First published in Issue 17.4 of The Ski Journal.
It would be seven years, a professional ski career, college degree and marriage before I returned to snow in Türkiye. I arrived with my wife, Alexa, photographer friend Ross Downard and filmmaker Hennie Van Jaarsveld hoping to unite my two worlds that, until that time, had lived separately. Navigating a convoluted family history, complex cultural translation and even the tragedy of natural disaster, we looked toward the mountains of memory to make my story whole.
Giray Dadali and Turkish ski guide Ercan Selim Kolbakır make their way up to ski the trophy line of our trip. The day before, we were met with challenging avalanche conditions, but after recon and a snow pit analysis, our guide felt good about just him and Giray venturing higher, leaving the support crew with their snowmobiles in safer zones.
Born to a Turkish father and American mother, I grew up in Bristol, NY, as the youngest of five children. Our large family was my dad’s way of building his own community to supplement the relatives that had moved back to Türkiye through the decades. My father helped develop the Turkish community of Rochester, NY, a community centered around the mosque. Living an hour to the south, trips were difficult, but my parents brought us into the Turkish community once a week. Like many other first-generation families, the native language didn’t quite pass down, and as we got older, it made it harder to feel like an insider at gatherings. I still traveled to Türkiye every few years, strengthening bonds with our relatives and, on our father’s hopes, connecting with Turkish culture.
As the years passed, my brother, Ahmet, and I gravitated toward a different love: skiing. Western New York had emerged as a freeskier hotspot in the early 2000s, attracting enthusiasts with local terrain park events and iconic backyard setups. We met other skiers such as Will Wesson, Erik Olson, Ross Imburgia and Andy Parry, and started our own ski video production company, I Hate New York. By 2008, I took it further, relocating to Utah to pursue my own ski aspirations.
Yet during this journey, I realized that I was surrounded by skiers already part of their own self-fulfilling legacy. Films portrayed skiers traveling to far-off places, with no connection to the land. Media felt like it was passed down between a narrow subset of athletes, the stories of native skiers notably missing. My quest to ski in Türkiye became personal. I knew my family in Istanbul had dabbled in the sport, but it felt like there wasn’t a relatable athlete on a bigger stage to show how possible it really was. Mountaineers like Nimsdai showcased their heritage’s lands, inspiring the Nepalese and breaking stereotypes—maybe the same could happen in Türkiye, I thought. I’d seen the mountains, I’d heard about the skiing, but maybe seeing it all in person—and documenting it for generations to come—could provide some spark.
Ercan and Giray finishing skiing back to the Ovit 2640 Hotel at the end of the day. The view is typical of many mountain villages, but the mosque in the bottom of the frame adds a bit of cultural context.
Blessed by abundant snowfall off the Black Sea, Ovit Mountain of the Kaçkar Range in Northeast Türkiye has a history deeper than its snowpack. Ovit Pass once formed a crux along the Silk Road, facilitating trade between the Far East and the Western world.
In 1836, Sultan Mahmud II entrusted the Ekşi family with protecting the Ovit region and ensuring the safety of weary travelers. As early as the 1880s, the Ottomans had talked of a tunnel to mitigate the challenges of this trading route (such a structure wasn’t opened until over a century later) and control of the area was ceded to the Turkish Republic in the 1960s. However, Ruşen Ekşi, a descendant of the original Ekşi family, reclaimed the land in 2014. His vision? To transform Ovit Mountain into a winter sports destination. Ruşen, with the help of entrepreneur and snowmobile enthusiast Çaka Bademli, officially opened Ovit Mountain in 2021, a lodge and ski area catering specifically to backcountry skiers and snowmobilers.
We arrived just a few days after a 7.8 magnitude earthquake struck Türkiye’s southern border, killing over 50,000 people and upending the country. It was a trip that almost didn’t happen, especially after long talks of burdening a population still reeling from tragedy. But after speaking with friends on the ground and quickly gathering as much relief aid from friends at home as possible, we made our way east, hoping to bring some light (and business) to the region.
Ovit had sent all their mountain guides to be with family, but before leaving Salt Lake City, we managed to find an Ankara-based guide willing to lead our group. All we had to do was buy a plane ticket from Ankara, the nation’s capital, to nearby Trabzon. Done. It was a shaky verbal agreement, and as we boarded a flight half a world away, we just hoped he would show up.
Ercan Selim Kolbakır did more than show up. Getting off the plane, the veteran mountain man’s clothes oozed European ski guide: tassled hat, technical pants, sunglasses—and a cigarette on standby. But his face, distinctly Turkish like mine, was one I’ve never seen in the mountains before. He offered a warm embrace and a powerful aura that swept over the crew. On the two-hour shuttle from Trabzon to the Ovit Tunnel, he regaled us with tales of his mountain training in Canada, the 50-plus ascents of Mount Aratat, Türkiye’s tallest peak at 16,854 feet, and the evolving history of backcountry skiing in the country.
top to bottom, left to right Ovit provides a full selection of rental gear if needed. Yigit, the hotel’s manager, looks on as Giray sets up some Daymaker Adapters he was donating to the lodge. Ercan chats with Giray's wife, Alexa, in the foreground.
Most of the town of Ovit is owned by the Ekşi family. Most of the homes are their summer residences which can be accessed again once the road melts out.
Heading towards Kartalkaya Ski Resort, a few hours outside Istanbul, this person was strategically located at snowline. He was ready with snow chain rentals for all the two-wheel drive vehicles struggling to make it up, which included us. After an hour of Google translation and some nifty tire work, we were finally on our way.
On our way up to Ovit we stopped for tea in the small town of Güneyce in the Ikizdere Valley. Giray was invited to play Rumikub and the hosts would not take “no” for an answer.
One of Giray's big goals on this adventure was to inspire the Turkish locals to see what is possible on skis. Giray built a jump outside the lodge for the staff and guides to get involved. The response was electric.
Miles from any plowed road, the Ovit 2640 Hotel is on their own for any maintenance problems. This particular snowmobile was having issues with the throttle, so they pulled it into the crew’s quarters for repairs.
There is no internationally recognized certification program for mountain guides in Türkiye, but Ercan, like many guides in the country, decided to take matters into his own hands. He earned his IMFGA certification in Canada before opening Montis Trips & Expeditions over a decade ago. Since then, he’s worked to advocate for the sport at home, but the road has been a long and slow one. Gear and knowledge remain difficult barriers to entry, and many folks try skiing once, but don’t consider it a lifestyle. Still, he said, through operations like Ovit, there were more opportunities than ever for that community to grow.
It was hard to see that community, or anything really, as we ascended higher up the pass. A heavy fog enveloped our van and all we could see was bare ground. My hopes of scoring deep sea effect seemed to have evaporated before we touched down, and as we passed into the darkness of Ovit Tunnel, doubt crept in. Suddenly, however, we emerged to a world transformed. Blue skies and new snow glistened on untouched mountain peaks. Abruptly, the van made a U-turn on the highway and pulled over next to a team of snowmobile drivers—our chauffeurs into the alpine.
It wasn’t a luxury ride— almost six miles on overworked machines in the milky white of the basin. We wound through abandoned villages until we met two giant English sheep dogs and a friendly face. Yiğit, a school friend of Ruşen, was also Ovit’s operation manager and our point of contact. Hustling us inside, he quickly got down to business. “Espresso martini?” he asked as a well-dressed bartender carried an entire fleet of drinks behind him. Did we take a wrong turn?
LEFT PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT Giray lined up this wind lip on the first day, carving a 360 off it in the belly of the prominent mountain face we called “The Shark’s Tooth.” Later that week, Giray and Ercan got to ski it. Photo: Alexa Dadali
Treasures of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. Photo: Alexa Dadali
Giray taking a moment to reflect inside the Hagia Sophia Mosque in Istanbul. Built in the sixth century, the mosque is home to some controversy. It was originally built as a church—for a time it was the largest church in the world—but was converted to a mosque in the 1400s. In the early 1900s it was converted into a museum, before becoming a mosque once again in 2019.
No trip to Türkiye is complete without tea. Every Turkish person has a tea man, someone who keeps their cup full and keeps the neighborhood consistently stocked with hot, flavorful liquid.
Yiğit spoke with a British accent, having studied software engineering in the U.K. before taking over at the upstart ski destination. Far from my dark fantasies of staying in a decrepit barn, this was absolute luxury. As a storm howled outside, we ate seared shrimp, heaping salads and fresh-baked olive bread. Finally connecting our internet searches to this comfortable reality, we couldn’t believe our luck.
The following morning, we were greeted by a blanket of fresh snow. Metin, Ovit’s restaurant manager, handed me a Turkish coffee. “This could be home,” I thought. Historically speaking, it once was.
My grandparents had arrived to Türkiye after escaping the Russian-led Crimean Tatar genocide with my aunt Zulfiye. Soon after arriving in Istanbul, Mustafa Dadali and my grandmother Lutfia welcomed my father and uncle into the world. Eventually, the Dadalis immigrated to New York City in the 1960s, but many would return to Türkiye in the following decades. My father stayed behind, finding a nice parcel of land in Western New York and starting a family. While I have slowly learned my family’s history over the years, the natural surroundings of this place suddenly brought my story full circle. Peering out the lodge windows, I was struck by peaks riddled with big rock faces and couloirs, with natural quarter pipes and rollers carved out from the wind.
On this particular day the weather was not on our side. Communication was difficult, and waiting for tiny pockets of light was not easy. Despite the challenges, Giray was able to seek out this faint sliver of sun.
Ercan stood mesmerized. “What’s the plan?” he asked eagerly. After a full breakfast spread of fresh cut fruits, olive bread, local honey and cheese from the valley, we were shuttled onto snowmobiles by a giant of a man called “Snowman,” heading up, and then up some more.
Our first run in Türkiye dropped into silky turns on a smooth surface of wind buffed snow. It’s the kind of dream intro that makes anything feel possible. Ercan and I were eager to tour to bigger terrain, but it wasn’t long before a whoomph in the snowpack dashed those plans. From the skin track, we both looked at each other. The wind loading from yesterday’s storm had done more damage than we thought, leaving most of the eye-catching terrain off limits. We settled for a flowy series of rollers down a channel that was just under 30 degrees. I dropped first. The snow was pure cream, uninterrupted. The rollers and ravine guided every turn like a banked slalom run. Ercan dropped next. I could hear his hoots break through the nervous tension from earlier. We were alive.
Throughout our eight days at Ovit, we grew more accustomed to the landscape and the ever-changing weather. Moist air off the Black Sea quickly turned bluebird mornings to clouds and snow showers, which often persisted throughout the day. We found ourselves digging pits and setting up shots in storms, hoping for a brief window of light. Each day I felt more at home. These mountains were new, but not foreign.
TOP TO BOTTOM, LEFT TO RIGHT Low hanging clouds persisted our first few days at Kartalkaya, but it didn’t stop folks from showing up in droves from the capital.
Despite low visibility at Kartalkaya, Giray got back to his urban roots just behind the Kaya Palazzo Lounge.
Giray’s passion for skiing and sharing the sport he loves was the driver of this trip. Giray’s cousin Engin and his family joined us when we visited the resort of Kartalkaya. Here, Giray works with Engin’s wife, Nagihan, on technique.
Nagihan’s face says it all as she slides on skis for her first time at Kartalkaya Resort.
A week after Ovit, Arya walked off the ski hill with a smile on her face. It was my niece’s first day skiing and one of the only times the 4-year-old had been on snow. Replete with a few minor breakdowns, we were attempting a different challenge, this time of the toddler variety. Kartalkaya was four and a half hours from Arya’s Istanbul home, but remained a new language for the newest Dadali.
Her father Engin had lived with us in the U.S. growing up, and even after returning to Türkiye to start his family, felt like a brother more than a cousin. When he heard we were coming to Türkiye, he jumped at the chance to go skiing together. I knew he’d spent a few days here and there, but even though I’d visited a handful of times, we’d never actually skied together. Watching him on the slopes, even a decade since his last turns, brought a certain gravity to the moment. The skiing wasn’t epic, but the impact settled somewhere in my chest. We lapped run after run, my red jacket serving as a beacon through a dense and settling fog. He needed this. I think I did too.
Even after my family’s departure, the young mountain community Ercan had alluded to high on Ovit unveiled itself on the flanks of Kartalkaya. There wasn’t a pair of twin tip skis in sight, but a snowboard competition was in full swing. An airbag jump had been set up and suddenly I was sessioning a lip with Turkish kitesurf instructors. Snow formed a common bond here just as it did back in North America, a comforting familiarity.
For so many years, I had felt mentally tormented by the pressures of Turkish society at home, that skiing had uprooted me from family and made me different from other Turks. But what if skiing could actually bring me closer to my community, to being Dadali, than ever before?
As we prepared to head back to the city, a text from Engin came through. It was Arya. She couldn’t stop talking about the next time they would ski.
TOP TO BOTTOM, LEFT TO RIGHT The terrain at Ovit Mountain offers everything from big and technical lines to gentle 30-degree slopes. Scattered in between, you can find a wide variety of natural features. Giray nails a flat spin 360 Japan grab on a long gully run.
Giray skiing under the last rays of the day. Early and late light made for many moments of gratitude amid the natural beauty of the country’s northeast.
Sunset at the Ovit 2640 Hotel after a great day of skiing the Kaçkar Mountains. The hotel served as a fitting retreat, with staff treating us like family and serving up traditional Turkish food and hospitality.