Monday, 23 March 2015

Eat. Drink. Sleep. Ski. Repeat

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain speaking. I'm sorry to inform you that we have a minor technical fault with the aircraft..."

It's 8.30am on a cold February Sunday, and it's already been a very long day. If I had the energy, I'd groan. But after a sleepless night spent fretting about whether my unwell wife would be fit to travel, and a nightmare dash from the pharmacy in Gatwick's South Terminal to the gate - our flight number booming over the PA system - the news of the delay is nothing more than a dull blow. Life could be a lot worse. We're here. Marianne is on the mend. We will, eventually, reach our destination.

Our first experience of Monarch Airlines has not been a happy one. Free-for-all check-in process, cheerful but mostly inept staff, a two hour technical delay, seating designed for legless dwarfs... I'm fascinated by aviation, but after nearly four hours contorted into our Airbus A321 with 180 other unfortunates, I'm losing the will.

Then, through a break in the clouds, I see the snow.

We're descending into Friedrichschafen in Germany, just a few miles from the Austrian border - and all the way to the horizon, the fields and buildings are clad in winter wonderland white. I remember why we've put ourselves through this, and the tingle returns.

At lunchtime on a Sunday, we have the airport to ourselves; in minutes we're reunited with our baggage, welcomed by an efficient gang of VIP Ski reps, and whisked onto two coaches. On every seat lies a bottle of water and a miniature Mars bar: the trial is over. Now comes the pampering.

Odyssey 2015's group numbers six plus one. Our friend Cheryl's daughter is spending this ski season working for VIP Ski in St Anton; for Cheryl and her husband Simon, the choice of 2015 destination was a no-brainer. After much discussion and procrastination, Marianne and I have jumped on their bandwagon. We've brought longtime ski buddies Ben and Andy along for the ride.

Airport transfers to ski resorts are notoriously protracted - but St Anton is only 80 miles from Friedrichschafen. Even so I'm caught out when, barely 90 minutes after leaving the airport, our coach is trundling through the streets of a pretty mountain village with wood-shuttered windows and gabled roofs. There's a short delay while we're transferred into a fleet of taxis, but it's all remarkably painless: no trudging up snowy roads carrying your own bodyweight in gear.

And, suddenly, we're here, pulling up in front of the Hotel Montjola with its distinctive curved wood structure; the strain of an awful night and a morning to forget dissolving away. The hotel's main reception area doubles as the lounge; the bar area is laid with an inviting spread of cakes, tea and sandwiches. We descend like starving wolves, and life just gets better and better.

It's a pleasure to finally meet Cheryl's daughter Marianne, whom we've heard so much about over the years. She'll be skiing with us this week in her spare time. In our group of seven, there are two Andrews and two Mariannes. Go figure. After some discussion about naming conventions (my suggestion of Marianne Junior and Senior does not go down well) we settle on Marianne 1 (Cheryl's daughter) and 2 (my wife).

Our room downstairs is small but comfortable and light years ahead of anywhere we've stayed in France; I'd have liked a bath but the shower could double as a pressure washer and the hot water (once it arrives) is endless. It's all good. Meanwhile, our luggage has been delivered (!) to our room, and skis have made their way into the boot room behind reception. Magic.

The feasting continues with champagne and canapés, followed by an excellent three course dinner. VIP's literature makes much of the effort that goes into their food, and it lives up to the hype. Drinks from the bar are sensibly priced, and there's unlimited wine with dinner. Reds are better than whites but it's all drinkable. There's a decent Rosé, too.

We retire early and as always, I struggle to sleep despite my exhaustion. It's 364 days since I last set ski to snow. And St Anton comes with a reputation. Legendary off-piste, difficult and narrow runs, inconsistent piste classification, and two of the most notorious aprés-ski venues in the world. I'm not sure it's going to be my sort of place.

The snow, at least, is going to be epic. After a slow start this part of the Alps has had a metre of powder in the last few days; as I finally drift off, it's still falling outside the window.

At 8.52am on Monday morning we board the Rendlbahn gondola, just seven minutes after opening time. That's despite a breakfast that would be too easy to linger over, and the usual day one go-slow. Where the hell did I put my goggles/socks/gloves/money/brain... And despite the fact that there are six of us. Plus Marianne (1), who lives a short walk away from the hotel, is not working this morning, and will be showing us the mountain.

She's elected to take us up Rendl - the other side of the valley from St Anton's main area - because it tends to be quieter early in the week. As we gain altitude on 2015's first lift, the anticipation is palpable. For Ben, this will be his first run in two years. For me, my first day in my brand new ski boots. For all of us save Ben (who visited as a child), our first time in St Anton.

Off the lift, skis and snowboards on, and away we go. The visibility is mixed - cloudy, snowing lightly - but the snow is glorious and after a tentative couple of runs, it all comes trickling back. The Rendl area is compact but perfectly formed, with four small chairlifts serving a network of beautifully groomed pistes and a variety of enticing terrain from open powder fields to steep bumps. And there are trees. Lots of them. By mid morning, I voice what Marianne's already thinking.

"It looks like Whistler..."

From us, praise doesn't come any higher than that. Stand amongst the trees on the R8 unpisted route, or look down from any of the lifts, and you could be in Blackcomb's Seventh Heaven or Crystal Ridge areas. We're loving this.

At mid morning, we ski back down into St Anton - slightly reluctantly in my case - to sample the main side of the valley. As we reach the bridge over the road, we meet a team of huskies towing a sled in the opposite direction. I practically faceplant in my excitement and completely forget to take any pictures. This really is starting to feel like (skiing) home.

Marianne is still suffering slightly from the illness which blighted our journey, and Andy and I accompany her on a short detour to the pharmacy. While Andy sweet-talks the pharmacist into dispensing antibiotics - helpful to have a doctor in the group - I loiter outside and commune with a pair of local dogs. Business as usual.

With Marianne sorted, we board the Gampen chairlift. It's busy, but the queue is fast moving; in no time we're at mid mountain, reunited with the others, in what will become a familiar part of the world in the days to come. One more lift (Kapall) to the top, before Marianne (1) leads us down a fast, sweeping red run - one of several options - to the base of the lift, then on towards our lunch stop just above the village - KK's.

Not until we arrive do I twig that this is the Krazy Kangaruh, one of the aforementioned notorious aprés bars. Just before midday it's quiet; a friendly, wood-clad place with plenty of space for discarded helmets, gloves and jackets, and enticing smells emanating from the kitchen. We slide in ahead of a 12.30 booking, wolf bowls of steaming goulash, and exit. Marianne (1) leaves us for work, with instructions to ski down and take the main Galzig gondola to the top.

Visibility has been fading in and out all day, but up here the balance is tipped into full whiteout. It's windy, too; having considered skiing over the other side and exploring the runs towards St Christoph, we elect to stay put. After a few more runs at much reduced pace - strictly on piste in these conditions - Ben finds an alternative route that leads us down a black run in zero visibility. There's potential for disaster but it's not too steep and far less busy than the blue runs nearby.

With 4pm approaching and the high lifts closing, it's time to head home; we join the 'Happy Valley' zombie run with thousands of others, and pick our way down to the village. This is one of the 'narrow, over-crowded' pistes of yore. It's a scary place for a beginner, but nowhere near as terrifying - nor dangerous - as the Santons rat-run in Val d'Isére.

Back in the village, the VIP van is waiting to whisk us back to the hotel. The company operates two vans which shuttle back and forth at peak times, and on demand all day - one of many aspects of their service which enable us to focus on the important bits. Much appreciated.

With day one consigned to history, spirits are high. As I salve my new aches with a Kir Royale - topped up for free by Marianne (1) - the UK and its attendant worries are a million miles away. And many of the anxieties surrounding this trip - Marianne (2)'s illness, whether people who had never met before would get on - are falling away too. Dinner is wonderful again; both Ben and Cheryl have special dietary requirements, and the kitchen is doing a great job of catering for all.

The days that follow are, in essence, more of the same. Only better. Tuesday takes us over the mountain to St Christoph, a pretty hamlet and home to one of the best restaurants in the area - Hospiz Alm. Lunch for us is normally no more than a pitstop, but Hospiz Alm merits a leisurely meal. The fourteenth century building is a study in rustic charm, the spiral staircase to the (spotless) toilets has a slide for those in a hurry, and the wine list is legendary. We don't sample the wine (though it's fun picking out Bordeaux with four-figure prices) but the food is superb and the prices not ridiculous.

The clouds have lifted, finally showing us the Arlberg in all its magnificence: needle crags towering over tree-clad lower slopes, every branch heavy with snow. We board the chairlift to the top with plans to ski down into Stuben, an even tinier hamlet on the edge of the skiable area.

Then we hit the Wall.

I've written of the Wall before. It usually pops up on day two or three; the point when the combination of altitude and a new regime of strenuous exercise exhausts the body's reserves. It strikes everyone to some extent, but Cheryl and I are hardest hit: she elects to head home early with Marianne (1). Simon, Marianne (2) and I continue. Ben and Andy are elsewhere today; after a plan to join an off-piste guided group fell through, they're amusing themselves on a cliff face somewhere.

My lunch of bratwurst and sauerkraut was high in protein but low in carbohydrate - a mistake. By the time we reach Stuben, with its postcard-pretty church and single chairlift, I'm really suffering. I manage a couple of runs higher up before succumbing, with apologies to the others. We end a little early, just before 4pm. I resolve to pack in the carbs at breakfast the following morning.

Day three takes us all to Lech, Austria's swankiest resort, renowned for its designer shops and perfectly groomed cruising slopes. Chairlifts emblazoned with the logo of a local jeweller sum it up perfectly. Our impression is of an attractive village (though no prettier than St Anton) and pleasingly quiet slopes; we spend most of the day in the newly opened Warth area - a gondola ride away.

The slopes are certainly well-groomed and the weather is perfect; we spend the day racking up some serious mileage either on piste or seeking out the powder nearby. It's not all easy cruising though: I go sweaty-palmed as a straightforward black run turns into one of the steepest fall lines I've ever seen on a groomed piste.

The group splits into three sections in the afternoon, as we lose each other doing laps of a six-man chair with an infinite variety of routes - on-piste and off - from top to bottom. There are trees and rocks and gullies and crevices and powder fields and fast cruises - something for everyone. I'm strongly reminded of Harmony on Whistler.

It's a near-perfect skiing day and we're sad to see it end; with the shadows lengthening and a 4.15pm taxi booked, Marianne and I reluctantly turn for home. Our brief taste of Lech has been tantalising, and I'm keen to return.

On Wednesday afternoon we make a foray into town to watch the weekly ski show - teams of instructors from around the area showing their skill with the sort of close-quarters formation skiing (in the dark) that would have most of us in a tangle of limbs in seconds. The lighting is spectacular - the slopes used like a drive-in movie screen - and the ski displays are interspersed with aerial tricks over a jump at the base of the slope. Great stuff - and there are fireworks to finish.

Day four gets off to an inauspicious start with poor visibility and two uncomfortable cable car rides to the top, followed by a tearing wind on the run down into Stuben. We abandon our plans to revisit the slopes above Stuben, and head back over into St Anton proper. The main area above the resort is an appealing mix of fast red and blue runs with a couple of interesting red and black 'skiroutes' - patrolled off-piste routes. After a couple of laps of the Kapall chair, and one blast all the way to the bottom and back up on Gampen, we rendezvous in the Krazy Kangaruh for lunch.

I'd noticed the burgers on our first visit; there's a whole page of the menu devoted to them. In Europe, burgers are very hit and miss, but KK's goes straight into my personal hall of fame. Continuing the Whistler references, both burger and venue are reminiscent of Dusty's in Creekside. Bawdy aprés venue or not, the Krazy Kangaruh is fast becoming one of my favourite mountain restaurants.

Post-lunch carbohydrate slump finds us on the Rendlbahn, heading up the other side of the valley. Ben, Marianne (2) and I revisit R8, the Seventh Heaven-esque area we discovered on day one, and spend the afternoon exploring the other off-piste routes on this side of the mountain. It's cloudy and the light is flat, but there's just enough contrast from the trees and terrain to see what we're doing.

We cap the day off with one of my highlights of the week: R5, It's an off piste route that forks off the black run just below the Gampberg chair, and winds through glorious terrain away from the pistes before rejoining the main R1 run to the village lower down. It's tricky but manageable, the options are endless, and I love every second. As usual, I pick my way down cautiously while Marianne (2) exhibits more speed and panache. Ben tries to vault over a half-buried river and ends up embedded in the bank. Once we've made sure he's unscathed, we point and laugh. It takes him a quarter of an hour to chip the ice from his skis.

Day five is one of those days where things don't quite click. At least not for me. We decide to go to Zurs, which involves the two cable cars to the top (and a big queue for the first one), a run down into Stuben, and a bus ride. Altogether too much hanging around and public transport; it's 10.30am before we get any proper skiing in. At least the weather is clearer here, as forecast.

Zurs has an attractive area of slopes including an epic red run from the top of the Muggengrat chair between towering peaks and along an off-piste trail back to the village. My lunch is the week's most alarming-looking plate of food (think frankfurter in the shape of meatloaf) but is surprisingly tasty.

Overall, though, I'm not feeling it; so big is the queue for the bus that we plump for a taxi back to Stuben which costs us a pittance and saves us a lot of elbow-bashing. The others enjoyed their day but after two all-time greats in a row, I never got in the groove. On our return we discover that leaving St Anton was the right call - our home run blighted by high winds on the Stuben side and poor visibility all the way down to the resort.

No matter. I neck a G&T, enjoy another fantastic meal courtesy of the Montjola, watch a bit of rugby with the others, and reset for our final day.

Which dawns clear, steel-grey sky turning blue as the sun rises. We split into three groups after the first run, and Marianne and I set out to make our last ski day in 2015 count. We flit back and forth between the Kapall and Galzig peaks, seeking out the quietest pistes, the off-piste routes and any nuggets of off-piste powder we can find.

Lunch is another KK's rendezvous and another fabulous burger; the highlight of our last afternoon - and one of the runs of the week - is R33. Yet another off-piste black, it runs from the top of the Kapall chair across the Mattun face before descending to follow the edge of a valley which winds back to the Happy Valley run. It's scary high-alpine stuff for me, with an initial traverse which leaves me dry-throated and white-knuckled - but the weather is perfect and the setting sublime. We join the Zombie run with hearts racing, take the Mattun Chair to mid-mountain, and board Kapall - Odyssey 2015's last lift.

It's already 4pm, the setting sun beginning to turn the slopes gold; as we exit the chairlift, 99% of me wants to turn left, towards the entrance to R33. One more shot of adrenalin. But we've pushed hard today: fatigue and off-piste moguls do not mix well. We turn right and keep to the pistes, sweeping down the fast reds and the 22 black to our aprés-ski rendezvous at Taps, next door to the Krazy Kangaruh.

We shoehorn ourselves onto a bench with the others and swap stories of bravado to a soundtrack of 80s Eurotrash. It's not my scene at all, but the Gluhwein is warming and the company good.

One final short run down - stopping to check on a winded skier on the way - and we're unclipping for the last time. But Odyssey 2015 isn't quite over: we've one more decadent night of canapés, champagne and fabulous food from the cheery staff of the Montjola.

VIP Ski have done a brilliant job for us this week. Marianne (1) in particular has gone well beyond the call of duty. It's been great to have her with us on the mountain, and she's taken great care of us at mealtimes.

St Anton is a wonderful resort, with something for everyone except perhaps complete beginners and very tentative intermediates. I had read and heard tell of an intimidating, beer-swilling monster of a resort. Instead I found a friendly, attractive village with a relaxed vibe and some truly spectacular terrain. It runs our beloved Whistler mighty, mighty close - and isn't a ten hour flight away.

Dank und auf Wiedersehen Österreich!

Marianne (2) rocks a new metallic lime and mushy-pea green helmet for 2015. Lech, 3 February

All smiles as Ben and Marianne (1) gear up for a morning in epic Warth. Auenfeldjet gondola, 3 February 2015

5/7 of the group less yours truly (camera) and Marianne 1 (searching for lost ski somewhere down the mountain). From left: Cheryl, Andy, Simon, Marianne (2) and Ben. Saloberkopf, Warth, 3 February 2015 

One of Odyssey 2015's defining moments. Marianne stops on the home run to Lech, and we try and take in the scale and beauty of where we are. Lech, 3 February

Yup, that's a mountain stream. And yes, that's a Ben-shaped impression in the bank. R5, Rendl, 4 February 2015

Deep breath, switch brain off, follow Marianne into the abyss... our unforgettable final run of a short but very sweet Odyssey 2015. R33, St Anton, 6 February



Tuesday, 4 February 2014

The joy of six

Two thermal base layers. One long sleeved T shirt. Two fleeces. Two pairs of thermal long johns. Salopettes and ski jacket. Six layers up top and four down below. That's what I've worn on the mountain for the past two days.

It wasn't enough.

From a freakish high of 12 degrees C on our first day to a low of minus 20 on our last, Odyssey 2014 has seen an incredible temperature range. The early days, when we skied wearing just t-shirts under our jackets, seemed like a different lifetime yesterday.

Temperatures aside the weather has remained amazingly stable throughout our twelve day stay - dry and sunny bar a mildly snowy couple of days late last week. Not what we expect in Whistler, but you roll the dice with every ski trip. We've been blessed with record-breaking snow here on two of our four visits. Can't complain.

These final few days have been all about keeping our extremities unfrozen, venturing cautiously away from the groomed trails in search of anything other than rock-hard crust, and doing our best to stay upright on increasingly icy terrain. There was fun to be had, and we had it, but Mother Nature has made us work for it.

Are we glad we came? Hell, yes. It's been a huge success on many levels. Having taken a big confidence knock last year, I've made a quantum leap with my skiing in 2014. Our apartment is a haven of comfort and convenience, and came at a sensible price. Everyone we've encountered - from ski instructors to mountain staff to restaurant staff to fellow skiers - has been a pleasure to deal with. We've eaten extremely well both on the mountain and in the resort, at expensive rather than obscene prices.

On our previous two trips we skied on the day of our departure, but an earlier flight defeated us this time. I must be going soft in the twilight of my thirties, but I don't mind relaxing by a gently hissing fire, tea close by, with hours in hand before leaving for the airport. Outside, it's minus 13C here in the resort, and minus 26C at the peaks. That's cold enough to make frostbite a real concern; with no fresh snow, everyone else is welcome to our mountains today.

Sad to be leaving as always. But we're both in one piece - never a foregone conclusion on a ski trip - and there's much to look forward to. 

And although we've missed the powder this time, Whistler is still the Daddy. 



'Let's go and see Dave.' A fleeting photocall outside the Chic Pea restaurant before we take on Dave Murray, the Olympic Men's downhill run. Whistler Mountain, 3 February 2014.

'Get out of my picture!' Marianne risks frostbite for a pristine shot of Blackcomb. Camel Back, Harmony, Whistler Mountain, 3 February 2014.


Our final lunch, and a welcome break from the deep freeze. Look closely and you'll see the thousand-yard stares. Roundhouse, Whistler Mountain, 3 February 2014


Friday, 31 January 2014

Powder and ice

Wednesday, 9am. School's out... after skiing separately for three days in lessons, Marianne and I were keen to put our newfound confidence - and my promotion to level 5 - to the test.

And where better than Harmony Ridge on a perfect sunny day. The snow conditions were mixed, but we were hopeful that the steep bumps of Kaleidoscope - a regular haunt on previous visits - would be more fluffy than icy. And we were in luck.

Even after all these years, the place still scares the hell out of me. But I can get down with middling pace and a modicum of technique. And as we skidded to a stop at the new, upgraded Harmony 6 chairlift with hearts racing, I couldn't wait to get back up there and go again.

Thursday dawned cloudy and cold; for the first time this year, we donned thermals and headsocks. And as we gained altitude on the Wizard chairlift, spirits soared at the sight of whitened trees. Snow! At last!

It snowed lightly throughout the day, perhaps 5-6cm settling on the highest terrain. Hardly a powder day, but enough to freshen the groomed trails and soften the crusty snow in the bowls and between the trees. We revelled in the best snow of the week on the shady side of Blackcomb - beside the Glacier Express chair - and on the fast sweepers of Crystal Ridge.

After three days of intensive, repetitive technique work - often at speed - in ski school, my legs were suffering by lunchtime. A long-overdue pulled pork wrap did much to revive me, but a couple of missed turns at high speed and considerable pain forced me down off the mountain a little early. Better on my own two skis than in a first aid toboggan, or 'blood wagon'.

We've been coming to Whistler since 2007, and have long coveted a meal at one of its best restaurants, Araxi. Last week, before we left, we finally bit the bullet and booked a table for Thursday night. We've never heard a bad word about the place, and anticipation was sky-high. It delivered in spades. Comfortably the best meal we've ever had in Whistler - or any ski resort - and in my top ten of all time.

What with my burning thighs and the volume of wine sunk the previous night, Friday morning was a slow one. But 11am found us in Symphony on Whistler, alternating hold-your-breath blasts down Rhapsody Bowl with exploratory runs between the trees and close encounters with the local Whiskeyjacks - half-tame birds which will land on a ski pole and eat out of your hand (whether you offer food or not).

As we began our final run before lunch, the clatter of a helicopter sounded an ominous note and sure enough, just below the top of the Symphony Express lift we found the trail blocked by paramedics; the red medical helicopter had landed a hundred metres further down, beside the entrance to Rhapsody Bowl. Several snowboarders had collided on the trail; no more details were forthcoming, but the sight of the helicopter is never good news.

It's been a particularly bad week for accidents. The variable snow conditions have made for some very challenging skiing; sheet ice covered by a wafer-thin, shifting layer of powdery snow is about as dangerous as it gets, with grip levels varying dramatically from turn to turn and a rock-hard landing if you fall. We are taking extra care not to do anything stupid. I wish everyone else would do the same.

That's eight down and three to go. Not much snow in the forecast, but it's turning even colder. Time to bring out the face masks...


This is more like it... cloudy, -6 degrees C, and snowing. Glacier Creek, Blackcomb, 30 January 2014

We might need to remortgage, but it'll be worth it. Marianne gets a fabulous meal off to a celebratory start with an ice wine cocktail. Araxi, Whistler Village, 30 January 2014.

Yes, we DO own the place... whiskeyjacks perch on our ski poles and eye up my granola bar. Symphony base, Whistler Mountain, 31 January 2014.

(fake) Snow at last! Springboard, Blackcomb, 31 January 2014

Lifts shut, temperatures dropping, snow guns blasting... it's time to get the kettle on. Marianne leads the home run to finish an epic day eight. Upper Mainline, Blackcomb, 31 January 2014 

Monday, 27 January 2014

Back to school...

After a fairly strenuous first day on Blackcomb, on Friday evening I feared we'd overdone it. A hundred new twinges, some back pain for Marianne, my usual sledgehammered toes... and a hefty dose of jetlag to boot.

But Saturday morning found us miraculously unscathed - even my toes had recovered overnight - and by 9am we were boarding the Peak2Peak cable car for Whistler Mountain. It's a memorable eleven minutes on any day. But on a cloudless morning with the sun peeking over the mountains, turning the snow white-gold and etching every tree, rock and lift line in pin-sharp detail, it defies description.

Even on a bad snow day, this is one of my favourite places on Earth. And if you know where to look - in shaded areas which never see the sun - there's good snow to be found even after so many dry, mild days. The Saddle - a warp-speed, arrow-straight plunge from Whistler Peak and surely one of the steepest blue runs in the world - was a revelation, with wonderful soft snow. And as the sun began to soften the crust, Symphony's thousand-acre playground transformed from intimidating to intoxicating.

With two days down and nine to go, we faced day three with a touch of trepidation. Ski School. Our first lessons since 2011 and in my case, long overdue. As usual, Marianne joined the top Level 6 class, while I picked up where I left off, in Level 4.

I ended the day with improved confidence and new technique - extremely useful, but ever so slightly boring. My instructor was very good indeed, but both of my classmates were tentative and slow; I found myself yearning for steeper, more challenging terrain and more mileage.

Be careful what you wish for... this morning, on our second of three days of lessons, I found myself promoted for the first time since 2007. Level 5, playing with the big kids... as I set off with my new instructor and classmates - a deceptively mild-mannered couple from Seattle - I tried to ban the butterflies and prepare for the huge moguls and breath-jamming steeps which surely lay ahead.

They may yet come, but today was all about timing, high-speed turns and adapting to varying conditions. I've never travelled faster on snow. I can, occasionally, pull off a carved turn. And this afternoon, just as overconfidence was starting to get the better of me, I hooked an edge at the thick end of 40mph. No harm done other than a momentary loosening of bowels - but it was a timely reminder. Don't get cocky.

Which brings us up to date aside from an entertaining couple of hours to finish the day. Several times over the years, we've been approached in mountain restaurants by Club Intrawest representatives and invited to a 'presentation' - essentially a sales pitch for their timeshare scheme. We've always politely refused, but on Saturday we caved, suckered in by the offer of a C$150 gift card just for turning up.

There is, of course, absolutely no chance of Marianne and I dropping £15k on a timeshare. Having battened down the mental hatches for a serious hard sell, we were pleasantly surprised. Friendly people, tea on tap, and a very mild attempt to sell. I suspect that they realised early on that we don't fit the timeshare demographic. We escaped with our shirts and our gift card - which will cover lunch on the mountain for the rest of the week. Result.

Final day of lessons tomorrow, and - whisper it - there's even talk of some fresh snow. Fingers crossed.

Where's Andrew? Rhapsody Bowl, Whistler Mountain, 25 January 2014


Bluebird perfection. Backcountry area from Symphony, Whistler Mountain, 25 January 2014.


Saturday, 25 January 2014

We're all going on a... summer holiday

Eleven degrees. Two thousand metres up a Canadian mountain. In January.

According to the locals it's not unprecedented, but it's certainly unusual, and a stark contrast in this fierce North American winter of polar vortexes and ice storms. The temperature is a full twenty degrees warmer than it should be, and to add a touch of weird to the bizarre, we have another Whistler peculiarity - a temperature inversion. It's colder at the bottom than at the top.

Obviously none of this is conducive to good snow. Having watched the weather forecasts with growing dismay in the week leading up to our departure, it was with a mix of trepidation and homecoming that we boarded the Wizard chairlift at the base of Blackcomb on Friday morning.

By midday, spirits were lifted. We were beginning to get our skiing legs back - a relief for me, as I seem to forget everything I ever learned from year to year - and the snow is better than we feared. Worst affected is the sun-drenched Seventh Heaven area; the trails themselves are fine, but thinner-than-usual snow cover means more exposed rocks and trees in between.

So while we'd love a metre of fresh powder, there's really no cause for complaint. The sun is shining in a resort which has, more often than not, served us inclement, snowbound days. The views are jawdropping. We're here, and after a difficult second half of 2013, that in itself is a bonus. Thank the improved exchange rate and Air Transat for that.

Why Air Transat? Because the return airfare was so cheap (around £300 each less than the equivalent airfare on BA) that I half-expected it to be a scam. And I fully expected the trip itself to be a nightmare. 

Wrong on both counts. Aside from a three-hour delay which we knew about a day in advance - so no wasted time at the airport - they were impeccable. Our skis were carried free of charge, the aircraft was an old but tidy Airbus A330, the seats were almost comfortable (with decent legroom even for me) the food was perfectly acceptable, drinks were plentiful and the crew were a revelation: the friendliest, most hardworking I can remember in decades of economy long-haul flying. I'll reserve final judgement until the return flight but so far, so impressed.

Coming up to 6.30am on Saturday (ain't jetlag wonderful) I can hear the resort coming to life. Today we'll sample Whistler Mountain itself and carry on as we started - seeking out the shaded trails where the snow is at its best. And like everyone else we'll watch the forecasts, do our daily snow dance.

Day Two (of eleven) beckons...



Never fear, the snow's still here... all smiles as Marianne prepares to get Odyssey 2014 rolling. (Blackcomb Base, Friday 24 January 2014)



It's a bluebird day and the mountain awaits... (Blackcomb Base, Friday 24 January 2014)

Saturday, 2 March 2013

Ending on a high note

I'll say this first: for me, this hasn't been an easy week. A fairly big crash early on day one shook me badly. It left me with minor aches, but the real damage was to my confidence, which I reckon was set back two years.

Suddenly, terrain which I'd previously have lapped up looked daunting; my technique regressed from confident and fluid to tentative and awkward. Even on easy pistes I felt disconnected; the more nervous I became, the more I caught edges, struggled to make turns and generally scared the crap out of myself.

After twice muddling through a tricky off-piste itinerary on days two and three, my mood reached a low point on our first 'away' trip on day four. Sainte Foy is small, beautiful and gloriously quiet, even in a busy holiday week - but its snow seems more vulnerable than the bigger resorts nearby, and you can ski the best of it in three days.

Sunny skies and warming temperatures made Tignes our choice of destination. Lugging skis down the hill from chalet to car and driving to another resort seemed a bit too much like hard work to me, but everything worked smoothly and we were on the slopes by 9.30am.

We know Tignes well, having skied there in 2009 and again just a few weeks ago, and I hoped that familiarity would restore my ailing confidence. But it was not to be: a sunny French school holiday week meant a perfect storm of all the things that wind me up about skiing in France: overcrowded slopes, needlessly long and disorganised lift queues, crowded restaurants, mediocre overpriced food, third-world sanitation. I worked on my technique and made some headway, but had thoroughly lost the love. By 3pm I was dragging myself from turn to turn, lagging well behind the others, willing the day to end.

I seriously considered sitting out day five, but pulled myself together for the trip to La Plagne. It wouldn't have been my choice - I didn't much like it when we crossed the valley from Les Arcs on our 2010 trip - but resolved to ski better. Andy, our resident snowboarder, had rejoined us following a ski lesson the previous day; on skis he's a relative beginner, so there'd be no gnarly off-pisteing. Probably a good thing.

I still don't like the place - samey and overcrowded - but my technique and confidence was starting to return, and the others really enjoyed their day. An overdue trip to the big supermarket at Bourg Saint Maurice lowered the tone somewhat, but we were buoyed by the thought of skiing on quiet slopes on Saturday while everyone else was stuck in traffic jams.

And so to day six, today. A third day trip, this time to Villaroger, which is directly across the valley, clearly visible from our chalet in Sainte Foy. It's a tiny outpost with just a single chairlift and - this morning - four cars in the car park. But that chairlift and the one that follows sweep you over the ridge and into Les Arcs - still my favourite of the big French resorts.

And at last, this morning, the flow was back. I didn't attempt anything particularly challenging - days of warm sunshine and no fresh snow has hurt conditions, particularly off-piste - but the awful disconnected feeling had evaporated. Even more importantly, I was enjoying it again. Even the culinary low point of the week (cold beef, oozing blood, smothered in sauce strongly reminiscent of dishwater) failed to dent my rediscovered good mood. And not a moment too soon.

And that's it. Odyssey 2013 is done. It's fair to say that it hasn't all been rosy, but it's had its moments. I make no secret of the fact that I consider France inferior to Canada in all things skiing, and nothing in 2013 has changed that opinion. We enjoyed our week in Val d'Isere, but the only reason for us to return is YSE, the excellent tour operator/chalet company.

Even I won't blame France for my struggles this week; of all the resorts we've stayed in, small, perfectly-formed Sainte Foy is easily the most beguiling. It's like a mini-Whistler in many ways, and I'd certainly return. We've been very lucky to have the use of a superbly-located and equipped chalet which has made life off the slopes a pleasure.

I wasn't wholly sold on the idea of driving to other resorts for day trips, but although lugging our gear up and down the hill was a bit of a chore, by and large it's been straightforward and has added real variety.

So. Time to head home and put away the skis for another year. I'm not entirely sad at the prospect. We've seen a lot of snow. I'm ready for longer days and (hopefully) a touch of summer sun.

Monday, 25 February 2013

Watch out for that tree...

I thought I was pretty good at skiing. Then I came to Sainte Foy.

This is a pretty, blink-and-you-miss it resort tucked in between the giants of Tignes and Les Arcs. It has just four chairlifts and around twelve beautifully groomed pistes. But it's the terrain in between - the sweeping powder fields, deep-cut gullies and thickly forested lower slopes - that have garnered it a cult following. Rumour has it that the ski instructors in the big resorts come here on their days off.

After a reasonably straightforward trip yesterday (Winchester-Heathrow-Geneva-Ste Foy), we're first in line for the chairlift - ten minutes before opening time. That could be a first, and is largely down to our trip organiser Ben. As far as Ben's concerned, if the lifts are open you should be skiing. Works for me.

It's a different vibe to the first half of Odyssey 2013 (in Val d'Isere three weeks ago), as expected. Without chalet food and freeflowing wine, rousing ourselves in the morning is a little easier; our cavernous accommodation (a detached chalet belonging to a friend of a friend) is comfortable and relaxed.

It gets off to a great start - fresh snow, sunshine - but day 1 turns into something of a baptism of fire.  Just sixteen days since I last skied, my confidence is high as we set off down our first run.

Too high, as it turns out. As we venture off-piste into a tricky mix of soft powder over hard-packed bumps, I find myself struggling to stay upright as my skis thump over hidden obstacles. Shortly afterwards, I'm flat on my face, having flown straight over the edge of a hidden, metre-high precipice.

Once I've found my lost ski, we head down between the trees - swapping pinch-yourself views of the Tarentaise valley for a postcard setting of snowy glades. Breathtakingly beautiful, but seriously challenging. By morning's end, I've fallen three times (having not toppled once in a week in Val d'Isere).

After lunch, the ante is upped further. Even Marianne is caught out, crashing hard enough to catapult her five metres clear of her skis. As we begin to explore the slopes at the opposite end of the resort, I'm pushed too far outside my comfort zone. In two feet of powder on a shit-the-bed steep, boulder-strewn slope, I freeze up. It's the first time I've been genuinely scared this year.

The trees below offer a little respite - but I'm battling to turn in the deep snow while trying to avoid a myriad of obstacles, and the fall-line is veering from manageable to insane. Eventually, we find our way back to a piste. Sighs of relief ensue.

We finish the day with a couple of fast cruises - easy, confidence-building stuff. Day one in a nutshell is too much, too soon. This place is nothing short of breathtaking - it reminds us strongly of Whistler - and like Whistler, it demands commitment and respect. Tomorrow, we'll dial it back a notch. A little less terror, a little more fun.