Stumbling Down the Swiss Alps

The ski school back in Basye, Virginia has seriously failed me. That became very clear to me as soon as we arrived in the Alps. In over 20 years of “skiing,” I’ve never actually needed to wear a helmet down the mountain. I’ve also never been to a resort where you really and truly need a map to navigate the slopes to make sure you don’t take the wrong one down. Obviously the latter is more crucial for beginners like myself (yes, I’ve been skiing for 20 years, but I am definitely a beginner round these parts). For the advanced skiers the map isn’t so dire, but for me it was essential. If we had gotten off a lift where the only option was to take a more advanced slope down, I would have been, well…screwed. OH WAIT. That happened.

I know what you’re thinking, “It was in your head. You knew it was a more difficult slope, so you were apprehensive.” Well, that’s not correct. I didn’t know. I was under the assumption that it was a blue slope (the easiest). I went down the first few parts just fine. Sarah, my cousin, was surprised. I told her I would have trouble on this mountain, considering that I typically ski on hills in comparison (and I use the term hills generously). But then came the hard part. It was a pretty steep slope, and there were small hills covering the slope. My family back home calls them jumps because when you hit them, you fly up into the air for a split second. The group of friends (and family) I was with in the Alps would never give them that term. THIS is a jump in their eyes:

For them, this tiny slope was child’s play. For me? It was my worst nightmare. There were no smooth spots on the slope that would allow me to navigate around the little “jumps.” At the bottom of the slope, there was probably about 60 feet of space before you came to the next run. I knew that if I would have let go and just gone down that I wouldn’t have been able to stop before the next run. No one knew what the next bend would hold. It was their first time at this resort, too.

So I inched down, breaking the entire time. My legs were killing me. Oh! Let’s back up quickly- I decided to workout my legs the day prior, completely ignoring that I would be skiing down an 8,400-foot mountain the following day. New year, new you, right? I did lunges, squats; you name it. I could barely walk before we even went up the lift, so skiing down this colossal mountain was no cakewalk.

I eventually made it down, and for the most part after that it was smooth skiing. After a few runs, we took the lift up to the second highest point on the mountain. We were at 8,432 feet. I wish I could tell you the view was incredible. It was breathtaking, don’t get me wrong; Breathtaking in the sense that I was scared out of my mind and therefore held my breath in fear. Like you’ve seen from my Instagram photos, the weather in the Swiss Alps is unpredictable. It was sunny and gorgeous heading to the top, but as the lift got closer it started hailing.

I could barely see through the thick, white blanket of snow against the backdrop of fog. Add a little bit of hail into the mix, and it was nearly impossible to see where you were going. I stayed as close as I could to the flags marking the inner side of the mountain to my left. To my right was the edge of the mountain, though I couldn’t quite see where it started through the haze. The slope was about 7 feet wide, if I had to guess, so it was narrow.

We eventually stopped for lunch. We were all soaked and cold from the hail. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so thankful for heat and a warm meal. After lunch we made it down to the next slope, where the view was incredible. I’ve never been that big on skiing. I’ll typically ski for one day, while the rest of my family skies for three or four. I’d much rather sit in the lodge, eat a club sandwich, drink a beer, and laugh at the weirdoes dressed in onesies and strange hats skiing down the mountain. But views like this make skiing a tad bit more appealing…

Just stopping to look at the map to ensure that I didn’t die.

A beautiful view was waiting for us through the hail.

I couldn’t have asked for better people to experience this with. We are each wearing 10 pounds of clothing.

Other than the few difficult slopes we went down, I enjoyed the rest of our day and was able to actually ski and take in the stunning view. We probably skied for about 8 hours before heading down. So after hours of killing my legs and not knowing whether to laugh or cry at certain points through the pain and fear, I finally made it down this massive mountain. And I am oh so glad that I did. It was scary and wonderful and beautiful. This time, the beer I had at the bottom of the mountain was actually well deserved.

Max-King of the Swiss Castle

I woke up to have breakfast with Max and Julia. “What will you have?” Max asked. “Um, I can’t read the menu. What are y’all ordering?” He sputters something off in German. “That. I’ll have that,” not really knowing what “that” was. As it turns out, I should have troubled him to translate. It was bread and ham (as in thinly sliced lunchmeat ham) with butter. But there was also espresso, so the morning wasn’t a total loss. As I picked at my bread, avoided the ham, and sipped my espresso, we discussed our plans for the day. Max decided he was going to take me to the ruins of the old castle up the hill from my apartment. There’s still a tower intact, and the top of the tower apparently boasts one of the best views of the area for miles around. We would ride our bikes to get there.

Julia decided she wanted to come along with us. Max was not on board with that idea. “She asks me too many questions in German. And you ask me too many questions in English. AND IT’S JUST TOO MUCH…Plus she is stupid,” Max says, exasperated. I, on the other hand, want Julia to come. She’s been a little standoffish toward me, so the fact that she wants to come means she’s warming up to me (I think). The argument continues as we leave breakfast and walk toward my apartment, where the bikes are parked.

Now that Max has (sort of) resigned himself to the idea of her coming along, they’re fighting over who is going to ride which bike. Max wants to take the nicest bike, but Julia says he shouldn’t be allowed. Why? Because Max recently took Julia’s nice, new, shiny bike for a ride, and proceeded to run said bike into a nice, shiny, moving car. Solid point, Julia… Max should not have the nice bike.

I remove myself from the situation and go upstairs for a minute, hoping they’ll come to a resolution. When I come back down, I find Julia alone. Max stormed off crying. He wanted to spend the day with me alone, without having to bother translating in German to anyone else. I feel a tinge of guilt, since I was encouraging him to let Julia come with us.

Julia and I bike back to their house and wait for Max there. He comes back about an hour later, but doesn’t speak to anyone. His mother says that he has a very strong-will, and wants what he wants. Hmm, maybe that’s why we get along so well. Kindred spirits…

“He needs to learn that he’s not the king of everything. And he can’t always get what he wants,” his mom says. I start to wonder if I’m going to be cooped up inside all afternoon on this beautiful Swiss day. It’s not normal for it to be this warm and sunny this late in the year. I want to take advantage before the fog and cold settle in for the winter. But I perk up when Otto chimes in.

“This is okay. We will not go to the castle today. We will do something better. We will go to a mountain. You will go home to change. And you will wear some of our mountain boots,” he says, looking down at my shoes.

Mountain boots? As in boots that come above my ankles and have thick, chunky soles? No, thanks. I’ll stick with my running shoes.

Otto and his wife pull up to my apartment. None of the other kids are with them- it’s just Max… and the mountain boots that I’m being forced to wear. I guess Max got his way after all, and we’ll have a day without the other kids. We head off into the Swiss countryside toward Appenzell, a traditional Swiss farmland in the pre-alps…