Postcard from St-Moritz, Switzerland - postmarked 11 March 2018

There are precious few experiences more magical or more mystical, than starting my morning at the top of the world, above the scattered wispy clouds, the cold air tickling at my nostrils and the sun brilliant against the rich blue sky straining to warm my face, before skiing back down to reality, 2,000 metres below.
But, let's rewind the tape a bit as we must first get to the top of the world, which requires rides up a series of massive cable cars sprinkled with a dose of unabashed anticipation, if not outright excitement.
The cable cars connecting the ancient storied Swiss village of St-Moritz to its majestic Piz Nair, the highest peak far above, are huge, each holding 120 skiers and snowboarders. I have heard of even larger ones that have two floors, yes, a double-decker, but have yet to see this with my own eyes. These literally whisk us upwards at high speeds, paralleling the slopes below, where we can easily see the early morning skiers shushing down on piste beneath us. Even when speaking English everybody here says 'on piste' and 'off piste,' a touch of franglais (or is it frenglish?) that we are accustomed to at home.
I have come to St-Moritz for a week of off piste skiing. All that is required are the technical skills for skiing far from the tame, groomed trails in the deeper, fresh, untracked powder; an experienced guide to keep us from skiing straight off a hidden cliff or into a field of rocks; and finally an individual radio beacon strapped to my torso and a backpack containing a fold-up shovel and an extensible rod for prodding through the packed snow in the unlikely -- yet possible -- event of a life-and-death search to locate an unfortunate fellow skier buried below thanks to a freak avalanche occurring right here right now. Our leader, an affable, tall, heavily accented Swiss Italian named Giacomo, has been guiding for six seasons here and has yet to ever rush to the aid of anybody caught in avalanche. One of his skills is knowing the areas to avoid where an avalanche is likely to occur, due to its orientation to the sun, the quality and quantity of snow that has recently fallen, the pitch of the slope, the changing temperatures and other factors.
Reaching the summit by cable cars is insufficient. The off piste slopes easily accessible from the cable car's arrival point are quickly skied on leaving the snow 'used up' by early risers. No, we late risers who have slept in until 7:30am and finally arriving at the summit by 9:30am, have to traverse in one direction or another, remaining high up on top of huge bowls and couloirs of snow below. Often, for 15 or 20 minutes of traversing of perhaps a kilometer, or, even more taxing at this elevation: climbing higher still in boots, skis slung over one shoulder, breathless, arriving, at the very top of a steep pitch with an even steeper and narrow entry point to the mountain of fresh powdery snow awaiting us below.

Depending on one's character, I can see it clearly in the concerned faces of my fellow skiers, the adrenaline rush we all feel is either painfully scary, or simply delightfully exhilarating! No need to be deposited here by helicopter, the climb was exhausting and worth it, the view from the top of the world, is, well, otherworldly.
Strange how the snowy peaks directly across the other side of the valley beckon, it feels as if I can stretch out my arm and scoop a handful of snow in my glove even though I know that gloveful of snow is 10 kms away. And so the dream starts with blue within blue skies above, faraway rugged mountains at the horizon that I caress with my mind's fingertips, rarified cold air that will sadly not luxuriously fill my lungs as at sea level. Most important the first turn that I will soon take over the small cornice, a drop of less than ten feet, into a mountain of snow below. That first turn beckons the second, and the rhythm is then set, for better or for worse for the next minute. I know that I will be breathless by then and my legs will stop responding to the music playing in my brain, that helps me keep the beat. No, I never ski with earphones, but yes, I do hear the lyrics of my favourite tunes, keeping my skis on beat or getting them back on beat when I fumble and miss a turn. When the pitch is not terrifying, nothing can stop me, my skis react instantly to every contour below my feet, I feel like a God, something like that life-size Popeye stand-up inflatable doll I had when very young, no matter how I punished it, it always landed on its feet. In these conditions I manage to impress my ski colleagues. At the top, however, when the pitch feels nearly vertical, I do my very best to ski, pretending as though the powdery expanse is not steep, as though I am still a God, and I freely admit it is very challenging, however I also relish in telling you that it is always exhilarating to ski down from so high up, in an expansive bowl of powder untracked by others, with the belief that the perfect run is always inside me... waiting to get out!

But I know you want to hear about St-Moritz, enough about skiing and its accompanying exhilaration, what about the town of St-Moritz? Is it true that it is here that the most valuable real estate in all of Switzerland is located? Yes, this is correct. It may also be true that St-Moritz is the first ski village in the world, where apparently the sport first came into existence. However the village is centuries older, with its narrow cobblestone pedestrian streets winding their way up through the heart of the central shopping area. Dotted with wine bars and famous chocolateries, more obvious are the most expensive branded stores in the world lining the sidewalks: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Bottega Veneta, you get the idea. We know there is no upper limit to the price tags of jewellery and watches, however when I see $3,000 jerseys, $7,500 sweaters and $15,000 jackets, I understand. The bus driver that drove us back to Zurich at the end of my week told me that one day last year he was asked to go to the airport to collect the luggage for a client and transport them to the hotel. The client was the uncle of the king of Brunei and arrived, alone, in a 747, with 195 pieces of luggage in tow. Purchasing a $7,500 sweater for him is likely equivalent to my purchasing a $2 fridge magnet: neither of us is the poorer for the purchase. The few five-star hotels in and around St-Moritz have rooms that start at $2,000 per night. Breakfast not included. Royalty and the very wealthy have been coming to St-Moritz for centuries and thanks to them, the common folk (me?) can browse the most incredible fashion shops unparalleled anywhere else on the planet, try on an article of clothing that may be more expensive than a small car, and gaze at ourselves in the mirror. St-Moritz, like most Swiss villages, features a tall clock tower at the top of the town. No Swiss citizen can be excused for arriving late to an appointment as the clock towers are visible from all parts of town. On one weekend in January the world-famous horse races take place on the large frozen lake at the town's base, an event I am informed that must be added to my bucket list. Fortunately, I did witness (again) the Engadin ski marathon, a 42-km race that attracts over 40,000 Nordic skiers, which passes right through lower St-Moritz at kilometre 15. If you enjoy skate-skiing, it's a sight that will turn you green with jealousy for not having decided to participate. A ribbon of thousands of XC skiers, as far as you can see, dressed in all colours and patterns of skin-tight outfits, visible from far against the snowy white background, races by, the strain of their efforts clearly visible on each racer's face.

No strain on my face, for now my blissful week of action is behind me as I relax, finally, on my flight home.
Cheers!
Barry from Switzerland xx

Postcard from Chamonix (postmarked 10 March 2017)

This week has been an epic week, one for the record books, in particular for my personal Guinness Book of Records. I'll start at the end where all great beginnings have their roots...

The last ski run of the day started at the summit of Grands Montets, one of six distinct ski areas comprising Chamonix-Mont Blanc, accessible by first riding up a gondola from the base, then a chairlift and finally a large cable car that holds up to 50 excited skiers, each one either staring silently out the hard, plastic windows, all scratched up by thousands of ski tips having rested against them over the years, at the slopes far below, hypnotized by the expansive barren terrain, or, debating intently with his or her ski buddy about the perfect ski to use for today's conditions, or of a recent alpine experience, frequently in some foreign tongue. As we ascend it slowly becomes evident how high above sea level we are: the sky gradually becomes deeper blue, blue within blue -- I am reminded of how the astronauts get to witness how the sky becomes deeper blue, then still darker until it finally morphs into black after they blast off from earth into orbit! The cable car finally arrives at the very peak, over 3,300 metres above sea level, and we all must, unusually, trudge down over 150 metal steps in ski boots, braving the fierce, bitter wind at the peak, carrying our skis and boards, to the actual beginning of the trail, below the arrival station. Before doing so however, nearly everybody pulls out their smartphones to take pictures and selfies despite the howling wind: at this elevation, we can see over all of the nearby mountains to the faraway peaks and even over many of those to the horizon where there are still more snow-covered peaks, most of them very rugged and craggy in this section of the French Alps. Only Mont Blanc, a few kilometres away is much higher than our vantage point on this precipice, majestic against the rich blue within blue sky, usually sporting its own personal wispy, lenticular cloud, as it is at the moment, shrouding its very peak from sight. It is awesome, if not overwhelming, a sight that I will never take for granted, as so very few people ever get here to witness the panorama.

There are now two options for your pleasure: option one is skiing down the expert trail, groomed and well marked to keep skiers from getting lost on the way down. Because we are far above the tree line, there is little difference between the marked trail, which is all covered in snow and perfectly safe to ski, and off-trail which is also all covered in snow but quite risky as it may lead to gullies, cliffs and dangerous crevices. Those people turn right once they've arrived at the bottom of the long noisy flight of aluminium stairs. We choose option two by turning left and traversing over to the top of the Argentière glacier. With our guide in the lead, we know that the way is safe as long as we follow him down, more or less. The slow continual downhill advance of all glaciers does result in numerous crevices forming, sometimes as deep as 300 metres, I am informed, so following the guide is advised. Not only is the sky deep blue and the sun brilliant above us, not only is the frozen icy glacier beneath me covered by a three-metre thick layer of soft powdery snow, not only is the slope steep but not too steep, but it is also wide, so wide that I cannot see from edge to edge, it is a dream. 

I take my first turn and then my next and then I realize I can competently keep my rhythm but am entirely unconstrained as to how long or how wide my turns can be. Fluffy snow kicks up behind me, blinding anybody who foolishly chooses to follow me as I slalom down the huge expanse of freshly fallen snow, sometimes veering way left as I please and other times right, with little forethought or reason, feeling childlike as nothing else (nor anybody else) in the world matters at the moment. The fresh brisk dry air tickles my nostrils as I inhale and it fills my lungs, but my breathing soon becomes more laboured partly due to the rarefied air at this elevation, partly from the effort demanded by my legs. I am mindful of the soft snow sliding under my skis with every second's advance downhill. I feel rather proud as this hors-piste descent is apparently never-ending and I am managing the ride with more skill than usual, which adds further to my delight! It is as silent as it is breathtaking up here on top of the world and time appears to be ticking by slowly for me which I notice and which I appreciate. Of course I stop to catch my breath every minute or two, but these rest stops afford me the added pleasure of gazing around and performing a reality check: am I really here? I do not answer. Before too long I have mastered the summit and have indeed enjoyed one of the longest runs of my life, eventually rejoining the groomed trail for the last section and arriving at the base, over 2,200 metres below, probably a 6 km ride, never to be forgotten.

La Mer de Glace snaking its way through the Vallée Blanche behind me

Yesterday was altogether different: the town's inhabitants awoke to a thick fog which obscured all the surrounding mountains. In fact, the visibility at ground level was not fantastic either so the decision was to take the day off from zero-visibility skiing and instead visit the Vallée Blanche glacier, la Mer de Glace, the largest in France. It is 6 km long and 200 metres deep and is located on the northern slopes of Mont Blanc. An interesting train ride from Chamonix up a steep climb brings us in twenty minutes' time to a spot 400 metres above the glacier's leading edge. I had read that this glacier, in the distant past, filled the entire valley, up to and above the point at which we disembarked from the train (see the picture, above). It was over 700 metres thick at the time! The train itself is powered by electric motors which turn several gears positioned vertically under the train's carriage. These gears interlock with large metal teeth that are secured to the railroad bed from beginning to end. As the motors turn the gears, the train advances uphill.
I apologize for the mechanical details (which fascinated me!) and will now return to the glacier. I am sure that many of you reading this postcard have seen glaciers first-hand if not having at least seen photographs. In this case, we took a gondola down 300 metres along the valley's wall, and then still had to walk 400 stairs further down to the glacier's edge. This is where the fun begins: every winter, a team of engineers spends over a month drilling out an ice cave by digging horizontally into the glacier. The cave is more like a tunnel shaped like a loop which is burrowed 75 metres into the glacier! And into this cave I enter. The ice walls inside are so cold that when I touch them and rub my fingers over them, the ice will not melt -- my fingers remain dry. Can you imagine, I am literally inside the glacier, surrounded by many tons of ice possibly frozen for thousands of years, barely lit by several hidden lights, giving the entire length of the ice cave an eerie shine, deep blue in colour. If you are the least bit claustrophobic, you will likely not be venturing inside. For the rest of you: Add this experience to your bucket list!

Here's hoping you are checking items off your own bucket list!

Ski bum Barry