Postcard from Villars-sur-Ollon (Postmarked 25 March 2009)

Fifty centimetres. A half-metre. What's that, twenty inches?

I arrived in Villars-sur-Ollon Saturday at around six. Seven hours' drive from Paris. It was a beautiful Spring day throughout the trip, with immense tracts of land losing their snow to the warming sun and, at the same time, many farmers' fields starting to be plowed for Spring planting. A lot of the countryside looks like Vermont it seems to me, that is until you cross into Switzerland (without even slowing down to smile at the border guards) where the Swiss Alps come into view, first looming ahead on the horizon, and then slowly they are towering overhead right in front of you. If you've never been to Switzerland, one thing that's cool about the country, besides its secretive banks, are the many, many tunnels that the Swiss have bored through mountains to allow for me conveniently getting from A to B. Sometimes, the tunnels are a kilometer or two long! Remember, there are 5,000 feet of mountain overhead.

We skied Sunday and Monday under sunny, blue skies. Although it hadn't snowed in ten days, it has been one of the snowiest winters on record I am told, so the skiing was wonderful with many steep gullies for heart-stopping descents. The panoramic vistas are breath-taking, with distant mountain ranges appearing behind the nearer mountain ranges, Mont Blanc 40 kilometres to the west, other unpronounceable peaks in every other direction, all covered in snow beneath a cloudless blue sky.

But I have digressed... It snowed 50 centimetres last night. I am barely capable of putting into words what this means to a skier. Twenty inches of fresh, fluffy snow, more in the couloirs where the wind blows snow in but not out. Have you ever seen a Warren Miller ski film (I think that's his name)? Imagine steep unmarked drops off the side of a run where the bottom is out of view, and that first turn off the marked trail finds you in light, untracked, snow nearly up to your hips. First fear, then relief overcomes your senses, as you effortlessly keep your skis and body pointed downhill and compress the snow rhythmically under your skis with each turn. Snow-covered pine trees come and go by, as you thread your way down the steep slope, sometimes airborne as you have apparently skied off a small cliff, maybe six or seven feet in height, but in any case invisible under its velvety, white cloak.

Looking back at the slope once completed, you can see the tracks you have left behind in the snow, sometimes perfectly shaped like an "S" (but never often enough!). The sheer beauty is overwhelming for the first few days after arriving.  Looking around at the majestic evergreen trees and other robust bushes that manage to grow at high elevations makes me wonder how fortunate I am to be right here, right now.
It seems a miracle that my body has held out for the whole day. But it has and I can't wait for tomorrow's challenges as it is snowing again as I write this postcard.

From Villars-sur-Ollon... Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Barry xxx