Brody Leven

Carry Kit // All of that stuff in my recent posts plus food, fuel, and water, weighed 61 pounds. Deciding to squeeze it all into a 70-liter @hyperlite_mountain_gear Ice Pack was one of the best decisions I made while planning for Uzbekistan. I’ve typically used an old, heavier 75L BD backpack as an expedition pack, normally in tandem with a smaller “day ski pack.” It sucks to carry two packs, or do two carries, or whatever. This year, I went as light/compact as I was willing to go with every single piece of gear (though I didn’t pony up for that carbon shovel). I was going to fit it all into this superlight, single pocket, HMG pack no matter what. No plan B (except my partners’ giant packs 😉). And very notably, I wouldn’t need a normal ski pack for climbing and skiing on summit day because the Ice Pack compresses in a way that makes it very reasonable as a day ski pack. Normally, mostly-empty packs don’t carry skis & poles well and keep me in fear of dropping them. Not this one, especially with a ski tail loop. I prefer very simple packs—no load lifters, unnecessary straps, silly daisy chains, pockets, or zippers. This pack was absolutely perfect for me. I can’t believe how happy I was with my decision to take it and only it. PS I used Hyperlite Mountain Gear Pods to organize my pack. I’d always dreamed of this product and was happy to learn it exists: custom-shaped superlight stuff sacks that fit perfectly inside the pack. 1 for clothing, 2 for food, and smaller ones for first aid, repair, down pants, down booties, toiletries, and electronics. Honestly, big fan of these products, really big fan.

Medical Kit // I’ve learned that people are *very* opinionated about outdoor first aid kits. Because like repair kits or climbing pro, there is always a WHAT IF scenario that would benefit from more or different supplies. This is the complete kit I brought to Uzbekistan, whether you like it or not. It’s been informed by my 20 years in the mountains, 5(?) wilderness first responder courses, climbing guide courses, custom first aid courses, real-world experience with superficial and life-threatening injuries alike, and far too many acquaintances killed in the mountains. And fear—fear influences it, too. I do not think you should replicate this. Why? Because it was custom-built for the very limited and specific medical skills I have/remember, the remote destination we were hoping to reach, our team, our distance from care, and the terrain in which we’d travel. Each trip, I spread out my first aid supplies on the floor of my gear room and make a specific kit. It takes me a while. I think the less medical expertise we have, the more thought we should probably put into preparing for the worst. Some doctors I know carry absolutely nothing. Some total jabronis I know carry huge kits from REI. Honestly, those both sound about right. Notably, I also have something like $300,000 in backcountry rescue insurance thanks to my @americanalpine membership, which costs like $100/yr and is a TOTAL no-brainer (if for the rescue insurance alone). The best hack for backcountry rescue insurance? AAC MEMBERSHIP.

Repair Kit // This is the complete repair kit I took to Uzbekistan. I didn’t use any of it. Sheesh, why even carry it then, amiright!? There are countless items I *could* have in here for the countless things that *could* have gone wrong. But the same goes for climbing protection, warm clothing, food, fuel, and first aid—a line has to be drawn somewhere and, based on my experience, I’ve decided to draw it here. I could fix ripped clothing, probably a ripped tent, or a conspicuously punctured sleeping pad. I could figure out how to attach a wrecked skin, or help a broken boot limp home. I suppose I could reinsert a torn out binding by mixing cold epoxy on an old @raide.research hang tag with a popsicle stick and using some steel wool...? I’m sure that would work perfectly. I could superglue something? Or maybe use some very small zip ties and string to…do…something? My multitool is frustratingly heavy, even this carbon version, but I just can’t imagine not having something with pliers, a knife, and a way to tighten pieces of my boots/bindings. This year, I bought that little driver extension so it could reach my binding mounting screws a little better. I guess skin wax shouldn’t be in this picture. It is. Oh and I also had a tent pole repair sleeve! I always bring one because it’s perhaps one of the few repair thingers I’ve actually had to use. Definitely should have put that in the photo. I hope this helps someone.

Camp Kit // Of the categories I’m featuring from Uzbekistan and the uncertainty introduced by each, this kit had the fewest question marks for me. It’s the easiest. I knew I wanted a 2-person tent that I’d use alone, allowing me to bring everything inside. A 2-person alpinism tent is a comfortable 1-person tent. I actually didn’t even bring the lightest @samaya_equipment tent, instead opting for the 2.0 Dyneema with a giant side-opening. It offers the best ventilation and “porch” for time at camp. Single wall tents need proper ventilation, so I carried a few more ounces for a better place to hang out. I sold my 0F-degree bag after my last expedition, so I bought the @westernmountaineering Kodiak last year. It was plenty warm for Uzbekistan, but because I’m a bad sleeper, my biggest takeaway is that it has enough room for me to roll around and even bring my knees toward my chest. My ultralight bags often shave weight by getting too narrow for me to sleep well. This one was honestly a little unnecessarily wide. I am only 5’7” but choose 6’ bags because I sleep with boot liners, batteries, water bottles, fuel, down pants & jacket, and my outfit for the morning. We used @msr_gear Reactors, the 2L for my partners in their tent and the 1.5L for me. I wish I’d brought the 1L instead. (Thanks to airlines losing my bags so much, I somehow have all 3 sizes.) Dual stoves is a luxury but also for safety. Everyone had 2 lighters. A long ti spork, an old @steripen_uvpurifiers for below snowline, a very compact @seatosummit pillow, and 1L and 0.5L @nalgene , each with @fortybelowltd insulation. A toothbrush, travel-sized toothpaste, and high-quality sample-size SPF from my mom’s dermatologist. The @thermarest Z-Lite pairs with a NeoAir XTherm NXT, which is virtually disposable (not really, but, sheesh) but so light. Emergency hand warmers, a @petzl_official Swift RL prototype, @garmin InReach and watch, @gopro 13, chapstick, TP & sani, and 2x @nitecoreflashlight carbon battery packs that @joeyschusler introduced me to in Spain. Of the 10k and 20k mAh banks, I only used part of the 10k. The 20k is self-heating for cold temps. @bushnell_outdoors A3 monocular for scoping lines!

Clothing // How long would it take to climb? When should we go? What would weather be like? Unknowns stretched beyond the terrain we’d climb in Uzbekistan, directly influencing what we’d bring. What we bring indicates everything from how many checked bags, to how big of a backpack, to sock choices. How warm of a puffy jacket? Down booties or flip-flops for camp? Heated socks? Things like “How warm of a face mask might I need?” become huge questions that I waffle over for days. I really like having the right tool for the job; unknowns make that hard. Experience informs my decision-making. Most of my expedition clothing was beyond repair. I don’t have an apparel partnership, and if I’m going to buy apparel it’s going to be from a company with a mission I not only believe in, but, in many ways, share. I went to the local @patagonia outlet. I always bring a dedicated sleep outfit—warm socks, thin gloves, thin beanie, long johns, hooded base layer. Even at 5000 meters, I wear the same ski outfit I wear at home—sun hoodie, breathable mid-layer, thin socks, ball cap. My softshell pants are fit more for alpine climbing: comfortable for long dry approaches without being stepped on, and fit under a hardshell. Emergency layers are waterproof hardshells that fit on top. I wore the jacket a bit. It’s an anorak, which was all they had at the store. I never put the rainpants on. I brought a belay jacket, not an expedition parka. Down pants & booties are @westernmountaineering that I’ve used since 2013. I don’t climb with a beanie. I have 5 hoods and a @julboeyewearna buff. Old, prototype, half-carbon-shank, very light boots with a gaiter. @smartwool hiking socks for the approach, which hide in a treed drybag with shoes. 2 pairs of thin ski socks, 1 even thinner than the other. My most lightweight/breathable sun hoodie is @partyshirtinternational and I wore it every day except summit day, when I switched to an old wool @ridge_merino one. I also wore an old wool t-shirt pretty much the entire time, more as an emergency “I’m overheating” layer than as a warmth layer. Warm gloves, waterproof gloves, medium gloves, thin skinning gloves. And yes, 1 pair of underwear.

Climb Kit // I underestimated the climbing on Uzbekistan’s highest peak. Previously climbed only by @twinstothetops and by @extremeuzbekistan in the summer, the NW couloir was straightforward bootpacking. But what stood between it and the summit, in winter conditions, was unknown. I didn’t want improper or insufficient equipment to keep us from success. But too much equipment weight can lead to the same outcome. It’s a delicate balance. I’ve done this many times, but packing for unknown steep terrain with long, unsupported approaches remains challenging. While alpinists can face a similar issue, at least they know they’ll need something resembling a full (or 2x, or 3x…) rack. Skiers can often slip by with nothing. And I certainly don’t want to carry it for a week if I don’t need it. But, I might need it. Once, in the country of Georgia, @marykmcintyre and I carried a decent rock & full ice rack along with our 12-day camp kit to the bottom of its highest mountain. In photos, I’d seen a pitch of vertical(?) terrain guarding the bottom of the couloir we’d gone to ski, and we needed to be ready for most anything. Standing at the base of it a week later, fully racked up, we noticed a sneak around the side that completely avoided it altogether. We snuck through cleanly in both directions. That was a lot of weight to haul up there and not use. My past experiences informed this selection. It accounts for terrain, glacier travel, approach, fitness, partnership, skill, relative exposure (remoteness), bail & descent options, consequences, weight, and practicality. It was barely sufficient, as the climbing became more technical than expected near the summit. We adapted our climbing style, minimized risk, and used what we had. I’d argue that’s what climbers do—whether boulderers or ski mountaineers. Climbers may laugh at this rack and even at this mindset. Skiers may be confused. Feel free to ask questions. PS ropes are in yesterday’s post.

Ski Kit // Predicability is the most important aspect of my skis, boots, and bindings on adventures like this. I don’t want the buzzwords—playful, surfy, slashy. For a guy from Ohio, I ski decently, I just want skis and boots that will do what I expect them to do given my input in steep terrain. Unpredictability is dangerous. My bindings need to keep my skis attached to me no matter what. That is their only role. Mine are old model Fischers, 150g. Weight is the next most important aspect, and that applies to every single item I bring. It’s different than ski touring or resort skiing. I’ve worked with @fischerski for six years, but a good chunk of that was the pandemic, so I’ve actually only taken them on two expeditions. For both of those, I chose the Transalp 92 CTI PRO in 176cm. I would choose them again tomorrow, though I would prefer them a bit shorter. They’re the same skis I use for most of the winter, so they’re nothing if not predictable. Boots are Travers Carbon Pro, with a weight right where I like it (~1kg) and great crampon compatibility. In place of a superlight helmet certified for climbing impact only, I took the new 360g, dual-certified, @julboeyewearna Hailot LT. My only eyewear was the same pair of Ultimate Cover Reactiv glasses I’ve used for three years, which start clear when it’s dark and become full-blown category 4 glacier glasses when the blinding sun is reflecting off the snow below me. Because my nose has seen waaaaayy too much sun, I swear by the protective nose cover. I don’t know much about ski poles and took the same One Way carbon pair I’ve been using for years. Beacon, shovel, and probe are items that people sometimes choose to leave behind in terrain like this. I don’t understand that, I’m used to carrying their weight, and I’ll continue to bring them to avalanche terrain. My probe is carbon, which in some ways is worthy of criticism. I really wanted the new carbon shovel from Europe, but it’s very expensive. And I forgot to photograph my ropes with the climbing gear that I’ll post sometime soon, so they’re in this picture. They’re a hyper-specific set of 40m @edelrid_sport ropes that are perfect for what I like to do.

The Gear // 1,000 pieces of the 10,000-piece puzzle that is this type of skiing. Some folks are always curious about what I take and why I take it, whether in my everyday ski kit or on expeditions. Starting today, I’ll show every item—with the exception of food—that was in my backpack or on my body to climb and ski the highest peak in Uzbekistan, from trailhead to summit and back. We’ll start here, with…every single item. Each category will have a breakout day. So if you’re curious about what’s in my first aid kit, for example, it’ll be opened with each piece visible. If you want to know more, or why, or how much, or anything, just ask. No secrets here. PS this is not heavily biased toward sponsors. I use what I think are the best products for me due to price, weight, size, performance, etc. I don’t take a single item for which that isn’t true. Some of the products I got as a trade, some are from partner brands, all are the best options for me, as refined over 18 years of this type of ski-climb-travel.

The ropes were finally in our packs and, for the first time in hours, the sky opened just enough for us to see. Time to ski. The snow was not as easy as it was in our *first*, accidental, couloir of the day, nor was it as steep. My legs were tired. I could only link a few turns at a time. But we were skiing off (almost) the top of Uzbekistan’s highest mountain. We skied the line, then skirted the glacier below before enduring a horribly demoralizing bootpack up the access couloir. Backcountry skiers know this feeling—the crust was JUST supportive enough for us to put 99% of our weight on it before giving out, sinking us up to our waists in facets. What I thought would be a 15-minute climb turned into an hour of post-success torture. A quick return to reality. We eventually stood, frustrated and drained, on top of the small hidden notch that had unlocked access to this mountain. In the final evening light and total fog, we skied a few miles of low-angle glacier, barely able to tell up from down. I navigated using the red line on my watch’s topo map, drawn as we ascended that glacier nearly 14 hours prior. We turned off the glacier and, with a half hour of skinning, found our way back to camp only minutes before dark. We were relieved and thoroughly exhausted. It felt good. The next two days were spent descending back to the village from which we started hiking. Our backpacks were lighter and so was I, a huge weight now lifted from my shoulders. In 2023, I learned about this mountain and pointed my attention toward it. In 2025, my trip to it was cancelled when a partner broke his back before departure. In 2026, I had a wonderful experience with Daniel and Layne, interrupted by nothing but my own stupidity (see previous posts). Less than a week later, I was home. I felt depleted, temporarily accomplished, and already looking forward. (shots of me by Layne Peters)

Wrong couloir, wrong mountain turned into right couloir, right mountain—if we could climb it. The clouds closed in with light snowfall, it was already after noon, and it was time to convince my body that we weren’t done. I started up the apron, knowing time was working against me, shifting gears, grinding uphill, still completely unsure what terrain the summit ridge was going to hold.
In a blur, we were on top of the couloir and staring at the ridge leading to the true summit, maybe 1/4 mile north of the summit we’d stood on, confused, just hours prior. The terrain on the left of the ridge, that @twinstothetops took during his previous ascent, was not for us. The ridge proper featured overhanging slabs. Our best bet was to quest onto the west face, with climbing hanging over the glacier we’d just crossed. Given the terrain on the FIRST mountain we’d climbed that day, I suggested we simulclimb, on one 6mm rope, to save time. Layne had the rack and led off on a pitch offering no protection, mostly steep snow, but wildly exposed. The next pitch became much more real, with increased exposure, steepness, and difficulty. The steep faceted snow disappeared under us while we tried to grovel upward, sometimes exposing granite slabs that barely offered enough to climb. Protection was scarce as we cleared snow, searching. Layne placed a piton and then, finally, a few cams. I regretted my suggestion to simulclimb, but never quite found the stance to start belaying. Climbing into a corner, I laughed at my diehard resolve to always carry my skis to the summit, even when it’s purely rock. Layne was belaying me from a very exposed perch on a knife-edge ridge, and I took the rack to bring us to (5 feet below) the summit—our second of the day, but the only one we’d wanted to climb. Holy smokes, we actually got up this thing. Now we have to get down. I was pleasantly surprised when double-rope rappels and a traverse brought us back to the couloir, where we put our skis on, only 50 meters below the summit of Uzbekistan’s highest peak. (shots of me by Layne Peters)

We’d climbed the wrong mountain, and it was all my fault. [If you read these captions, the story is much better. I hope you’re enjoying following along.] How did I make such a stupid mistake after so much preparation? I belayed Layne to me, on top of the not-summit, and instead of celebrating we stared at our phones. The maps indicated what I now feared: the true summit, and the intended climbing/skiing line, stood to our north, where that much-taller peak disappeared into the clouds. More than anything, confusion took hold of me. I just didn’t understand. This was a first—not only a first climb and ski of this random shoulder peak—a first for me, climbing the wrong mountain. Such a bone-headed move.
We downclimbed the few pitches it took us to reach the summit, put skis on, and stared over our tips and beyond the rollover that veiled the wide, short couloir. The snow was actually really good for this type of skiing, and we uneventfully skied the line and onto the glacier below. We side-hilled over toward the small pass we had to return to head back to camp. I was still confused, but in hindsight I think the confusion was only masking the disappointment I felt in myself. We skinned beneath the proper couloir that led to the proper summit. I turned to Layne, then to the couloir, then to Layne. “Hey, it’s only 12:30…” Seconds later, my skis pivoted away from our retreat and toward the line we’d come halfway around the world to ski. (video clip of me skiing the lower apron by Layne Peters)

Maps are most helpful when you look at them. I’ve poured over maps of this area for 2 years, particularly in the weeks before departure. I doubt any human had ever traveled our chosen approach, and digital contour lines guided us over the ridge representing the international border, into Uzbekistan. The next day, Layne and I skied down to the glacier and spent a few pre-dawn hours skinning up it, toward Alpomish. Having scanned this area so much on GPS and maps, it almost felt familiar. Almost. We climbed and then descended the small pass guarding the glacial basin from which Alpomish arises. Phones with GPS and maps stayed in our pockets—I knew just where to go. We roped up again, scooted to the base of a wide couloir, and started climbing. Blue ice shined through the left side, so we climbed the right, hoping the ice here wasn’t just veiled but non-existent. The bergschrund was so filled in that I didn’t know when I crossed it. On top, we turned right—as I’d rehearsed in my mind a million times—and started climbing toward the summit of Uzbekistan’s highest peak. We swapped leads a couple times through steep snow mixed with some more difficult rock steps. I assumed the rock pinnacle in front of me was a false summit. But when I climbed south over a short granite slab, there was nothing taller in front of me. I was standing on top. I turned around to face Layne, belaying me. But as I opened my mouth to to tell him I was on top, my eyes gazed up, north along the ridge behind him, and then up some more, to a summit much, much higher than that which I stood on. Without thought or hesitation, my sentence changed. “Dude, that thing behind you is WAY taller.” (Photos of me by Layne Peters)