Skiing (Dictionary definition): The winter sport of choice for those for whom pain and pleasure are the same.
I didn’t plan to write another “journal” – after all, my account of my previous skiing trip was inspired by the sheer terror and trauma involved. While not exactly trauma free, this trip was in a different league, and unlike the previous trip, the number of participants arriving in the resort was equal to the number leaving, and all were intact.
Nevertheless, I feel that a written record is appropriate, for my own recollection, and because Hilly asked if I would be writing one. He’s probably forgotten that he asked. Of course Hilly would have been in the “Advanced” Group, but will just have to make do with a record of the less adventurous activities of the “Nell Support Group”. So here goes.
September 2011. After an indecisive summer, I eventually decided to go skiing, but only with the company of a fellow beginner The obvious choice, Bob Mitchell wasn’t full of confidence. Having a slice of one’s leg unexpectedly removed by a rampant snowboarder within the first 2 hours of a skiing career tends to persuade one that that a poor career choice has been made. But Bob agreed to a Snowdome session to see how he got on.
After warming up on the “lower slopes”, Bob skied perfectly adequately down the full length of the slope, mostly snowploughing, but in control, but he still did not feel able to commit to a ski trip. So that was it then – I obviously wouldn’t be going either. Unfortunately I hadn’t taken account of the unexpected grin that appeared on my face as I put the skis on and descended the slope. I remembered what unadulterated fun skiing is, and what a wonderful time that I’d had last time. It is interesting how the mind manages traumatic memories by deleting them.
October/November/December 2011. I confirm that I want to go skiing. No-one calls a Mental Health Practitioner.
January 2011 I am booked on the trip. As soon as the payment is transferred into Richards Hayes’ account I am committed, or should be, and the un-edited memories come flooding back. Bugger.
Skiing minus 3 days I peruse the resort details. Either I have gone colour blind, or I need to adjust my monitor display. I can’t see any green lines on the map.
Skiing minus 2 days – By browsing the internet intensively and selectively, I can find reviews that assure me that Courmayeur is perfect for the beginner and inexperienced intermediate, and that in Italy Blue is the new Green. I ignore the majority of the reviews that suggest otherwise.
Skiing minus 1 day – I hate the evening before a pre-skiing 4.00am start. I really hate the evening before a pre-skiing 4.00am start. Can’t sleep, can’t relax.
Day 1 Any traumatic emotions that I may have are dwarfed by those felt by Richard Underwood, who, having not read the small print of the Birmingham airport car park contract, has to argue to have his skis transported to the airport, and is told that he may have to pay for a taxi to transport them back after the holiday. Mr Underwood’s skis continued to cause problems – thanks to a mix up with sticky labels by the check-in staff it appears that they are now officially my skis, and I was summonsed, with my boarding pass, to the outsize baggage check-in desk to ensure that my skis will arrive safely in Italy.
After the usual pre-flight rituals – buy several litres of gin, and have breakfast – we had an uneventful flight to Turin, where we caught the bus to our resort. Well we thought it was the bus to the resort, but instead we enjoyed a fascinating, if unguided, tour of the industrial hot spots and less salubrious suburbs of Turin, some of which were apparently so popular with tourists that we visited them twice. Maybe the ski rep on the bus should have had a whip round to pay the annual Italian subscription to the Americans for the use of their navigation satellites.
The driver eventually asked the way (difficult enough for a British bloke, probably more so for an Italian) and we are soon on the motorway heading for the mountains. During the trip, following a committee meeting to decide the best choice, we purchased our ski passes. My charge-free credit card was declined, and I had to resign myself to a debit card charge. Richard Underwood avoided charges by paying cash, blowing Christmas tree needles off of the notes as they changed hands.
The route from Turin to the ski resort of Courmayeur was green (fields) but mostly grey (tunnels). Snow seemed restricted to the mountain tops, although there was lying snow in the village of Courmayeur, where we were staying. We enjoyed a complimentary bus tour of the village as the bus dropped passengers off at various hotels. To paraphrase Morecambe and Wise, he visited all the right hotels, but not necessarily in the right order. Ours was a reasonably picturesque building at the far end of the village, and Derek, who had travelled separately from the rest of us, was there to welcome us. Obviously he arrived first, having flown from Bournemouth, which is closer to Italy than Birmingham.
The hotel was a bit of a maze of corridors and rooms, with a challenging room numbering system. On each night, after dinner and wine, Chris found it useful to remember that she had to turn left after passing Derek, who would be unlocking his own door. This worked until Derek was behind Chris, leaving Chris without a landmark, and she promptly turned right, confidently heading for mine and Taff’s room. When Derek lost his room, he followed Chris and Richard into their room and popped down some secret internal stairs to his own room. With secret inter-room stairs and corridors, the hotel clearly has interesting clientele in the summer season.
Taff and I shared a very cosy room, with twin beds cosily pushed together in cosy subdued lighting. Taff’s bed fell somewhat short of expectations – about six inches short, leaving Taff with a choice of overhanging feet or overhanging head. During the week Taff had trouble sleeping soundly. Of course this was nothing to do with the overhanging feet or head, the hard mattress, the uncomfortable pillow, the hot room or the “noises off” from Chris and Richards room above. The blame for his insomnia was placed firmly on my snoring.
Having settled in we headed off to hire our ski’s/boots in the ski resort 500m above the village. The gondolas from the village up to the resort were big and red and travelled over the village like low flying London buses.
The cables could clearly be seen descending to the station. The village is not large. Nevertheless we had trouble finding the station, partly because we had been told to turn right after the Hotel Courmayeur. There are lots of hotels in the village of Courmayeur, and not surprisingly many have the word “Courmayeur” somewhere on their façade. We had turned right after the wrong “Courmayeur” sign.
We were eventually deposited in the deep(ish) snow of the resort above Courmayeur village, where I could see a wide blue run descending toward us – it looked steep, but I reassured myself that this was merely a perspective issue. I was looking up at the run, which must be quite a gentle slope really. With boots and skis allocated, and left for tomorrow, we returned to the village, successfully navigated to the hotel, for a pre-dinner gin and tonic in the Hayes’ room, the largest of our rooms, and consequently the lounge-bar for the week.
After dinner we had a briefing from the Chrystal Ski reps. In my opinion they should have been at home doing their schoolwork. It was a boy/girl, I mean man/woman, double act, and the bloke was exceedingly enthusiastic; the skiing was brilliant, the pistes were perfect, and we were going have a fantastic time. This was clearly an instruction. He obviously always had a fantastic time, despite sporting a broken arm, which must have been a fantastic experience. We bought tickets for a trip to another resort later in the week, and then were allowed to go to bed.
Day 2 – The first skiing day. The early morning sun was shining on the mountain tops, with a deep blue sky, as we waited for the hotel mini bus, which took either nine or twenty passengers (depending on the driver – it was always the same bus) to take us to the gondola station. We collected our skis, and headed for the lifts. The party split into a “Green Team” – Chris and I (although technically I was the only green member) and the “Red Mist Team” – the remaining seven members of the party for whom mileage and skiing time must be maximised each day.
Chris and I headed for the blue runs. My plan was to stick with blue runs until at least Thursday or Friday, and even then undertake a careful risk assessment before any promotion to a red run. My first run was unsteady, and I quickly resurrected my “parallel snowploughing” technique, perfected during the previous ski trip, and used when one’s skiing alternates between quiet confidence and outright panic, typical of my skiing. Two or three runs later I was more confident, but was ready for my first “Vin Brule”, hot wine, of the day.
Afterwards Chris persuaded me to try a red run. It was wide, not excessively steep, nor excessively long, but I felt a distinct sense of achievement when I successfully descended it. The Red Mist Team joined us for lunch, and I celebrated with a further Vin Brule, and a strawberry grappa kindly purchased by Richard H. During the afternoon I managed a couple of more blues, and another short red, a serious boost to my confidence.
By 3pm the Green Team decided that we would return to the village. It became apparent that the “Red Mist” Team had a “Pink Mist” contingent, who had also had enough skiing, and so a group of us descended and quickly found a bar showing a rugby game. In common with many of the bars in the village there was a free buffet of snacks and nibbles, and so the rest of the group subsequently joined us, and this became our “après ski” base for the week. We strolled back to the hotel, in my case bathed in the warm glow of achievement (and beer) having survived and actually enjoyed my first red runs. It was going to be a good week after all.
Later some of us enjoyed an after dinner coffee and Italian brandy. It seems that Italians do decent brandy in the same way that Australians do decent beer. They don’t.
Day 3 – Richard H’s birthday, and birthday cards were opened and perused over breakfast. For me, the consequence of the previous night’s coffee and brandy was a sleepless night. For Taff the consequence was snoring. As a result I was weary even before I put my skis on.
Taff had decided on a self-demotion policy. From Red Mist Team yesterday morning, he had joined the Pink Mist sub-Team in the afternoon, leaving the slopes early, and today he successfully applied for a position in the Green Team. Two-and-a-bit weeks, over two years, of skiing experience does not prepare you physically for the Red Mist Team, and Taff’s legs were taking industrial action by working to rule.
Taff and Chris certainly had plenty of rest as they waited for me after each descent (well technically after each little slope). My speed was improving, but from a remarkably low benchmark. Chris provided able coaching, trying to improve my stance and keeping my skis parallel. I tried, but the tips of my ski tips were clearly having an affair, and wanted to spend as much time together as they could. I was skiing across the piste, but at each turn I would almost stop before resuming the descent in the opposite direction, although at the time I didn’t realise that I was doing this, or why.
I really appreciated Chris’s efforts – she was actually quite a good coach. After a couple of years of ice skating tuition I have learned to recognise someone who can coach. When Chas and I started ice skating we were taught by someone who had won skating competitions, and knew exactly what we were doing wrong, and what we needed to do to improve. He showed us what to do but couldn’t explain how to do it. We were subsequently promoted to a class taught by a charming young lady, who could explain what we needed to be doing, building up to complex manoeuvres in small steps. The first chap could demonstrate. This young lady could coach. Fortunately Chris was more of a coach. And a charming young lady, obviously.
After a couple of blues, and maybe a red, we met up with the Red Mist Team who had just descended a nice long red run, ideal, they said, for me. Now it must be remembered that many of the Red Mist Team members have been finding things for me to do, assuring me that I would be all right, for over 35 years. I may be a slow learner, but I long ago learned that being told that I will be all right does not mean that I will be all right.
We persuaded the Red Mist Team to go and play by themselves somewhere else, and they left Chris, Taff and I to discuss the suggestion. A couple had overheard the discussion, and came over to assure me that if I had managed the red run down to that particular location, then I would be fine. I had more faith in their advice – after all they were in their late 60’s, and both had two working legs. I agreed to have a go.
A couple of lifts delivered us to a station with disconcerting signs advising that the next cable car ascended to an off piste area. This, apparently, wasn’t patrolled, had lots of loose snow and, according to these notices, you might die. Nevertheless we took this cable car – an old tin can affair reminiscent of the “Where Eagles Dare” film – up to the next station. I stepped out onto a ridge, with a steep drop on either side. The sun had disappeared. The wind was howling over the ridge, with knee high clouds of wind-blown snow. One side was fenced off. The other should have been. I realised that this was the “You’ll Be All Right” red run. Oh Joy. It descended steeply an awfully long way. I noticed a bloke ski to the top of the slope followed by his (presumably) wife. She promptly took her skis off and returned to the lift station. For some totally inexplicable reason it never occurred to me that this was an option that I could take.
What is it about these mates of mine and vertical surfaces? For the first part of my adult life they have persuaded me to ascend vertical rock surfaces of various gradients, generally hauling me up shaking and sweating on a safety rope. Now, as I serenely approach the end of middle age, I am once again being persuaded to tackle a vertical surface of a dubious gradient, this time heading earthward. The shaking and sweating is the same, but this time I am not even allowed a safety rope.
I tentatively skied onto the slope and traversed across. Already Chris and Taff seemed quite a way above me. I turned. 30m further down I retrieved my skis, managed to get them back on, and stood up. Standing back up was easy – I just leaned against the slope as one would a vertical wall. I headed back across the slope, and turned.
After a further 50m descent on my back in a plume of snow I discovered that this time had only one ski for company, since the other was where I had attempted the turn. A nice lady, who I later realised was staying at our hotel, kindly retrieved my ski, telling me, in response to my effusive thanks, that I owed her a beer. To my shame, since in my state of stress I didn’t recognise her, I never did buy her a beer. I once again reconnected my skis to my boots, and set off. At least the bottom was within striking distance, and I stayed upright, if uncontrolled, as I skied the last few metres.
The rest of the run was no steeper than other reds that I had descended, but the light was flat, with wind-blown surface snow, making the surface and gradient hard to distinguish. It seemed a long run. From the Piste map (admittedly somewhat vague on detail) I think that we descended between 1000m and 1200m, and the last stretch was preceded by a “road narrows” sign, followed by another “road narrows” sign. It was icy, and felt steep, I was tired, and did not have room to turn and slow down, and so I finished the run as I had started it. On my backside.
I was relieved to find Chris and Taff outside of a restaurant, where hot soup and fresh bread were on the menu – perfect. Sadly the hot soup was off, and so Taff and I had a somewhat oily ham and eggs, while Chris enjoyed an appetizing looking bowl of pasta. I calmed my nerves with a glass of beer, and after some more blue runs (I went on strike at any suggestion of any further red run), we headed down to the sports bar. I was knackered and demoralised. During my previous ski trip, I had my “I-am-never-ever-going-skiing- again” moment on Monday. This time it was on Tuesday. If I go again, I will not be looking forward to Wednesday.
I felt better after a couple of beers, a gin and tonic aperitif in the Hayes’ lounge – bar, some glasses of wine over dinner (courtesy of the Birthday Boy) and an after-dinner glass of Jamieson’s. The Italian barman benefitted from an English lesson as he served the whiskey. “As It Comes” means no mixer, no ice. He practiced the phrase, and no doubt the next guest to request a whiskey was startled to be asked if he would like it “Harseet Cooms?”
Day 4 We caught the ski bus to La Thuile, half an hour from Courmayeur. It was bright and sunny with no brooding peaks harbouring hidden black runs masquerading as reds, at least not as far as I knew. As usual, the Green Team “warmed up” on a blue run. Throughout the week I always had to get the first run of the day out of the way before I relaxed. The first run today should really have been a long nursery slope, far too easy, even for me.
The second blue was nice to warm up on, and I was persuaded to try a red that we had seen from the lifts. It clearly had a steepish slope at the start, but in the sunny conditions I was happy to give it a go. I discovered that it wasn’t a steepish slope – it was steep. I set off, and managed at least one turn before disaster, which was vaguely reminiscent of yesterday’s red run. I had at least one more catastrophic failure as I descended to the more manageable part of the run, but survived intact – mentally and physically. Nevertheless I vowed not to attempt the run again.
We had noticed that the chairlift to this red included an obvious ramp for those wishing to exit part way up, to enjoy a nice blue descent, and we decided to try this. It was when we approached the half-way point that we saw the “Stay On The Lift” sign. I prepared to evacuate anyway, and Taff prepared to grab me by the collar. Resistance was useless, and I stayed on, to be deposited back at the top of the steep slope at the beginning of the red run. Bugger. This time I think I only fell once, and certainly wasn’t traumatised. Progress of sorts, I suppose.
Today Chris took me firmly in hand. She described my skiing technique to me. Apparently I skied across the slope, turned by pointing the skis uphill to slow down, and then did a U-turn to head back across the slope. Throughout this manoeuver my head, shoulders, arms, and body faced firmly in the direction that my ski tips faced. Or as Chris described it, I looked like a Dalek.
Chris told me that as I approached the turn, my head, shoulders, arms, and upper body must face the bottom. I made an effort, and was pleasantly surprised to find what a difference it made. I felt as though I had inched another step forward in my technique. I had to consciously remember to do it, and at the first sign of panic I found my skis heading uphill, but at least I recognised this and corrected myself.
Later I fell as I left a chair lift. How is one supposed to get up with skiing hardware repeatedly trying to decapitate you, while at the same time throwing four skiers at you every few seconds? The lift was stopped and I was hauled un-ceremonially to my feet by the operators, before being dumped safely out of the way. Fortunately I have gone beyond embarrassment in such circumstances.
Day 5 Another day trip, this time to Pila, above Aosta. As with the other resorts in the area, the main town was situated below the ski resort, and (according to the piste map) the cable car up to Pila climbed 1,222m, taking 17 minutes to do so. I shared a car with Richard Underwood, which gave an opportunity for us to discuss skiing trips past and present. I recall that we also discussed marriages past and present, but that is another story.
Pila was another resort of open pistes in bright sunshine under a deep blue sky. Perfect. I skied down several long blues, and two long but wide reds, and thoroughly enjoyed myself all day. In fact this was a day free of trauma. How tedious.
I was by now concentrating on looking downhill as I turned (with a high success rate) and on keeping skis parallel (with a high failure rate). Chris decided that, with my technique just needing hours of practice, she now needed to coach me on my style. This woman clearly likes a challenge. There are many things that I have undertaken with a degree of success for many more years than I have been skiing, but I have never managed any of them in style. Style is a concept that is alien to me. But I did my best.
We had a very pleasant lunch – the whole group met at a high restaurant, and sat on the decked area in warm sunshine with magnificent clear panoramic views of mountains in all directions. Wonderful.
Afterwards the Red Mist Team decided to go and break a few speed or endurance records or something, Taff decided to go and try a long red run, and Chris and I decided to have a second Vin Brule. As a consequence the final runs of the day were the most relaxed and enjoyable of the entire trip, although quite possibly not the most stylish.
I was still quite content with life as we made the long cable car descent down to the warm sunshine of Aosta. This day was the best day of the trip, especially as it ended with a text from Chas telling me that I going to be a Grandpa for the fourth time. Note that Step-Grandpas are considerably younger than the natural variety, as Taff will confirm.
Day 6 Back on the home resort pistes, I accidentally added some variety to the usual blue run warm up. I skied ahead of Chris and Taff, and was quite relaxed as I pottered down the final slope, practicing at not being a Dalek. I realised that Chris and Taff hadn’t followed. When they eventually did so, they pointed out that I had accidentally taken a wrong turn, and had been happily pottering, in a totally relaxed manner, down a red run. Those piste maps are rubbish. How is one supposed to get all tense and worried about a forthcoming red run, if you don’t know that you are actually on one?
We were relaxing over the first Vin Brule of the day, when we got a radio message from the others. They were “on top of the world”, having taken lifts to the highest station, with wonderful views of the Mont Blanc mountain range, and they recommended the experience. It was possible to take a cable car up and (more importantly) down again. After a combination of skiing and lifts, and finally the tin-can “Where Eagles Dare” cable car, we were once again at the station with the “take-a-wrong-turn-and-you-might-die” warnings. We got into another tin-can that took us even higher. In case we hadn’t got the message, there was a gentleman whose job it was to remind us that, in skiing terms, the next, and final station, was in The Death Zone. We reassured him by leaving our skis behind.
At the top some steep steps led to some more steep steps, up to a viewing platform. There were wonderful views across the Mont Blanc range, with mountains emerging from the clouds into the far distance. Opposite us, as Chris pointed out, a glacier inched its way imperceptibly down the valley. Below, far below, suicidal skiers were heading off piste, and I could see the vertical drop (or so it seemed at the time) that led to the long red that so demoralised me three days ago. At least I definitely would not be experiencing that again.
We returned down the steps, and descended to the station below, to collect our skis. Taff decided to go and see the red run, “just to see what conditions are like”. I was definitely only going to look. We emerged onto the ridge, and stood looking at the drop. There was no way that I was going down that again. “It is better conditions than last time” says Taff. I don’t care, there is no way I am doing that again. “Definitely better than before” says Taff. It absolutely definitely isn’t. “You’ll be all right going down this today” says Taff. That bloody phrase again. This time I fully appreciate the cable car descent option, and intend to take full advantage of it. Chris also tells me that I will be all right. Only what she actually says is “I really think you are capable of this Nell, you have improved a lot. But it’s up to you. We can go down on the lift if you prefer”. I put on my skis.
I could save a lot of typing by copying a pasting from the previous experience of this slope. It was much the same, but this time I slid a little less, and started the final uncontrolled-but-upright ski a bit further up the slope. And I was only a bit traumatised. Nevertheless Chris and Taff decided that I looked traumatised, and we stopped for a Vin Brule shortly afterwards, before skiing down the rest of the run and stopping for lunch. We chatted briefly to a couple who seemed impressed that I was skiing red runs after only ten days of skiing over two years. They were probably just being nice, but it was a boost to my confidence.
We finished quite early – the Green Team needed retail therapy, for families and cat-sitters. We walked the length of the shopping street, where Taff and Chris found what they were after, I found a sort of natural twiggy Christmas Tree that Chas might like, but I failed to find it again after browsing elsewhere, and returned empty handed to Sports Bar. After a beer or two we all walked contentedly back to the hotel in gently falling snow.
Day 7 Snow was still falling the next morning. Rather than catch the mini bus to the gondola, we decided to walk through the village to the “Golden Balls”, lifts from the higher end of the village up to the ski resort. The anatomical description is not official. It was a pleasant stroll before our ascent up into fog and heavy snow, but we were pleasantly surprised to find the resort was above the poor weather and conditions were bright, if not sunny.
The weather proved to be variable and inconsistent, with intermittent snow and fog at different levels. Sometimes we would ascend into fog from a bright valley, and sometimes ski down from clear conditions into fog and snow. Navigation in the fog was challenging – visibility was often less than the distance between the marker poles on either side of the piste. Particular care had to be taken where runs intersected, since I had no intention of getting lost and ending up on an unplanned red. We all three stayed close together, and I learned to recognise the faint foggy outlines of Chris-plus-backpack, and Taff’s profile with his habit of leaning forward onto his poles as he waited for me. I bet he doesn’t know that he does that.
The fog was reminiscent of the first day of skiing on my last trip. However my previous journal records the 2010 foggy descent as “a vicious circle of being too tired to control my skis at any speed, and so snowploughing all of the time, which made me even more exhausted”. Well, I seem to have progressed beyond that.
As I have previously discovered, lying snow acts as a brake, making skiing more relaxed for me, but apparently more of an effort for “proper” skiers. Chris started the day with a painful foot, from boots rather than snow, and so as we were approaching a two man chair lift, I was careful not to tread on her skis on the narrow track between the knee-high access gates and the lift. I hung back slightly, and was slapped smartly on the back of the knees by the spring-loaded closing gate, sending me sprawling onto the snow. Once again I was hauled to my feet and placed on a lift a couple of chairs behind Chris. Taff, at the front, was disconcerted to look over his shoulder and see only Chris ascending behind him. There had definitely been two of us when he left. I was out of sight in the fog. At least I have now experienced my first solo chair ride.
Despite the variable weather, it was quite a pleasant day. We all met up for lunch, and again at the end of the day, before returning our hired skis and boots, and enjoying a final strawberry grappa, once again courtesy of Richard H.
Back in Courmayeur I looked for the “twiggy Christmas Tree”, but instead we found a couple of blokes selling craft goods, including goat horns, which were also horns of the musical variety. Well sort of. These blokes each blew a long note, as did Richard H, but all I managed was a loud farting sound. The rest of the group, elsewhere in the village, later reported being startled by strange atmospheric noises. It was unique, local and therefore ticked the boxes for a gift for Chas, and I purchased one, despite vague Environmental Health memories linking bone products and anthrax.
For some reason it was small gathering at the sports bar that evening – I think it was just the Green Team and Richard H, but it was a relaxed end to the day. This just left the chore of gathering together in the Hayes’ lounge – bar to dispose of the last of the gin. During dinner we tipped the waitresses, who had been brilliant all week, remembering our preferences and coping with our foibles, all with good humour and cheerfulness from breakfast at 7.30am, through to patiently waiting for us to leave the restaurant after dinner at 10.00pm. Well, maybe once we stayed up as late as 10.00pm.
Day 8 Still snowing. An early breakfast before the bus to Turin arrived. Derek left first, for the earlier flight to Bournemouth, and we left before 7.00am, touring the other hotels and occasionally waiting for snowploughs. The flight was delayed since the plane had to be de-iced, and so we were late back to Birmingham. The story has a happy ending. Richard Underwood’s skis were smuggled safely onto the bus to the car park without further payment.
Technically we live in Oaktree House, but sadly the tree had to go.
We now have a thriving Oakstump at the front of the house.
