Is there anything more winter beautiful than the first rays of sunlight licking the tops of snow covered mountains?
(from my room)
Big impact mountains, small stuff. Which plays a greater role in my week here in Morzine? (As I mentioned in my previous post, Morzine is in a river valley of the highest French Alps.) It's like choosing between wild blueberries and a delicious five course meal (as served to me here, at Le Samoyede upon my arrival last night). Both create forceful memories. But ultimately, for me at least, real beauty resides in the smallest of details.
Breakfast at the hotel Le Samoyede can be hefty or it can be light. There's a menu, or you can just fill your plate from the buffet. That is a recent return to something resembling normality. Hotels had to scratch buffet servings during the height of the pandemic. But here, in Morzine, it wasn't just about canceling the buffet. The pandemic brought the whole place to a standstill. Everything shut down. My hotel closed in mid-March of 2020 and stayed closed until a year and half later. Thanks to vaccination mandates, it could return to doing business this past December. I know there are those in France who objected to Macron's heavy handedness with the mandates, but places like this one benefited hugely: by giving only the vaccinated access to hotels, restaurants, ski lifts, etc., all could open up and get going again, even during the greatest Omicron surge. Now people are more loosey goosey with masks, but there is still the vaccination mandate in place and the hotel insists on masks in public spaces, though in a polite way and without penalty if you choose to be hostile to keeping others safe. Many many customers are return guests. This may affect the higher than average compliance with masking. You dont want to flaunt your ridiculousness when Sophia (who co-owns the Samayede along with Alexandre; they are the third generation to run this place) is there greeting you and Alex looks over from the office to say hello.
I remembered my last ski trip to the Alps five years ago: I did not eat a good breakfast. I suffered. Today, I'm mindful. In addition to the fruits, juices, yogurts, croissants and homemade cake, I boil myself a European egg. (Sorry to call it European, but I really don't know anyone who eats a soft boiled egg in a cup in the U.S., whereas here they are ubiquitous.) I'd go for their omlette, but I'm still feeling a tad piggish after lapping up the last saucy crumb last night at dinner.
And then comes the moment of decision. What should I do: investigate on foot? Should I take the gondola up and ski back down to town? Should I look for the cross country trails up above?
I opt for the last one. Downhill skiing may be a bit of a brazen way to start the holiday. And though they do have a blue run down (blue in downhill parlance is the gentlest), I'm not sure how blue it really is. The French are sportif. I've gotten clobbered by their rating system on hikes where a gentle climb turned out to be what I regard as intermediate, and their black (challenging) trail turned out to be nearly impossible. Besides, I do want to poke around up there, on the crest of the hills that sweep down into Morzine. What better way than on cross country skis!
I take the gondola up.
I was a tiny bit worried how I would deal with packed gondolas (such as I have known in Italian ski destinations), but it turns out that the ride isn't long and there are only 5 - 6 in each car (out of which half plus me wear masks). It is pretty amazing how many skiing options there are in this area. As a result, none of the lifts appear to be crowded. I waited 1 minute to hop onto a gondola. And on the top? Oh the views!
(Looking down to Morzine: by now, most of the snow down there has melted)
(feeling the closeness of the mountains...)
I had a little booklet which sketched out the cross country trails. It is quite unfortunate that when you begin where I begin (coming up from Morzine), the first segment is labeled "difficult," the second, linked to it, is called "intermediate," and only the third is labeled "easy." Well yes, it's not level up there in the mountains. There are gong to be lots of ups and downs.
But the snow is pretty slick and I do not have metal edges (they're not allowed in many US Nordic skiing places). And importantly, I haven't found my ski legs yet! (I'm not going to mention my knee which resides in a brace to keep it stable. That one's on me!)
And so early on, I try to hop from classic to the skate trail on a downhill run and I lose control. Down I go. I had such confidence in my ability to handle anything out there that I dangled by good BIG camera around my neck. It could have gone in the pack. It did not go in the pack. Down it went too. Good thing it's basically water tight! And I nearly went off trail into some very steep territory at another point. Those were my two fiascoes. Otherwise, I managed!
(good views everywhere!)
I pulled up to the end point (or the beginning, if you were coming at it from another village) and there I saw this cafe bar with swing chairs and did I tell you that it is a brilliant day? I should have brought sun screen!
I purchased a farmstead apricot juice and sat down in what I have to regard as one of the better reasons to ski: so that you can find your spot in the sun and exhale afterwards!
Unfortunately, I noticed that I was now at a lower elevation than when I started. What goes down must now go up. But, I had my ski legs back and it was a fine run, progressing now from easy to difficile.
It was close to 1 pm when I reached the gondola station. Here, I decide to lean the skis against someone's fence and go out along the path for pietons to explore the area up high on foot. There are a number of trails and every once in a while you'll see a hiker, but in general, hikers and cross country skiers are a rare breed in this area. It really is all about downhill.
As I walked along the ridge line...
I feel the mountains are walking along the side of me. Keeping this solo traveler company. Protective rather than threatening (they just lifted the avalanche warnings the day before I arrived, so I don't give snow slides another thought).
But I wondered which was Mt. Blanc. So I ask a passing French person.
The rest of my time up here is a lesson in happenstance and serendipity. I thought how much of our life is governed by chance! If I lost control and went down a ravine while skiing, that would have been bad luck (or a bad skiing decision or both). If I happen to meet a helpful French man who couldn't tell me which mountain was Mt Blanc, but who did tell me that if I walked five more minutes, I'd come to a restaurant that cooked locally and they surely would be able to answer my question. And by the way, it is rumored that they had good food.
And at the Vaffieu they did point out Mt. Blanc. I asked if I could sit down for lunch, but they said all tables were reserved, but I could buy food at the window over there, and take a tray to any of the easy chairs sprawled out on their snow covered meadow.
So first, Mt. Blanc, because I promised I'd point it out to you.
Then the lunch. In line and all around me, I hear French and British and some German. But mostly French. And no Russian. This makes me feel happy. The mountains in western Europe seemed to me to be too often dominated by rich Russians who come to ski because it is to many a mark of personal success if you ski the Alps. Perhaps freezing their assets helped keep them home. Or they don't like places that have only small chalets and no glitzy trappings (Morzine) but they can still be found in the Zermatts and St Moritzs and the more posh places. You cannot equate every Russian with Putin's politics, just like you couldn't equate Poles with Poland's politics or Americans with American politics. Nonetheless, given the degree of support Putin appears to have for his craziness in his own country, I'm feeling a little furious at any and all who stand by this total antihero.
So lunch. I ordered a tartine chevre (so, a grilled open faced toasted sandwich with goat cheese; the cheese is sprinkled with sun dried tomatoes and walnuts and drizzled with a generous spoonful of local honey). And a glass of Savoyard wine. [I love Savoyard white wine and can only get two types back home because it's rather obscure, so you will see me drinking only that on this trip; last night I had a beautiful bottle called Les Alpes. Can it be more evocative?! And yes, at the hotel they let you open a bottle and carry it through to other nights you're here, which I love, because ordering by the glass interrupts the flow of the meal.] And a fizzy water of course. I was darn thirsty by now. And here are two pieces of magnificence: they had a home made wild blueberry tart. And I found a chair and I pulled it up so that I could face the sun and look at Mt Blanc.
It is a lunch I'm not likely to ever forget.
A small child came up to me -- oh, maybe two years old. Probably a boy but at this age who can tell. He looked at me. And looked at me. And said nothing. So I spoke to him. I tried French. He did not respond. I tried several other languages. Nothing. It was this little one:
I couldn't imagine what he wanted. Maybe the whipped cream at the side of the tart! I would have shared, but he had a crusty nose. Probably from skiing, but still. In the end his parents called him back (in French). But his steady gaze stayed with me. Maybe he's conveying a French hello to my grandkids. It was very spiritual! Eh, too much sun and perhaps the impact of that Savoyard wine (which I could not finish, but not because it wasn't heavenly).
This then was my serendipitous moment. By chance, perfection.
I should mention children in another context: skiing. I happen to walk along what is a bunny hill. Kids go up on a moving sidewalk and they learn to ski on a very gentle incline. Little children.
I mean some were really little. French families will leave their little ones with a ski school and go off to ski with other adults. I'm sure this happens in the US as well, but I found it really enchanting how many young people there are on the slopes. Very very young people.
Skiing is, though, in France, like in the United States, a "white" sport, which means that it remains one reserved for the privileged. I do feel a little unsettled in these places where mountains are ripped bare and machines spray them with snow as needed and engines chug people up so they can ski down in their expensive gear, in outrageously beautiful ski clothing (that's especially true in France), flashing expensive ski passes, all in the company of others doing the same. It's one reason that I hesitate before each ski trip that I take. Bad enough that I go to Europe as often as I do. Worse, every once in a while I come here to ski. But, I'm getting old, and these kinds of trips to mountains I have loved since childhood will be rare, and Europe is that home that I can't get out of my blood completely. Nonetheless, I have to say this -- I wish more people had access to winter sports. Not only a select few.
And now, down to Morzine for a short break.
In the afternoon, I went up the gondola again.
In life, often when you make a mistake, you tend to compound your errors rather than retreating and doing better. I feel I compounded my errors with that afternoon escapade.
It began with my decision to try my rented downhill skis. Today. Because what, I didn't do a full amount of skiing in the morning?! I suppose I felt I got my ski legs back and I could push myself to the challenge of downhill. Besides, the weather is gorgeous. Seize it!
We keep all our ski equipment in the ski room downstairs and I began there: I tried to get the boots on. They weren't easy to put on in the store. They were impossible to put on today. Maybe my feet swelled. Maybe they stiffened up over night. I really struggled. Only my pig headedness made me continue.
Walking in boots and carrying your downhill boards is not easy. I'm used to light cross country skis. These downhill guys are heavy! On the upside, the gondolas were running almost empty. It was 4 p.m. Everyone who wanted to be up there to reach some lifts and runs higher up was already up there skiing.
There is one blue run (easiest) going all the way down the mountain back to Morzine and I chose that one. (So basically I'm skiing down from where the sun first touched the little summit out my window this morning.) Perhaps that was the dumbest of all my dumb things. It runs through a forest, so it's shaded (goodbye pretty sunshine) and in the afternoon, the light isn't superb. You can barely see the icy patches. And there were icy patches!
Not to be completely down on this downhill adventure -- I mean, the views were very pretty!
But halfway through it, I knew I was skiing on man-made snow. Brittle, icy, slick. I only fell once, but I am old enough that getting up from a twisted position and with skis still attached can be a challenge. Especially since I have a pretty useless knee for getting up purposes (on the upside, the knee brace is working very well! I can ski without issues!).
It took me nearly 90 minutes to get down, though I did pause to do a selfie (timed release)!
But skiing down, I realized that the joy was pretty much gone. I'll try it again, in one of those sunny spots up the range, but these are my last days of down-hilling. I just like Nordic skiing so much better! The quiet, the pace, which can be gentle if you are in a gentle mood, the beauty of it all -- it beats downhill on all counts.
I stomped back to the store where I rented the downhills and the very genial guy there, Bastian, said he would work on my boots so I suppose I will pick them up maybe later in the week and maybe use them again. But I can almost promise you that my runs here over Nordic trails will be far far more beautiful and exhilarating than anything I may do on the downhill pistes.
Evening. I chat with Ed and pick up farmette gossip. A skunk attacked the coop. Coop withstood the aggressor's shenanigans. We're thinking of adding another chicken to the bunch. There's one available that we like. Should he pick it up? Easy for me to say yes. I wont be there to work on the integration of the newbie. He baked cookies for himself. That kind of stuff.
And then it was time for dinner and predictably it was delicious. Tartare this and duck that and the cheeses and dessert.
Such a full day! Wonderfully full, with stellar moments and, too, some necessary reckoning about what I still love (Nordic) and what I'm nearly ready to abandon (down hill).
Sleep in the mountains is always special. Particularly in the winter, when you look out and you can't tell if that's a twinkling mountain light or perhaps a star. Somewhere up there you'll find the chamois (sort of a cross between a goat and an antelope), mouflon (wild sheep), lynx, wild boar -- the French Alps are full of all of them, waiting for the first signs of spring. And at lower elevations, cows and goats are giving us their special milk for the incredible cheeses from the region: Reblechon, Tomme de Savoie, Chevre. Mountain cheeses, all of them.
For now, good night, sleep well, with fewer worries and a good amount of hope for a brilliant tomorrow.
