Photo: Gregor_y
The snow had been pouring down for a day and a half. St Anton was more or less buried. Gigantic bulldozers shovelled enormous amounts of snow into the river, with no discernible effect. Everything was covered with several metres of powder snow. According to the forecast on the local radio, only the bottommost cabin lift would be open. And the weather really wasn’t fit for skiing. The mountain tops were enveloped in storms, and down here in the valley the snow was still coming down like there was no tomorrow. The visibility approached zero.
Nevertheless, there we were, a small group of skiers, with 5-7 centimetres of snow already covering our caps and helmets, waiting for the lift to open. This was more of an instinctive reaction than any kind of belief in a day of fantastic skiing. Then the door opened and we scrambled into the cabin. On the way up we regarded each other with a maybe-we-should-have-stayed-at-home look on our faces. Nobody said anything, but I think we all regretted our decision. The wind was howling and the cabin shook, rattled and rolled and hit the masts on the way. Yikes!
Photo: Gregor_y
Then we stood in the snow outside the halfway station. Nobody said anything, because it would have been impossible to hear anything anyway. It would be no good to attempt a run down the piste, which was exposed to the raging elements. And we would most likely get lost at that. Then Søren, who previously had worked as a guide in the area and therefore knew his way around, waved at us, turned around and disappeared over a truly terrifying ledge. We slowly approached the abyss and looked directly down onto the top of a dense spruce forest. Through the howling wind we heard Søren screaming, not from pain, but from something that sounded suspiciously like joy.
Photo: Gregor_y
One by one we let ourselves slip over the edge (which wasn’t as dangerous as it had seemed initially), and after a couple of sightless seconds with snow whipping into our faces, we found ourselves standing together in a forest so dense that we seemed to be indoors. The wind was suddenly almost inaudible, and before us was metres upon metres of the finest powder snow ever (at least in Europe). The run through was forest was steep – very steep. The silence of the forest was broken by seven simultaneous exclamations. Each of us set off with screams of joy. We flew downwards, downwards through the trees, and we only paused when leg muscles or throats became overheated and needed a break.
Photo: Solarthermeinator
Once in a while I, or one of the others, did lose control, of course, and hit a tree. But with a blanket of to metres of newly fallen snow beneath (and to a certain degree over) our skis, it didn’t matter. The snow we pushed in front of us worked like a natural airbag – a soft impact and a lot of laughs from the others. We went up again and again. And suddenly the storm was on our side, because every time we emerged from the halfway station, our tracks were covered. Nobody could see where we’d run. We had the secret forest all to ourselves. We whooped and laughed like small children building a fort for the first time. Only our fort was a kilometre long, steep and filled with fabulous snow. I don’t remember eating lunch that day. We just went up and down like seven foolishly sniggering yo-yos. And every time we stood in the lift on our way to yet another run, we tried to come up with new superlatives to describe our happiness.
If this story must have a morale, it must be something like this: The weather doesn’t have to be picture postcard perfect in order for a ski trip to be a success. Even storms, fog or snow may contain the potential for a fantastic experience. There is just one requirement: Do not engage in stormy off-piste runs without the proper equipment and good friends. Especially the latter is vital – both in terms of joy and security.
By Thomas Uhrskov
Go further: Read here about how meditation and tai-chi make you a better skier and click here to find out about the best ski resorts for the Christmas traveller.