At the upper end of a valley that begins on the shores of the North Pacific, a cluster of huts lay submerged in the moon-cast shadow of the volcano Vilyuchik. A guitar that hadn’t known a tune in years thrummed; a baritone voice abandoned the charade of matching its key; hands pounded down on a long communal table; crab legs cracked open; glasses emptied, glasses filled. “I told you,” a voice insisted from within the din, “when you go skiing in Kamchatka, the skiing is only 20 percent.”
Six days earlier, I woke up in the fog of a different night’s hangover. I grasped for my contacts on the nightstand and, vaguely recalling the effort that had been required to mount my twin bed as it spun around the room just hours before, I put my feet on steady ground. I pulled on wool baselayers, a fleece, ski pants, and a down jacket. When I ambled over to the door and opened it, the air, the snow, and the light collaborated to revive all of my senses at once. It was blowing hard, but I could see it: the camp, the valley, the volcano; Kamchatka.