Bucegi Natural Park, Romania, July 11th–14th, 2016
It hadn't been a great season. But down in the valleys, the snow had held on just as it does every year. Usually, around July 20th, I clean my gear and pack it away for the summer. This year, though, After Winter would mean one more edit — filmed on the last patch of snow left on the plateau.
Before heading up with my board, I go looking for the place with the most snow. It's July 8th. In a valley near the Coștila relay station, I find a patch left over from winter. It isn't big, but it's long enough for what I have in mind. I can already picture the kicker. This is the place.
On Saturday, I prepare my gear, pick up a few supplies, then ask my father to help me sharpen the shovel with an angle grinder.
Around noon on Sunday, the wind finally dies down and the cable car starts running. I smile. Backpack on, bag in hand, I head up. At Cabana Babele, I unpack, leave my things behind, and head straight back outside.
Something tells me there might be more snow somewhere. I walk around and search. Nothing. The patch near the relay station is still the best option. Every now and then, I set up the GoPro for a timelapse, then simply stand there with my hands behind my head, taking in the view.
Sergiu has work to do. This time, I'm on my own.
At 7:30, I head down for dinner. There's no one there. Slightly confused, I start looking around until I find the opening hours: 8:00 a.m.–10:00 p.m. I wait. Eat. Then grab my gear and head towards the snow.
I shoot a few opening frames and get to work. I already know exactly what I want to build. I set my watch to go off every hour. Each alarm means a ten-minute break. Dig. Move snow. Shape. The watch goes off again. And again. I'd started at ten. When the 7 p.m. alarm goes off, I decide I've done enough for the day.
The next day, it rings another four times. Then I put down the shovel. And pick up my board.
Every morning and evening, the sheep from the nearby shepherd camp pass by. At first, the dogs bark at me. After a few days, we become friends. The shepherds also begin to understand what I'm doing out there, alone, in the middle of summer. It's warm. The kicker slowly melts and constantly needs reshaping. But I'm warmed up too, and the tricks start coming together. I set the camera on the tripod, attach the remote to my pants, and keep going. Climb. Start the camera. Ride. Walk back up. Repeat.
There's no one behind the camera. Just me, the kicker, and the last patch of snow. Close to sunset, I pack everything up and leave. The weather begins to turn. I don't mind. It's already Thursday, and the adventure is coming to an end.
On Friday, I wake up at 5 a.m. I step outside and, for a moment, I think I can hear something. I stop. Traditional music and distant cheering are drifting all the way up from Peștera. I smile. I grab my gear and start walking towards the spot where I'd planned to shoot the sunrise. I'm not sure how long I have before the sun appears, so I change my mind and keep going towards Pylon 5. It's farther away. But the shot is better. I pick up the pace. I get there, set up the gear, and frame the shot. And right on cue, the sun appears. I film. For a few moments, I simply watch the morning light spread across the Bucegi Mountains. Then I head back, collect my things, and make my way home.
The season could end now.
Probably.
