Bravely taking on the green slopes!

Cavanman's Diary

A friend of mine in college was the first person I knew who got into skiing. Man, I rued the day he ever stood on skis. He droned on and on and on about what good craic it was, dropping fancy terminology like ‘the best Aprés’ and how he loved going ‘off piste’. He’d pontificate about ‘fresh powder’ and gondolas, so much so that we used to slag him about it incessantly.

“Did you see the match?” someone would ask. “I did,” he’d say. “We were in Italy and I was heading up the chair lift…” he would begin, as we all dozed off.

So, I always swore I would never become that bore – not in relation to skiing, anyway – but now, well, I take no pleasure in reporting that I have. I am now that sickening person who goes on and on about skiing. A veteran of two trips, I am a self-appointed expert and take it upon myself to convert the unanointed with the zeal of a missionary.

You see, two years ago, a few weeks before Covid struck, a group of us went skiing to Soll in Austria for the first time. I will never forget the horror of the first day.

As we were all complete novices, we had been advised that it was a good idea to get a lesson before we started. So we booked one and started at the top of a green slope, or ‘baby slope’ as they’re called.

Now, picture the scene. We were all standing around gingerly on our skis, struggling to stay upright, on a flat area at the top. In fairness, I should point out that there is nothing daunting about a green slope; they’re designed for rookies and children who are just learning. Most people’s front lawns are steeper.

Anyway, the instructor began talking and filling us in on the most rudimentary aspects of our new pursuit - how to attach the skis to our boots, how to stand up straight and so on. Unfortunately, he hadn’t got to the part about turning or slowing down when I found myself beginning to slide off.

“Whoaaaa!” I shouted as I trundled away. By now, I had left the flat part and was on the very short, gentle hill and beginning to pick up speed. I buried my poles into the snow but it made no difference as I accelerated downhill.

Behind me, I could hear the instructor telling me what to do, his voice starting off quite measured before a degree of panic set in – and then, it faded as I flew down the slope, getting faster all the time. I am not exaggerating when I say that I was convinced I was going to die or, at best, mangle myself around an obstacle of some sort, undergoing, in the parlance of the day, a sudden transition into a snowman/snowperson.

I would compare it to putting a complete beginner on a horse and giving the animal a good slap on the hind quarters. Only instead of a saddle, I felt like I was on stilts.

Soon, the horse had bolted and I was strapped on. In the distance, about 200 metres away, I could see a busy road. Would I get stopped by then? Was I moving at a reckless speed? If I fell there and then would I break every bone in my body? I had no way of knowing.

The survival instinct kicked in. At one stage, I went over a little bump, which to me felt like one of those ramps we all know from the Winter Olympics. Time stood still.

It reminded me of a line from Of Mice And Men: "As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment."

It seemed like about 10 minutes; in reality, it was probably about 45 seconds. And sound did stop – bar my roaring like an ass.

You see, what was also terrifying me was that there were groups of other skiers, mainly kids, clustered around. Naturally enough, they would have been expecting me to avoid them as I came hurtling down the piste but, well, I had no brakes. I was reduced to screaming at them in advance, “Get out of the way!”, my poles still lodged in the snow, producing two white jets of vapour in my wake.

Eventually, thank God, I came to a halt when I crashed into a bank of snow a few feet high and landed, gracelessly but relieved, in a heap. I counted my limbs and all seemed to be in order.

I can see, at this remove, how it must have been the most comical scene imaginable, something like the milk van episode from Father Ted.

When I eventually dusted myself down and, via a button lift, made my way back to the group, one of the party was literally unable to stand up with the laughter.

Anyway, that was my first introduction to skiing and it knocked the stuffing out of me, so much so that I needed several stiff drinks before attempting another descent, a habit I have maintained ever since.

As the days went on, though, I got the hang of it a bit better. The slopes are classified as follows: green, blue (generally easy for good skiers), red (for intermediate and advanced skiers) and black (insanely steep – anyone who tries one should immediately have their skis taken off them and replaced with a straitjacket).

After a few days, I had conquered some blues but I never actually made it on to a red. By the end of the week, though, all agreed that we would return the following year. Then, Covid intervened and we missed out but finally, the week before last, our group of 13 returned to Austria, this time to nearby Mayrhofen.

The trip started off badly when the 120-mile journey from Munich airport to our destination took five and a half hours. It turned out that the day we were travelling was the start of the German and Dutch long weekend – or something like that, our driver was so stressed at the traffic that he wasn’t making much sense – but we eventually got there.

The resort was marvellous, with countless slopes for all levels and great bars and restaurants. Quite a few Covid restrictions remained in place and one in particular was very welcome – midnight closing. There was only so much damage one could do between skiing finishing and 12 O’Clock at night.

The first day, we hired our gear and bought our ski passes, all of which is quite expensive and time-consuming so the sooner you can get it out of the way, the better. On day two, as is customary, I got sun-burned, which did not go well with a hangover. The third day was my birthday and, fuelled by the local tipple, Jagermeister, I rose again.

The highlight in Mayrhofen is a slope called the Harakiri (pictured), which is said to be the steepest in Europe, with a 78 degree gradient. If, like me, you are not great on trigonometry, that is just slightly more forgiving than the Cliffs of Moher.

We went over it in a ski lift a few times and it was genuinely frightening. One guy seemed stuck, frozen to the spot; another cartwheeled down like a rag doll.

I posted a photo of it on Facebook and sure enough, within five seconds, my old college buddy had commented. “Ah, the Harakiri,” he began, “many’s the time…”

Unlike him, I won’t bore you with the rest…