remained just that.

One last time, the helicopter approached with a deep rumble, snow swirling around us as we secured our gear. We climbed in, smiling at each other as it lifted off. Exhausted and content, our eyes drifted across the glowing peaks one last time.

The return to Anchorage became a task. The trip was over, and we were looking forward to home. At the same time, a subtle emptiness set in. Was it exhaustion? Had we expected more? We found ourselves analyzing the experience instead of simply feeling it.

Back home, spring and everyday life were waiting. The following weeks were devoted to recovery.

 

In the second week of May, the air was mild and my son was playing in the garden when Markus called me. “Have you seen the news? Accident. Chris. Bus.” I searched for the reports, my stomach tightening. Images of a completely wrecked VW van – it was his. One person dead, one seriously injured. Disbelief.

In the weeks that followed, Chris fought for his life. Words like “miracle” and “everything will change” dominated the conversations. The quiet dissatisfaction about our trip was suddenly drowned out by the looming threat of loss. Solidarity, empathy, and unity took their place.

The intensity of these events forced a reevaluation. We didn’t know if we would ever be in the mountains together again. It became clear that all those years spent together in the mountains had been a privilege, not something to be taken for granted. We had focused on distorted images that had obscured what truly mattered.

We had experienced this adventure together. And I was incredibly relieved that we had done it. A deep sense of gratitude set in, and with a smile I replayed the shared moments of the past years in my mind. Imperfect, individual, and real.

 

Chris survived, despite the severity of his injuries, and fought his way back with remarkable determination. A few months later, I pushed him out of the cinema in a wheelchair as we were already talking about Alaska again.

We have to go back – not because we missed something, but to be there together again.

✒️ Daniel Feichtinger