The Globe Trotter Life: September 2011

I awoke to the stillness of an empty hotel room, a room that nonetheless crackled with the excitement of being on my own in such a new place. This excitement faded as I shuttled to the airport to pick up my family and was replaced by a new excitement, one characterized by the joy of a close family setting off on a new adventure. Upon arrival, we decided to return to the hotel for a quick nap. After a two hour siesta, we went to the airport to catch a bus to Chamonix. Napping most the way, I awoke only to snap photographs of the 500 yr old castles that dotted the valley before drifting back to sleep. From Chamonix we took a taxi into the Monterosa Chain in the Italian Alps, home to the well known Matterhorn. As we twisted our way up the zig-zags of a centuries old road that seemed to teeter on the edge of a cliff, I was held in awe by the beauty of the scene. A beauty only found in the time capsules of a landscape unmarred by modern convenience. A landscape made up of small mountain villages looked over by looming medieval castles that seemed to want to crumble under the weight of my gaze. As we passed village after village, the air chilled as we climbed. Finally reaching the end of the valley we found our hotel, Hotel Genzianella, a small structure that fit both with the ancient aire of the 12^th century village of St. Jaques and with the sparkling mountain range that dominated your view in every direction. Exhausted from our journey, we retired to our rooms, anxious for our first taste of the Italian Alps.

I awoke 2 hours early. It was 5am, but our glacier guide would not arrive until 8, and breakfast would not be ready until 7. I attempted to return to my slumber but found it an impossible mission. And so I shut my eyes and prayed for daylight to approach quickly. It did not. Slowly, and eventually the sun crept down the hillsides to flood my balcony, illuminating my room almost as brightly as it reflected off the snowkissed peaks that enclosed the small valley. As the others in my group began to wake, I rushed downstairs to a breakfast of true European fashion: croissants, cheeses, and thinly sliced meats. Not hungry, but aware of the day

ahead, I ate what I could and returned to my room

to make myself ready. The guide, Oscar, arrived at 8am as promised. Oscar, a nice young Italian who lived with his family in the valleys below, had grown up in the surrounding mountains, and after learning that he was largely in charge of coordinating the European World Cup for skiing, I

knew we were in good hands. We bussed down the valley a short ways to the ski area; after a short visit to the rental shop to pick up our skis and skins, we began our ascent. Floating over rocks and blue ice, the gondola offered us our first glimpse of the expansive mountain range that extended out around us. Two gondolas and four chairlifts later, we were ready to begin our hike up the glacier. Attaching the skins to our skis, we began our trek. My first time on skins, I couldn’t help but feel that at any moment my skis would begin sliding backwards plunging me over a cliff. As we reached the top of the first small hill, a helicopter, meant for carrying skiers to unreachable snowfields buzzed overhead, no more than 10 feet above us. The pilot, a friend of our guide, decided to whip up a storm for us; the windblast from the whirring blades became an instant hurricane and knocked half of our group to the ground, annoying those stuck in the snow under the artificial weight and delighting the rest of us. Our sense of adventure affirmed we continued our climb. As the fog crept up the valley, we hurried our pace. It came slowly at first, but soon overtook us as the warm sun heated the rocks of the valley below. Finally reaching the top 2 hours later, the fog pulled back, briefly allowing us a panoramic view of the range that lifted out of the valley and floated on a pillow of clouds. After the inevitable photoshoot of a group of giddy tourists, we began making our way down the glacier into the valley that was home to our new residence, St. Jaques. Passing under massive cliffs, over ever-expanding snowfields and through the sparse trees that dotted the high elevation terrain we made our way down the massive glacier, dropping over 4000 feet in less than an hour. Skiing down to the village that was to be our new home over the next few days, we barely stopped to click off our skis before entering the singular restaurant of St. Jaques. Ravaged by hunger we devoured our 4 courses and retired to the hotel for much needed recuperation before tomorrows adventure began.

Sleeping at most 2 hours, I awoke for my last morning in St. Jaques at 6am. Part excitement and part sentiment had kept me up through the night but I felt awake nonetheless. After watching the snow fall in walnut sized flakes for most the night, I was excited to hit the slopes, unaware that skiing in the Alps holds different rules than in the U.S. After a quick breakfast our guide, Oscar, arrived to inform us that we would not be able to ski the powder. All the mountains had been closed due to winds and avalanche danger. Ski areas here were so expansive and undermanned that the risk to skiers was too great to ski through storms, an idea unheard of in the U.S. Our plans had originally been to ski to the Refugio Gabriet, a cabin set into the mountains two valleys over, while our baggage travelled there by taxi and snowcat. Several phone calls, and an hour later we piled into the taxi meant for our luggage to be shuttled to the small town of Gressoney, set in the valley below the Refugio Gabriet. After a delicious meal, and a brief walk around the town we climbed into a snowcat, which carried both us and our bags up the mountain. Our climb was so steep at times, it caused the cat to slip on the wet snow beneath the tread conjuring up concern in some, and excitement in others. Slowly, through the snowy haze the outline of the hut began to take shape. After a last struggle up a steep 45 degree cat track, we arrived. Full of energy and ready to ski, Brian and I laboriously built a jump next to the hut, refusing to sleep without clicking on our skis. Fighting our way through the 3 foot drifts we slowly packed the run-in to the take-off point. My body boiling from the hard work, I stripped to a t-shirt and took to the jump to pop my first 360 of the season. After several jumps, we rushed inside to catch a sauna and shower before they closed at 6:30. Sporting my French underwear in the sauna, I’d never felt so European. After a brisk shower, we feasted on rabbit and then retired to the reading room before climbing the stairs to our room for a night’s rest.

I awoke early again, something that apparently has become a habit I only seem to experience in Europe. As I closed my eyes to attempt to go back to sleep, the smell of pancakes wafted into my nostrils snapping my eyelids open once again. Climbing out of bed and descending to the kitchen area I was disappointed to find bread and Nutella as the main course. Its accompaniment? Hot chocolate and a bowl of cereal the size of a child’s fist that could be eaten in three spoonfuls. After the meager breakfast we skied down to the gondola which we were forced to ride down due to the mountain still being closed. Thankfully, the ski area across the valley was now open and so we met our guide in the valley below to begin the day. We spent the day skiing the thick, heavy powder off the beaten track, finding several cliffs, which we were able to plunge over safely. For lunch we ate at mid-mountain. It was a delicious lunch made better by the service of our beautiful Italian waitress. For the first time, I wished I was not with my family as she was making eyes at me and I would have liked nothing more than to find out her plans for the evening. But alas, our bellies full, our group left the restaurant to return to the valley below for a ride up the gondola to our temporary home. Exiting the gondola, I was excited to learn that a snowmobile with a rope trailing behind it would be towing us up the mountain to our haven. After a short, but exciting ride behind the rumbling machine, I dropped the rope, kicked off my skis and returned to the comfort of our cabin. Going straight to the sauna, I found the company of four Belgians. Though speaking different languages, we laughed as we rubbed snow on ourselves only to watch it melt away instantly. Secretly, to myself, I was amused by their willingness to share the snow chunks they had partially melted on their bodies with one another. I declined to share, but enjoyed the experience nonetheless. After a cold shower, I retired to the reading room for study before going to bed.

I woke up lazily, but with time counting down, we quickly packed and loaded our luggage on a snowmobile to be taken down to the gondola. I popped one last 360 off the jump we made our first night, then skied down to the gondola. The lifts on our mountain were closed due to wind so we left the luggage at the gondola (which we couldn’t ride) and trusted it to be ferried down to the valley below. Skiing down the cat track we arrived at Hotel de Jolanda to meet our new guide. Oscar had a previous engagement for the day so we had a new guide, Albert to ski with us. It was a beautiful sunny day but the 3 feet of powder that had accumulated over the last several days was wet and heavy keeping us mostly on piste. Skiing some off piste, I attempted a 180 off a small bump. Landing backwards my right ski tip pierced the crust, plunging me into the heavy snow. Putting my right hand down to brace myself, I punched the hard ice beneath the freshly fallen snow, breaking/ straining or otherwise reinjuring my thumb at its favorite pain point, on the knuckle at the base of the thumb. Sad… but oh well, I'm still skiing in the majesty of the Alps. After some light morning skiing, we hiked up above the original gondola to a restaurant that was owned and lived in by a family that had lived there their whole lives. The elderly woman who lived in the hut was 90 and reportedly never left the 9000ft lodge. She chose instead to avoid the valley below, counting on her sons, employees and other unknown aquaintences to bring up the necessary supplies to live in the hut and run the restaurant. The food was very good, and the elderly matriarch worked alongside what must have been her granddaughter serving food and setting the tables. Full from the customary long lunch, we skied down. After some deliberation, Eric, Spence, Brian and I decided to ski down off piste while the less adventurous of our group skied the groomed. As we came over one of the crests of the couliour, my brother and I discovered the dilapidated roofs of several old huts that had begun to decay. Like minded in our desire to hurt ourselves skiing, we gleefully launched ourselves off of the makeshift jump, leaving deep impressions in the snow for those who followed in our path. Trecking out of the couliour, we met our families in the valley below. We jumped over to the Champoluc side for some more skiing in the sun, staying mostly off piste. We descended into a valley, through a narrow couliour maybe 2 ski lengths wide, found a path through some pillow covered rocks and made our way into the shadow of the mountain above. The snow began to harden, but Brian’s hubris caused him to try one last jumped over a rock. He instead got a core shot to his skis, and somersaulted over the boulder causing all of us to die in laughter… once we saw that he was laughing as well. Continuing down the valley, we hugged the cliff wall and followed the guide on a long traverse back to the village below. After a last run on piste, we grabbed our bags which had been dutifully looked after by the gondola operators and hopped in a taxi waiting to take us to Andrey St. Andre, near Cervina a small, but well known Italian village at the base of the Matterhorn (called Mont Cervino in Italian). Excited for the potential to heli-ski the Matterhorn the next day Brian and I went to sleep after our ritual of reviewing the day’s ski footage on our laptops.

I awoke filled with excitement over the prospect of heliskiing in the shadow of the Matterhorn. Peaking outside, I saw that the day was sunny and clear, a good sign for our anticipated flight to shadow of the towering beast. We returned to the Hotel de Roses, the hotel we had originally planned to stay in, and ate breakfast with the others of our group. Though the Matterhorn was all but clear, save a puff of a cloud that at its highest point covered its upper most spire, we exited the hotel after breakfast to find that clouds had begun to move in. Climbing into a large van driven by our returned guide Oscar, we crossed our fingers as we headed up to Cervina where we hoped the sky would clear allowing a helicopter to buzz us to the base of the towering mountain. Sadly, father winter had other plans and a swirling snowstorm blew in to cover the sliver of blue sky that had remained the source of our collective hope. There would be no heli-skiing today. Nonetheless we strapped on our skis for a day at the ski area. Having only brought sunglasses in anticipation of a helicopter flight and a glacier ski, I was blinded most of the day. I found skiing with eyes closed at many times to be an equally effective and much more comfortable way to brave the storm. In an attempt to ski down to the Swiss side of the Cervino ski area for lunch we lost Ned (one of our group) in the blizzard. Skiing back to the tram, the guide found him and returned to the top with our lost member. Feeling bad, Ned offered to buy lunch for the 8 of us, but first the storm having temporarily cleared, we took what was easily the best run of the entire trip down an untouched powder field beneath the tram. Riding the tram back up, we took full advantage of Ned's offer; we ate like kings: 16oz Argentian steaks wrapped in bacon, grilled vegetables, teramisu and chocolate cake. At 3500 meters (11,000 ft) in the restaurant at the Refugio del Guide, we feasted on what was easily the best meal of the entire trip, with scenery to match. The storm having returned we took a last run down the piste. Oscar left, having more clients to guide the next day, and we spent an hour touring the beautiful village of Cervina while waiting for the bus to arrive to cart us back to the hotel. Brian and I found a small quaint bar, ordered two bombardinos, a sweet yet powerfully strong Italian drink made of coffee and cognac, took some pictures, did some souvenir shopping for those at home and returned to the bus stop just in time to catch it back to the hotel. Exhausted and full we packed, nibbled on what we could at dinner, and finally retired to our rooms for our last nights sleep in the beautiful Italian Alps.