No really, I do love skiing

I know I gripe a lot about learning how to ski and how awkward, degrading, and embarrassing it is when you spend the better part of the day on your ass with about 80 little kids zigzagging around you as you lie in an awkward position halfway down the slope.

And to tell you the truth, if my skiing experiences consisted solely of resort experiences, I might actually be serious about my griping.

But I'm not. Because my love of backcountry skiing makes it worthwhile.

Yes, I sometimes cry and/or hyperventilate halfway up an icy slope because I'm so afraid I'm going to tumble to my death or--at the very least--an uncomfortable landing.

Yes, I fall often. (I did a front flip the other day. It was impressive.)

Yes, I snowplow down just about everything.

And yes, I had to put my ski crampons on the other day when there was literally no ice around for miles.

But it doesn't matter.

When I slap my skins on my skis in the morning as the sun begins to make its way above the peaks looming above our little chateau, I'm filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, knowing that the day will probably be full of all sorts of useful lessons.

 Like this one:

How to do a front flip on skis: 

1. Gain a little bit of speed.
2. Go over a small bump that you were not anticipating.

3. Lean forward suddenly as small bump knocks you off balance.
4. Dig the front of your skis straight into the snow
5. Lurch headfirst into the snow

6. Do a somersault
7. Lie in the snow and wonder why you do this to yourself.
8. Imagine what your more sensible friends are doing. Probably drinking hot chocolate, eating popcorn, and watching Iron Chef on the Food Network.

9. Notice birds singing in the forest nearby.
10. Stare up at the sky and the mountains surrounding you.
11. Take a deep breath and feel grateful you're out there.

Sorry for the poor photo quality.
Forgot my camera cable so can't download any photos till I get home.
 Had to use my iPhone....

Skiing Tips: How to use a Tire-Fesse or a "Pull The Butt"

Tire-Fesse. "Pull The Butt." This is what the French unabashedly call the unruly contraption they use to drag themselves up their pristine mountain slopes. Comprised of a pole attached to a cable with a circular disk at the other end, it is often a source of painfully embarrassing wipe-outs for the uninitiated.

I'm not sure if the Tire-Fesse or Téléski is in universal practice or if the Europeans have invented it for the sole purpose of creating yet one more way for novice skiers to make a spectacle of themselves, but the principle behind it is relatively simple.

I think the reasoning went something like this: Given that novice skiers have so much fun sliding down the slope on their backsides, it is assumed that they will have an equivalent amount of fun being dragged up the slope on their frontside. In front of the entire resort. Et voilà! The Tire-Fesse.

However with some practice and a few useful tips, the art of getting on and off a Tire-Fesse can go from elusive to manageable within a few short degrading and utterly embarrassing wipe-outs.

Take heart, take notes, and hit the slopes with these handy tips!

How to use a Tire-Fesse

1. First, be sure to miss the entrance gate by about 2 feet so that you are forced to awkwardly sidestep with your skis while everyone behind you waits. Alternatively you can shuffle forward while wobbling unsteadily as your skis slip out from underneath you with every step.

2. Next, leave your poles dangling from your wrists until right before you're about to reach out and grab the Tire-Fesse. Then scramble to get the straps over your wrists and both poles in one hand while some five-year old with spiderman goggles and a runny nose keeps scraping forward on top of your skis.

3. Now, with your ski poles in one hand, grab the pole of the Tire-Fesse with the other hand. Attempt to remove it from its slot, wedge the disk between your legs, and bring your skis together in the 15 seconds it takes for the whole contraption to jolt forward, dragging you with it.

4. As you jolt forward unexpectedly, catch your skis on the snow, lose balance and let go of the Tire-Fesse pole with one hand in an attempt to grab your ski poles that you've just dropped. The disk will then pop out from between your knees. Hang onto it while it drags you up the slope. Let go after about 20 feet and then attempt to reclaim your skis, poles, and dignity while the French ski station employees laugh uncontrollably.

5. Ski back down to the entrance of the Tire-Fesse. Repeat steps 1-4.

Learning to ski in the Alps: Part II

This is the Part II to this post. 

With one ski precariously placed in an ice-crusted track from an earlier skier and my leg shaking so badly that I couldn’t get my other ski on, I was as certain as I have ever been that I was moments away from falling to my death—or at least something similarly painful.

It was the second day of my first backcountry ski trip, and things had been going moderately well up to this point.

This was taken in the very beginning. I can tell because I'm still smiling.
Poor naive little soul

Well, that’s not entirely true.

British guy had already had to come back and rescue me at least once, but as I looked across at the slope we now needed to traverse and then down at the rocky drop-off below, my stomach churned and my legs were shaking so violently that it seemed physically impossible to take even one step forward. I didn’t see how British guy could get me out of this.

Seeing as how I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown,
I didn't take any photos of what we went down. This is the side we went up.

I looked over my shoulder at the mountain hut we had just left. I could just go back there, I thought. I can stay there until the snow melts in approximately 4 months and then I can hike safely down.

At the mountain hut

It sounded like a fantastic plan to me.

British guy didn’t think so, but then British guy thinks being on a drop-off and about to fall to your death is something akin to fun so I seriously question his judgment.

Turning around with a graceful kick-turn, he skied back down to me.

I was crying, shaking, and I only had one ski on.

He leaned down and pushed the front of my boot down, snapping it easily into the binding.

Now I had two skis on. But I was still shaking. And crying.

Any degree of dignity I had left was shrinking as rapidly as my courage.

I didn’t care.

I just wanted my mom.

Who, thankfully, had no idea that I was halfway down a slope in the middle of the French Alps. Otherwise a minimum of five search and rescue helicopters would have already been circling around.

Still standing next to me, British guy tried to offer some words of comfort. If British guy is any indication, the British aren’t very good at this sort of thing.

British guy: You’re not going to die if you fall. You might badly injure yourself, but you’ll live.

Me: How badly do you think I would hurt myself? Like on a scale of 1-10. 10 being death and 1 being a blister.

British guy: Look, I’ll ski right alongside you. If you fall, I’ll stop you.

Me: No, you won’t. I’ll fall and then knock you over and then we’ll both fall to our deaths.

British guy: We’re not going to fall to our deaths.

Me: We might. Anything is possible.

British guy: Yes, I suppose --in theory-- anything is possible.

Me: So you do admit that it’s possible?

He evaded this question by suggesting that we continue skiing down, as the snow conditions were only getting worse.

If you’ve ever watched a child wobbling alongside its parent, taking small uneven steps and occasionally toppling to the ground, then you know exactly what I looked like trying to ski alongside British guy.

I shuffled my skis, sliding one carefully in front of the other, and then repeating this motion. Utilizing this technique I found that I was moving, and not falling. This was good. Very good.

But then I started going faster.

Muscles I didn’t even know I had tensed as my skis teetered over bumps and contours in the snowpack, launching my body weight anywhere but over my skis.

British guy suggested that I bend my knees a little bit more and relax my body.

I told him to shut-up.

As the slope evened out and I began to breathe again, I felt guilty for telling British guy to shut-up. Promising God, the Universe, Buddha, Zeus, and anyone else with any kind of influence up there that I would apologize for my actions if I made it down alive, I slowly skidded across the slope in a series of awkward and uneven turns.

Approaching British guy with all the grace of a giraffe wearing roller-skates on ice, I noticed the camera in his hand.

He had been filming the last half of my descent while waiting for me at the bottom. 

As I crash-landed at his feet, he slipped the camera into his pocket and smiled.

I told him to shut-up. Again.

(For the record, I’m rude and irrational when in danger of falling to my death.  I also break promises to deities.)

Helping me to my feet, British guy scowled at the snow.

“It’s just getting heavier, and it’s a pretty gentle slope from here on out,” he commented. “The rest of the descent is going to be quite slow.”

My spirits lifted. Slow? I like slow. I tried to appear disappointed for British guy’s sake, but joy radiated from me.  

We spent the next hour pushing ourselves through sticky snow. My arms ached from the exertion, but I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. I had survived. There was no way I could fall now, and my skis stuck so well to the snow I might as well have had my skins on.

As we rounded a corner, I caught a glimpse of the road below us. With the car now in sight, the relief I felt was palpable. The terror of a few hours before was now simply a memory to fold neatly in the recesses of my box of “terrifying life experiences.” I’m running out of room in that box.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road home, I turned to British guy.

“That was really fun. We should do it again.”

British guy

Learning to ski in the Alps: Part I

Here is a list of things I didn't know how to do upon my arrival in Switzerland:

1. Walk in ski boots.

2. Look cool while carrying skis and walking (see above).

3. Put on skis.

4. Get on ski lifts.

5. Get off ski lifts.

6. Ski.

7. Turn while skiing.

8. Stop while skiing.

Here is a list of things I did know how to do:

1. Fall

So as you can imagine, learning to ski -much like being mauled by a grizzly bear--was a lot of fun.

My amazing Dynafit skis. Love. 

It was last January and I had just moved to Geneva. British guy and I had planned to spend a few days staying at the Hotel Gletscherblick in Hasliberg where he would teach me how to ski.

Hotel Gletscherblick.  An awesome place to stay. 

To say I was nervous about skiing doesn't even begin to cover it. I'm from coastal California. As far as I could tell, skiing included strapping really slippery boards to your feet and trying to negotiate your way down a wall of ice. It just didn't seem like a good idea.

I prayed for bad weather so that I could have an excuse to bail on skiing and sit in the hotel drinking hot chocolate. This way at least I would retain some of my dignity for a few more days. But one after another, the days dawned bright and clear.

Damn you, Zeus. Damn you.

On one particularly fine morning, British guy decided that it would be fun to hike up to the top of one of the runs and then ski down.

I don't like his idea of fun.

 It usually results in me being: A. terrified; B. exhausted; and C. looking like an idiot. Because I am still somewhat delusional about these things, I always agree, hoping that I will finally impress British guy with my athletic ability and fearlessness. This has yet to happen. We put our skins* on our skis and began skinning (hiking with skis on) up the mountain. I was panting and slipping and sliding and every time I had to do a turn I would get stuck. British guy was humming to himself.

This is how NOT to turn while hiking up.

We had a nice lunch at the top, and then got ready to ski down.

Lunch should always include beer. 

British guy went ahead and I scraped slowly and clumsily along after him until we got to the top of the run.

I drew you a diagram of how I perceived his suggested route down the mountain.

I froze. 

British guy stopped and looked up at me. I stuttered out a response. 

"I...I can't go down that." 

"Yes, you can. It's easy."

"It's vertical."

"Hardly." 

"Isn't there another way down this mountain?"

"Just follow me."

And then he executed a series of perfect, tight turns down the slope. 

Ha. No chance in hell. 

A Swiss man came up alongside me and, noticing the look of petrified fear on my face, pointed me toward a slightly less vertical run and suggested that perhaps I would feel better about going down that way. 

British guy acquiesced and I cautiously followed him down the bunny slope the Swiss man had suggested. 

I spent the next few months scraping, skidding and falling down snow-covered slopes. I longed to imitate the beautiful, perfect turns that British guy effortlessly executed, but I usually found myself on the ground, twisted in an awkward position and cursing the idiots who invented skiing. 

As the snow begins to fall on the alps marking the start of this year's ski adventures, I find myself looking forward to more runs down the bunny slopes. I think I'm finally ready to keep up with a few of the 2-year olds. Maybe. Though I know I'll be spending most of the time pretending that I'm sprawled out on the ground halfway down the slope on purpose because I wanted to make a snow angel. 

Hasliberg, Switzerland

*Skins are the things you strap onto your skis so that you can hike up to the top of a mountain with your skis on. They grip the snow and prevent you from slipping. Well. If you know how to use them. I've slipped plenty of times with skins on.