Snow in September

It’s best to contemplate the philosophy of skiing when you are lying on your backside in the snow, legs akimbo and your skis pointing vertically in some strange semaphore formation. I found myself in such a position on Saturday morning on the slopes of Mount Buller. I was wondering what is this fascination we have with sliding down mountains while trying to get up from the crumpled mess I found myself in.

I was at the bottom of a T-Bar lift, a piece of machinery with which I share a checkered past. I think the last time we locked horns was in the early 90’s when Jella and myself were taking on the Austrian Alps. After 5 days tuition from the lovely Inge, we felt confident enough to tackle the beast that was the mountain overlooking the little village in which we stayed. Our challenge all week was to ride to the top of the mountain and then ski non-stop to the bottom where a welcoming Gluwein awaited us.

The last stage of the trip involved riding a T-Bar, but we were gung-ho at this stage and would have ridden an elk to the top if that were required. For those unfamiliar with this hideous contraption, it involves having a piece of metal unceremoniously wedged under your posterior, which then drags you up the mountain. In Austria, Jella and myself decided to go halves on a T-Bar, so that we could share our boasts about the fantastic skiers we had become. We made it to within a couple of yards of the summit when the incline suddenly steepened. Our new found confidence ebbed away like spring snow and we panicked. We both gripped the central bar and this brought our momentum towards the centre. Suddenly, there was shuddering jolt as our skis crossed and we looked like drowning men clinging to a life raft.

For a few seconds, we held onto each other in a desperate quest for balance. Then our second ski crossed and I was faced with a damning realisation. It was going to be a dog eat dog situation and it was no fun being a poodle. I let go of Jella’s arm and he fell backwards grasping for air onto the icy trail. One of his skis came loose and it scuttled off into the bushes like a frightened deer. In the meantime, Jella began to slide back from whence he came.

I managed to cling on and risked one guilty look backwards. Jella had just taken out the couple on the T-Bar behind us and was continuing his decent like an accelerating bowling ball, scuttling all that came before him. I could see the look of terror on their faces as they could but watch as a screaming Irishman came hurtling towards them. He took out about 12 couples before he managed to direct his momentum into the ditch. It was a scene that Homer Simpson would have been proud of. In the meantime, I sailed sheepishly to the top and began the decent alone.

An hour later, I was tucking into my 3rd Gluwein when Jella appeared looking like somebody who had just spent 3 years making it back from the American Civil War. He had walked down the mountain and then organised a search party for his missing ski. They found it as dusk was falling and the sun was throwing fantastic colours across the snow. Forensic tests would later discover that it was covered in the blood of 10 Germans and a mountain goat. They still talk about that day in Austria in the same hushed tones they invoke when discussing the day the Russians appeared in the valley in 1945.

On Saturday last, fate and the T-Bar caught up with me. I had knocked off a couple of easy runs and my confidence was high. The sun was up and the sky was a brilliant blue. I was in the process of musing on how wonderful everything was, when I made it to the front of the queue. I’d been using chairlifts all morning, so I had become used to sitting down and letting the machinery do all the hard work. Somehow when it was my turn I switched off. Maybe I thought it was a chairlift or maybe I’m just dumb. Anyhow, I sat down when I should have stood and three seconds and some desperately unballetic maneuvers later, I was lying in a heap in the snow while being giggled at by the forty Aussie teenagers waiting in the queue. The final indignity arrived two seconds later when the next T-Bar whacked me on the back of the head.

Having dusted myself off and searched among the slushy snow for my dignity, I gripped tightly to the bar and contemplated the point of all this. The trip up the mountain is long and arduous. You get up at the crack of dawn and put on more kit than an American football player. You carry heavy skis in clunky boots uphill to lifts. You queue for 20 minutes to get a lift to the top of a run that takes 4 minutes to descend and you sweat in your 4 layers of clothing in the sun and freeze in the shade.

Maybe we do it because mountains provide a challenge by just being there. Maybe it’s all about the post snow bath and the feeling of accomplishment that you’ve pushed your body to limits you didn’t know possible and conquered the pull of gravity in the process. Or maybe it’s because of the fresh air, the view and that sense of freedom you get when it finally clicks and it no longer becomes a battle between you and the mountain. Then you feel part of the mountain and your descent becomes an effortless and graceful glide.

And if none of that works, there is always the après-ski party and the opportunity to bore everyone when you get back to work on Monday.