APOSTLE OF THE NORTH

“I GET GOOSEBUMPS just talking about it now.”

Five years after the doping scandal in Seefeld, Trond Nystad glances at his left forearm, watching as the skin prickles and the hairs stand on end.

“Everything was perfect. I was out in the woods testing skis. The conditions were ideal, the skis were performing flawlessly, and we had athletes capable of delivering at a World Championship on home soil. I thought to myself, ‘Damn, this is going to be a great day.’”

Then the phone rang. Two Austrian athletes had been caught doping. There was no doubt—the police had stormed the hotel and caught Max Hauke and Dominik Baldauf in the act.

“It felt like the world stopped, like I was in freefall. It was the last thing I ever expected to hear,” the ski coach says softly.

“It was a shock. It’s hard to put into words.”

IN THE SUMMER of 2016, as vacation season gripped Norway, Trond Nystad accepted the position of cross-country skiing coordinator for the Austrian Ski Federation. The Austrians had a history riddled with doping scandals, but they promised reform. They would pay for it themselves, with the Norwegian tasked with overseeing the improvement. Austrian media introduced the 46-year-old from Fauske as “the Pep Guardiola of cross-country skiing.”

“After five years as a national team coach in Norway, I wanted to be closer to my family here in Austria,” Trond explains.

The sturdy house nestled between the mountains in Ramsau am Dachstein is home to his family of four. On the staircase wall, alongside ski boots of all sizes and a jubilant photo from the Turin Winter Games, hangs the wedding portrait of Trond and German cross-country star Claudia Künzel. Together, they have two daughters, their growth marked in pencil on the kitchen doorframe.

“Austria had a messy past with numerous doping incidents, but they wanted a fresh start. I had my doubts, and a friend told me, ‘Stay away.’ But I thought, ‘If anyone can change the culture here, it’s me.’ It felt like both a responsibility and an opportunity to use my experience from Norway to build something better. It was exciting and meaningful, so I said yes.”

His mission was to lay a new foundation for Austrian cross-country skiing, grounded in proper training and strong values.

“My role was to work with young athletes, children, and coaches to create a different culture. Leaders in the federation declared their intent to change the mentality, foster development, and eliminate traces of the old doping culture. It was a demanding but rewarding task,” Trond says.

WE SET UP for the interview in the living room. In the kitchen, the coffee machine hums to life. Behind Trond stands a massive fireplace, cold and black like the grim day in Seefeld in 2019.

“I knew the culture here was different from back home in Norway,” he says.

“That’s why I wanted to meet everyone, talk to each athlete, and hear their views on doping. My impression was that they were against it. They wanted to start a new chapter in Austrian cross-country skiing. And I held onto that belief until I got that call in the woods.”

“At first, I thought it was a misunderstanding. Maybe someone had made a mistake or lost control. But the police had clear evidence, photos, and video. Our two skiers had knowingly doped. Max Hauke was caught with the needle still in his arm.”

He lets the final sentence hang, the silence punctuating its weight.

“I remember thinking, how could anyone be so stupid? How could they ruin things for themselves and everyone else like that?”

He was instructed to keep it secret, not tell anyone, and continue testing skis while preparing the remaining athletes for the upcoming 15-kilometer race.

“We had other athletes uninvolved in the scandal who deserved our best efforts. But it was incredibly difficult to stay focused. When we returned to the stadium, chaos reigned, and the media was everywhere. Suddenly, no one cared about the competition anymore, only the doping case. Everyone who was supposed to handle the press was suddenly gone. My boss dealt with the German journalists and told me to handle all the others since I spoke decent English.”

“How did you manage?”

He exhales deeply, shrugging.

“Inside, I was filled with emotions and anger,” he replies. “At the same time, I had to try to explain what had happened. I did my best, but it was hard to find the right words. It’s a day I’d rather not relive.”

TWO DAYS AGO, we met the northerner for the first time. He suggested it himself. We had just checked into Hotel Pehab Kirchenwirt when he reached out, greeted us with a firm handshake, and ordered three beers—one for each of us, the foam as white and high as the Alpine peaks surrounding the town.

Outside the dark windows, the mountains rumbled. It was only later we read about the avalanche that struck here one January night in 2019. Just a month before the doping shock in Seefeld, the hotel restaurant had been reduced to splinters by a snow slide that carried away buses and cars—but, thankfully, no lives. Three hours earlier, the dining room had been packed with guests.

“Listen,” Trond said, raising a finger to demand our attention.

“You’ll meet Max tomorrow, and I’m really curious to hear what he has to say. I got to know him as a genuinely nice guy—dedicated and motivated. I trusted him, believed in him. But when people you help, trust, and care for choose to dope behind your back, it feels like a slap in the face—a personal betrayal.”

The months that followed, he describes as a depression. At night, he struggled to sleep. By day, his body and mind refused to cooperate.

“I have no problem with Max Hauke as a person, but I have a big problem with what he did. Doping is extremely selfish. It’s not just yourself you’re betraying—you’re betraying the sport and everyone involved: family, teammates, and coaches. I grew up in a culture where the worst thing you could do was cheat,” Trond said. Just as we expected him to slam his glass down in frustration, he set it gently, half-full, on the table.

“And yet it’s a bit trivial, because this is just sport,” he added. “No one has died or been physically hurt, and I quickly returned to problem-solving mode. I wanted to understand what had happened, why it happened, and how we could prevent it from happening again.”

FOR OVER TWO YEARS, the newly appointed cross-country coordinator tried to convince the Austrians that the secret to Nordic skiing gold was simply more and better training.

“In Austria, many believed training was dangerous and that overtraining was a real risk. I tried to explain that, with proper control, you could train a lot and still stay injury-free. But many didn’t believe me,” he recalls.

He advocated for longer periods at altitude, earlier interval sessions in summer, more workouts, and fewer rest days. His suggestions were met with skepticism.

“After some lectures, people came up to me and said, ‘You’re lying. What you’re saying about training can’t be true. And why would you, as a Norwegian, come here and tell us all your secrets? We don’t believe you.’”

During a lecture for young athletes, Nystad repeated his mantra: hard work over time can make you great. Then a leader in the audience stood up. “You’re talking nonsense,” he said. “To win medals, you have to dope.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I was furious. I refused to continue the lecture until he left the room, and I explained to the young athletes that such attitudes had no place in sports.”

WE PACK UP the lights and microphones. In the Nystad family’s organized chaos in the hallway, Trond finds his own alpine touring boots and jacket. We’ve agreed to hike up toward Dachstein—freiheit bis 3000 meter.

“I’ve reflected a lot on what happened,” he says as the white car passes the toll gate and begins the climb up the mountainside.

“It’s impossible to put it completely behind me, but I’ve learned to live with it. There was a time when it was hard to trust people. I wondered who I could rely on. But I decided that life is about trust. You have to trust people, even if it means being disappointed sometimes.”

He maneuvers the car up the winding road that clings to the ever-steeper landscape. Above us, the jagged Alpine peaks loom like a massive sawblade poised to shred the blue sky.

“What did you learn?”

“I learned that no one can change a culture alone. I thought everyone in Austria would listen to Trond, a coach from Norway. I was wrong. It takes a collective effort to build a new culture, with rules, consequences, and a clear ethical foundation. The whole community must share and uphold the same values.”

He pulls the parking brake at the highest lot, near the cable car that carries tourists the final stretch up to Dachstein’s summit, 2,996 meters above sea level. He checks the skins on his skis and begins the climb on foot.

“Culture is built millimeter by millimeter and can be torn down in seconds,” Trond says from behind sunglasses that shield him from the harshest light and UV rays.

THE QUESTION IS whether the damage from the World Championship revelations in Seefeld can be repaired. After the event, Trond told Sweden’s Expressen that Austrian cross-country talents as young as 12 and 13 had asked him about doping.

“They called me after Seefeld and asked if it was true that they had to dope to succeed in cross-country skiing.”

“How does that make you feel?” Expressen asked.

“That it’s horrible,” Trond Nystad replied.

Now, he sits on a rock near the top of Dachstein, holding a water bottle. He looks out over the Austrian Alps. The view is breathtaking. On a clear day like this, you can see peaks in Switzerland, Italy, and Slovenia. But the rumble of avalanches pulls us out of the postcard-like scenery.

“There and there,” Trond says, pointing toward the steep mountainsides of Mitterspitz and Torstein, where snow breaks loose, the roaring echoes reverberating through the stone massifs.

“If you don’t know what you’re doing, you could easily die here,” the northerner states.

Back in 1954, three teachers and ten children perished in what remains the most horrific tragedy in the area. In March 2020, five hikers from the Czech Republic and a local policeman died in two separate avalanches just hours apart.

Snow and mountains are like friendships. They can collapse at any moment.

“I learned that betrayal is part of life,” Trond says. “Coming home from Seefeld was tough. The whole experience felt like hell, but seeing my children reminded me of what truly matters. They had no idea what had happened, which grounded me.”

He gazes again at the Alpine peaks. What had seemed like sharp sawblades from Ramsau now looks like a patchwork quilt spread below him.

“I often wonder what drives people to cheat,” Trond muses. “I was never a top athlete myself, but I played sports because it brought me joy. For some, that joy might not be enough. They identify only with their results and lose the joy along the way. That’s sad because we forget what sport is really about. 

“Do you still believe in clean sports?”

“Yes, I believe in clean sports. If I didn’t, I would find something else to do.”

“What do you think about punishment?”

He slips a fresh pinch of snus under his lip.

“If someone breaks the rules, they must be punished,” Trond says, brushing off snow. “Otherwise, we undermine the very foundation of sports. And afterward, we need to talk—what happened? Why did you make that choice?”

“I think we must accept that there will always be rule-breakers. But we need mechanisms in place to address it. It’s not just about punishment—it’s about learning from mistakes.”

“I’ve gained new perspectives. I’ve learned to be careful about whom I collaborate with and what values they represent.” Trond says. 

AFTER SEEFELD, Trond has primarily spent his workdays helping individual cross-country skiers, Nordic combined athletes, and biathletes benefit from his expertise and candid advice.

“I’ve gained new perspectives. I’ve learned to be careful about whom I collaborate with and what values they represent.”

“What really inspires me now is working with athletes who are struggling—those who may have lost faith in themselves, feel their bodies aren’t cooperating, or have hit a wall. Helping them back is what gives me meaning. It’s not always easy. Sometimes it takes months, other times years. But when it succeeds, it’s an amazing feeling.”

Trond Nystad stands, picks up his skis, and scans for a safe route down. It has been a snow-sparse winter in Ramsau. Roots and rocks lurk beneath the surface like hidden reefs. Once the path is chosen, and the photographer’s drone is airborne, he carves wide turns down toward the parking lot, tracing his own lifeline in the untouched snow.

“Sports may be the most important part of life’s education,” Trond says when we meet him again by the car.

He places the skis in the trunk, the poles neatly beside them.

“As coaches, we are teachers in the school of life. And moving forward, we must get better at valuing not just those who win medals but those who contribute to sports through hard work, honesty, and camaraderie.”

“It’s not just about winning—it’s about how you win and the way you carry yourself as a person. What truly matters is being able to look yourself in the mirror.”

He squints up at Dachstein above, then down toward the valley.

“Our job is to help people master the world,” he says. “Not necessarily become world champions.” ◉