It’s true when they say that time is a healer. Contrary to the instinctual habits of our spring-awakening creatures, summer becomes the ideal hibernation period in which red raw shins regain their lost layer of skin, bruises lose their dark hue, and exercise isn’t always cut short by cramping muscles. Unfortunately, as I unpacked the skis that had been left untouched and neglected for the entire 7-month winter absence, it was pretty clear to me that time hadn’t made them look any less battered than when I packed them. Covered in scratches, and with a large chunk missing thanks to an ill-timed landing in the park, I’m reminded of how gruelling the sport can be.
I had had more than my fair share of near misses in Val Thorens. On multiple occasions I nearly sent myself flying over the cliff edge (mostly thanks to the blinding white-outs), having to dig my skis into the snow and throw myself onto the ground, to avoid an unwelcome aerial flight. I even found the slowdown safety nets to be quite useful for cutting speed,even if they were used more literally than intended. At one (very embarrassing) point early on in the season, I got hooked on a chairlift, because I’d left my bag on my back and failed to switch it to the front of my body. Instead of getting off and gliding away gracefully I was lifted off the ground, with the threat of being dropped unceremoniously into the vast emptiness below. The chairlift operator was completely useless, failing to shut off the chairlift, and instead laughing at my stupidity (although to be fair, after spending an uneventful day cooped up in one of those little huts I’m not entirely convinced I’d help either). I managed to quickly unhook myself, and to this day have never worn a backpack skiing since!
If anyone has ever visited La Folie Douce (in any resort) during happy hour, then I truly salute you for making it down the adjoining slope alive. I can only describe the final ski down from the bar as absolute carnage, with owner-less equipment flying down the mountain, deluded drunken beginners morphing into the next Bode Miller, and intoxicated revellers abandoning the sport altogether in favour of rolling down to the bottom. Watching the madness from the chairlift is fantastic. Watching it whilst rogue skis are flying towards you isn’t. So far I have only experienced La Folie in Val Thorens, but I’ll be sure to be paying the club in Val d’Isère a visit, you know purely for comparative purposes!
This is actually my last blog from my English living room! The next time you’ll hear from me will be in Tignes itself, where the snow will hopefully be thick, and the apartment will surely be small. I still have 101 things to do in preparation for the move, but it’ll be worth it to start the winter properly with the first ski run of the season.