"To Victory!" Six Days Backcountry Skiing in Georgia’s Caucasus Mountains

In the last few years, the tiny European country of Georgia has suddenly landed on the map as an otherworldly ski destination.

Sitting on the southern border of Russia and the western end of the Black Sea, Georgia is a country that’s been caught in wars since the 10th Century AD. Outside the capital city’s old town, the rows of concrete block buildings make it hard to ignore evidence of the Soviet Union’s 70-year occupation of the country.

Yet, beneath its war-torn history, Georgia is a country with a culture as rich as the smell of mulled wine that wafts down its cobbled streets and into one of the most magnificent mountain ranges you could imagine.

Over twelve days last month, I found myself immersed in Georgian culture deep in the Caucasus Mountains with my friend and professional skier, Caite Zeliff, Corey Fitzgerald, who is the owner of Northeast Mountaineering, and six dudes from the Eastern US (you’re all just as important to me, too, but a gal’s got a word count!).

It was every bit as epic a trip as you’d imagine; however, I returned home on the tail end of the news that my friend, Max Martin, had passed away while skiing in Japan.

To have such a beautiful experience punctuated by loss and tragedy is a set of emotions I haven’t quite figured out how to describe yet. The immense sadness threatened to wipe away the good memories of the week before. So, rather than let them slip away or darken, I’ve put them on paper (well, screen) for myself, and for anyone wondering what skiing is like in such a funny corner of the world. 

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Part 1: When a Georgian Man Says He’s Got Your Ski Bags, Let Him

I arrived in Georgia thirty hours after leaving my home in Oregon, exhausted, probably smelly, and in desperate need of a nap. I’d found three other members of our group, and after we breezed through customs, we collected all but two of our ski bags (Kyle and Tyler’s didn’t make it and were not seen for five more days).

We made our way into the front of the Tbilisi airport, where we were greeted by Corey and Caite. After watching a Georgian man quite literally throw each of our massive ski bags onto the roof of his minivan and tie them down with ropes, eight of us piled in and drove to our hotel in Old Town Tbilisi. 

Once everyone had had a shower and a nap, we feigned enough energy for a walking tour of Tbilisi. Over three hours and who knows how many miles, we were shown some of Tbilisi’s most historic landmarks and churches.

We rode a gondola up to the statue of the Mother of Georgia, and found ourselves short 120 Georgian Lari after we couldn’t resist taking photos with a bald eagle.

Some of the fatigue I was feeling was from the long travel day, and jet lag catching up with me, but Tbilisi had a truly magical, otherworldly quality.

The influence of other countries’ occupations was everywhere, as were hallmarks of Georgian culture. Georgians, according to Chinka, our tour guide, are particularly artistic. Street art depicting the many stray cats and dogs, local cuisine like khinkali and khachapuri, and mulled wine brought color to the grey-toned buildings and cobblestone streets.

I found myself wishing we could spend more time in Tbilisi, but the reminder that soon we’d be skiing made me think otherwise.

Part 2: Into the Mountains, But First A Soviet Era Jeep Ride

A six-hour bus ride from Tbilisi brought us to the tiny mountain town of Oni, where we’d stay in a cozy, 400-year-old guest house before heading into the mountains the following day.

Oni, which sits at the base of the Caucasus range, was bombed in 2008. The folks at our guest house could not have been happier to welcome us, share their home, food, wine, and culture with us.

The morning after arriving in Oni, we were greeted by a fleet of Soviet-era jeeps waiting to drive us to the trailhead. A road in particularly rough condition brought us up the Rioni river and to the base of the Caucasus mountains.

From there, we finally clicked into skis and started our walk up a snowmobile service road to the camp we’d call home for the next six days. 

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Our camp consisted of four tents that we shared in pairs, a main meal tent, and a sauna tent. The only women on the trip, Caite and I, were given the largest tent, and, like the others, it had two cots and a diesel heater inside.

We settled into camp, which was hosted by a Ukrainian man named Anton and a man from Belarus named Gleb, and then set off for a quick afternoon ski. 

A ridge through the trees proved to be a perfect skin track into the alpine terrain just above our 6,000ft camp. Although we’d skinned into the hut, it felt nice to stretch our legs and breathe in mountain air after multiple days of travel and being in cities. As we popped above treeline, Caite and Corey dug a snow pit and found a mildly reactive graupel layer a few inches into the fresh snow that hadn’t seemed to stop falling since we got to Oni. A large glide crack had been visible as we got above the trees as well, giving us some pause.

After evaluating the snowpack, Corey chose a mellow face for us to ski, and just as the sun set, we took our first turns of the trip in several fresh inches of light, low-density Georgia powder before descending into a creek bed and skinning back up into camp.

Part 3: Is it Georgian Pow That’s Soaking My Gore-Tex or Are We In Vermont?

The following days came with more snow, a few wet ski days, and getting used to the camp environment we were now calling home.

Our mornings started before the sun came up, which wasn’t saying much given the sun rose around 8:30 a.m., with breakfast that more often than not included cookies and a sludgy instant coffee. We’d set off into the trees into different parts of the forest that surrounded camp, with Corey and Caite heroically breaking trail in the fresh few inches of snow that fell each night.

Much to the delight of the New England skiers in our group (read: literally everyone but me), we skied one magnificent, powder-filled, tree-lined hallway after another.

Sometimes they were short laps, and we’d transition back as quickly as we could to go for more. Other times, the trees opened up into meadows filled with the low-density pow of our dreams, and I’d hear screams of delight coming over my radio.

We’d return to camp midday sometimes for a bowl of warm, hearty, vegetable soup and chunks of bread sledded in from Oni that we could not get enough of. We’d try to dry out our gloves or a layer and head back out for more.

Other days, we’d ski until it was nearly dark before heading home for dinner. After dinner, Gleb would get the sauna tent as hot as he could, and (mostly the boys) would sit in it for hours, easing their tired legs before bed.

We’d check the weather each day, but none of the forecasts were ever really right. Anton would throw out some arbitrary number, saying he was sure we’d get that much snow.

“Three more meters tonight, I tell you,” he’d say, shaking his head, “It’s too much snow!” None of us ever thought it was too much, but rather rejoiced as we skied more untracked snow each day, not another soul in sight.

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Part 4: The Biggest Mountains You’ve Ever Seen and the Biggest Whumpfs You’ve Ever Felt

Our last full day in camp was forecasted to be clear, freezing cold, but clear.

We hadn’t seen the mountains around us since our first day, but there was a peak above us that we were itching to ski. The graupel layer we’d found early on was no longer reactive, and Corey was confident the snowpack would allow us safe passage into the alpine.

We rose well before the sun (again, not saying much in the grand scheme of alpine starts), packed our bags, and set off on a perfect ridge skin track lit by our headlamps.

Just as the sun rose, we broke above treeline, and Caite set out ahead to break trail. I followed closely behind her as she ventured through deep snow and rolling terrain, climbing higher towards the sun that was just starting to hit the main ridge line. 

At long last, we hit the sun and realized it was the first we’d felt since arriving in Georgia. It quickly thawed our frozen cheeks and fingers and warmed our sore muscles.

We climbed up, up, up the ridge, taking in the magnificence of the valley around us, which we’d had no idea was there. The clouds cleared, revealing 360 degrees of high, jagged peaks around and above us.

After a few hours, we broke onto the main ridge and continued up along the edge of the cornice. The higher we got, the faster my heart beat, both because of the altitude and the patches of exposed rock peeking out around us.

A wind slab had formed on some aspects that reacted in our hand shears, but Caite and Corey decided on a route up and down that would keep us out of its way and in terrain under 30 degrees.

Before we knew it, we had topped out at 10,500 feet on Miriam Peak.

My eyes welled up as I approached the summit, and Corey brought me in for a hug.

I think everyone shed at least one tear up there. As we celebrated and prepared to ski down, the mountain rumbled beneath us and let out a massive whumpf. My blood ran cold. A few moments later, there was a crash, and below us, a piece of the cornice on the edge of the ridge collapsed into the basin below. We were in no danger ourselves, but the mountains spoke to us.

Quickly, we clicked into our skis and, one by one, started to ski down. We skied 1,500 feet of untouched, bluebird powder skiing over the craziest mountain range I’ve ever seen. There’s no way photos or videos would ever do the most epic turns of my life justice.

Once off the main ridge, we took our time, skiing every piece of rolling, alpine terrain we could. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, we arrived back at treeline, enjoyed a few last turns in the trees, and made our way back to camp happy and tired.

Part 5: A Spicy Exit Ski and Spicier Chacha Hangover

The sunshine was fleeting as our last day in camp arrived. After a short morning ski and lunch, we braced for what would inevitably be a spicy ski out on the snowmobile service road we’d skinned in.

With legs quaking after six days of skiing powder, we skied perhaps the scariest line of the whole trip, a rutted, thinly covered, snowmobile service road. I had never been happier to see our sketchy Soviet-era jeeps at the bottom.

The final night at our guest house in Oni brought a massive meal and, against our better judgment, the consumption of more than our fair share of a Georgian liquor called Chacha.

Despite the price we paid the next morning for our time in ‘Chacha land,’ it seemed like the perfect way to end our week.

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We boarded the bus back to Tbilisi, regretting every drop of chacha from the night before as it wound its way over mountain passes and back to the city.

A final night of khinkhali and ice cream served in a donut (yeah, we were stoked too) filled our bellies before long travel days home.

On our first day in Tbilisi, we’d learned that the Georgian phrase for ‘cheers’ translates roughly to ‘to Victory!’- a phrase we’d adopted early on that, in retrospect, really seemed to sum it all up.

Related: 8 Essential Pieces of Gear I Brought Backcountry Skiing in Georgia