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mullahs and mountains continued from page 83 lashings. More powerful recreational drugs, such as hash ish, are available. One rider even opened his shirt to reveal a golden marijuana leaf necklace. A subtle wink, showed me these items aren't always beyond an Islamic country. Beyond Dizin the mountains were wide open and we began to sample the backcou ntry on our spl it boards. The Alborz host terrain and cl imate sim ilar to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado: dry snow with depth hoar, a nasty instability that bonds crysta ls about as effectively as a layer of ball bearings. Iran's highest mountain, Mount Damavand, at 18,600 feet, has attracted mountaineers, nomads and legends to a latent volcano. Legend has it that a giant cal led Zahak lives in a cave on the peak. Smoke or rumblings are often heard deep within the mountain . Vil lagers living near the base of the volcano still remark that Zahak is straining to be free . On a clear day, the cone is vis ible from Tehran, 50 miles away. The mountain towns stri ctly stifle travel after storms, allowing the snow to sett le out and the people rely on faith to protect them. There are no loca l avalanche safety hotlines to ca ll in Iran. Avalanche control is almost nonexistent at the resort-with historically dangerous areas roped off after storms and ru ns opened after snow groomers have tested the slope's strength. In the backcountry, there is no control. Avalanche education is key. The Irania ns kept track of our movements and crowded alongside roads with binoculars to watch us ride down routes the locals sa id were reserved for avalanches. At first, some locals considered our group crazy for venturing beyond the safety of the groomed ru ns, but once they observed the mastery of two of the world 's best mountain rid ers, Tom and Craig, most warmed up to our exploits. In fact, some were inspired by our example and started hi king up the sketchy terrain [we had carefu lly ascended with avalanche safety in mind, sticking to ridgelines as opposed to right up the center of an ava lanche path.] Taking responsibility for the new backcountry routes they had introduced the locals to, Craig, Tom, and Buff spent time educating those most likely to follow our tracks into the wi ld snow away from the resorts. Buff held an avalanche safety seminar to explain to a crowd of riders and skiers the importance of carryi ng an avalanche shovel, probe poles, and transceivers. We learned that three skiers had been killed the season before by an avalanche in that very spot, a dark omen th at helped explain why such a magical run was left untracked. Respectful of the more dangerous pitfalls, I slowly fell in love with zone after zone of Allah-made fun parks with their perfect transitions and powder land ings. Life slowed down after more than a week of daily riding. I began craving piles of saffron rice and lamb kebabs, and drank my black tea by holding a sugar cube between my teeth and straining the hot liquid, as the locals do. In the mornings we ate f lat bread with honey and feta cheese. But there were dangers other than avalanches, as Tom and Buff found out while exploring a ridgeline to the north of Dizin. With boards in split mode, they skied past coils of rusted barbed wire buried in the snow and a defunct- looking concrete bunker at the edge of a deserted compound . Tom led the way and stopped at a knoll to reconnect his skis for a surf back down to the parking lot far below. Sudden ly, a soldier appeared in white snow camouflage and motioned for Buff to stop. Not wanting to yell out in English, he instead made the international finger-pointing signal: "We're going down! Down. Sorry." Without looking back, he pushed off. The first gunshot put Buff's shou lders up around his ears and made his eyeba lls bulge. Tom, meanwhile, dragged his ski s behind the cover of a boulder and clipped in ju st as a second warning shot echoed off the surrou nding peaks. Extreme downhill split-board skiing commenced as they negotiated a steep boulder field of shal low snow at speed. At the bottom, they blended in with the locals. A lone soldier stood on the peak far above watching them dissolve into the crowd. Apparently they had toured past very serious no trespassing signs written in Farsi and skied down the center of the Shah 's old mountain-palace-cum-military headquarters for the Iranian mountain special forces. Oops. Down at the bottom, some of the locals speculated that the shots were homemade bombs or firecrackers made for the revolutionary holiday that was fast approaching. Avoiding a scene, Buff and Tom agreed, "Yeah, that's what it must have been." Later, we learned that it is illegal to shoot anyone in Iran for trespassi ng, and even the army would suffer severe consequences for letting a better-aimed mystery bul let fly. "Down with USA" murals hung on occasional buildings in Tehran, but one-on-one with the locals there was zero anti-American sentiment. The snowboarding scene became an easy place to forget politics, a youthful and relaxed atmosphere where party invitations at secret locales were whispered under breath. Parties that promised forbidden alcohol, women without face or hair coverings on equal ground with men. Even black-market music recorded in 104 evi l places such as Los Angeles and New York. Alas, the youth were wise beyond their years. And so I considered sneaking out of our hotel windows, figuring what Afshin didn't know cou ldn't hurt him. These impromptu party invitations were just aspects of the Persian hospital ity we received during our stay. Our stomachs were constantly filled with round after rou nd of hot tea bought by any local who saw us without a cup. Even a chi ld approached me with a cookie while I sat on a bench at Dizin . Her mother said, "She would like to welcome you to Iran ." I took the colorfully sprinkled treat the child brought me, and soon had food delivered by well over a dozen chi ldren. One day on the mou ntain , three suspicious-looking snowboarders pu lled me from the back of the gondola line and carried my board to the front. I wondered what was in store for me, but nobody seemed to mind as I sl id past and joined them in the next gondola. After brief introductions, the three started tapping the windows and sung me a song about a girl so mysterious and beautiful, her eyes alone could conquer your love. The song lasted the enti re gondola ride and was, in their words, "a gift. " The Islamic ca ll to prayer, or adhan, is sounded at sunrise, and repeated three times throughout the day. One noontime, whi le chants sounded from distant speakers on a distant, unseen mosque, a class-two slab avalanche cracked above me as I exited a gully and traversed a slope of peanut-butter snow on my heelside. I wi lled my snowboard to go faster as the snow around me started to crumble. I had mentally prearranged a safe spot and inched ever so slowly out of harm's way. The slab picked up speed and deposited itself in a massive debris pi le below. Writer Robin Wright, quotes Crane Brinton in her book, The Last Great Revolution, "Revolutions are li ke fevers. And li ke fevers, they progress through stages. The initial phase is marked by the onset of a raging temperature and other extreme conditions, including delirium. The next stage witnesses the breaking of the temperature and a long and fitful convalescence, often marked by a relapse or two. Finally comes the recovery and restoration to normal health ." Wright li kened the delirium to the images spread throughout the media of gun-toting mullahs and chador-clad women in the 1980s; the morgue slabs of bullet-riddled bodies of offic ials from the Shah's monarchy and other loya li sts who were summarily executed in the course of revolutionary justice. The seizure of the US Embassy and 52 American hostages who were often paraded blindfolded in front of news cameras as effigies of Uncle Sam were burned in the background by angry youths. But that was then , and this is now. Perhaps not forgotten, but essentia lly forgiven are my country's own mistakes: the shooting down of an Iran ian commercial airliner full of innocent fami li es, the seemingly fickle nature of my government's support for Iraq then, against Iraq a few years lat er. Complex politics with interests beyond me. Beyond Tehran . On our last day, we were at the reporter branch of the Cu ltural Ministry offices in Tehran , where the authorities would check out our cameras and film before the journey back home. I contin ued to jot notes down in my journal as a hijab-covered woman approached. We spoke for some time about my job as a writer and her job as an interpreter in Iran. She was eloquent, professional and hip. She wore a hint of eye makeup and jeans protruded from the bottom of her capelike covering. As we parted, I automati ca lly shook her hand. Later, I real ized that she was amazingly brave. For a woman, shaking a man's hand is considered radical. In fact, illegal. A man and a woman, unless they are married or immediate family, must not intermingle in publ ic. As we conversed at length , our brief interaction crossed into shaky ground. Shaking hands is strictly forbidden. And so I left Iran, with a Persian carpet wrapped around my snowboard and plenty of unfinished backcountry business left for another time. We found that snowboarding is a love that spans borders and brings people together. For us, Iran is no longer j ust a name on CNN. Iran is a flood of familiar faces with whom we left most of our avalanche safety gear: probes, shovels, and even our transceivers. Our on ly real enemy in Iran was an unstable layer in the snowpack. Hopefu ll y, Iranians will continue to embrace and respect the freedom that the mountains represent and follow through with President Mohammad Khatami's recent words about a modern-era revolution that is "introducing an Islam in which the people enjoy freedom." It's a goal in line with the singular political theme of the modern era: Freedom to the farthest reaches including equality for diverse ethnic groups, races, religions, and genders. And all ski areas in Iran allow snowboarding, which is more than we can say in America, even today. •