The Ski Journal • Volume 13, Issue 3 • AS THE AOSTANS DO: Colliding Sensibilities on the Italian Side of Mont Blanc

It’s our first run of our first day at a ski area none of us has ever heard of, and so conditions like these offer a potentially exciting welcome. Those same conditions, however, can be onerous when you have no idea where you’re going and visibility is zero—skiing’s equivalent of walking through the back alleys of an unfamiliar city after dark. Naturally, being skiers, exciting wins out.

Back at Hotel Eden, Stefano had advised us to head into the trees when we exited the lift. We follow his advice, we think, slicing over an open dome that tips steeply into a pine and larch forest. Snow breaks around our waists, the slope opens into a glade, then the forest closes back in. Several more times the slope parts then narrows like an hourglass, each pinch bringing momentary relief from relentless face shots and a chance to plot the next few turns. Eventually we’re funnelled back to a road that wraps around the bottom of the mountain to deposit us, now panting, back at the base.

La Thuile may have seemed like a stranger but it lived in familiar territory: tucked high in Italy’s extreme northwest, hard on the French border along a road ascending from Pré-Saint-Didier, just south of Courmayeur in the Aosta Valley, a place I’d visited a half-dozen times.

My introduction to the area was during one of my first ski trips to Europe, and I’d been dutifully impressed. Taking a bus from the Milan airport to the 1992 World Telemark Championships in Courmayeur, every 50 kilometers seemed to roll back the clock hundreds of years. Indeed, five centuries of Roman civilization had left some pretty impressive history: the Via delle Gallie consular road; the Pondel aqueduct bridge; ancient castles galore; and Aosta itself, the walled imperial city—Rome of the Alps—with its spectacular ruins and archaeological sites.

Still, these were mere lawn ornaments at the feet of the valley’s great mansions—the Monte Bianco, Monterosa, Matterhorn and Gran Paradiso massifs all soared to higher than 4,000 meters. Given such auspicious cornerstones, it’s unsurprising that Aosta’s ski offerings comprise of 28 villages, 23 resorts, 550 miles of piste and a kingdom of unheralded backcountry whose itineraries basically follow Roman conquests in and out of Italy, France and Switzerland.

On the resort ledger, top-rated Zermatt/Breuil-Cervinia/Valtournenche-Matterhorn is the largest (200 miles of pistes) and highest (3,899 meters). Haunt of the rich and famous, it drew newly mobile Russian oligarchs in the late 1990s who carried their money in Ziploc bags (true story). Equally mind-bending scenery but better snow and dollar value is found in the smaller resorts of the Monterosa Ski consortium—Alagna Valsesia/Gressoney-La-Trinité/Champoluc/Frachey, with its modest 83 miles of pistes and 20 lifts spread across an enormous region known for freeriding and heli-skiing. Paired with the small French resort of La Rosière, La Thuile now flies under the banner of L’Espace San Bernardo Snowpark. Courmayeur, at the foot of Monte Bianco (aka Mont Blanc) and the capital of Italian alpinism for 200 years, boasts modest runs but numerous off-piste gems, some accessed from the Punta Hellbronner cable car system that climbs Monte Bianco to abut Chamonix across the massif’s upper reaches. Aosta itself is connected by cable car to the resort of Pila with its 360-degree view of the Alps’ highest peaks. Smaller gems of local discovery include Torgnon, Champorcher and Crévacol. In the 25 years I’ve skied the Aosta Valley I’ve witnessed many changes, and yet more of it has stood stone still—perhaps the region’s true charm.

Another charm lies in a decidedly different weather pattern than the northern side of the Alps—when the latter is hurting for snow, the former is often stacked. One February, some friends and I passed through a depressingly dry Chamonix and into the Tunnel du Mont Blanc. Fifteen minutes later, we emerged from the dreaded seven-mile wormhole of diesel exhaust into a world transformed. Heavy snow was adding an inch per hour to 10-foot snowbanks in Courmayeur. What initially began as an early season snowfall anomaly was now officially the best season Italy had seen in a quarter-century. Through a hypnosis-inducing snowstorm we pushed on toward Monterosa Ski, a mystifyingly underrated complex of some of the Alps’ finest skiing.

Monterosa Ski consists of three gigantic ski areas spread across the southern flanks of Europe’s second-highest peak—Champoluc on the western edge, Alagna to the east, and Gressoney in the center. Although you can easily ski between these three areas in a single day, by car they’re as far apart as you can be in the western Alps; it takes at least six hours to drive from Champoluc to Alagna. Given the weather outlook, we decided against the virtually piste-less freeride paradise of Alagna (the infamous “Valley Y” of ’90s big-mountain ski culture). Instead, we left the high-speed madness of the Autostrada (everyone in the Aosta Valley drives as if they have a Formula One heritage—which is entirely possible) at Pont St. Martin, aiming for Gressoney’s five-star trees, winding pistes and abundant lift-accessed backcountry. Almost immediately, and despite the snow, we could make out Roman aqueducts, mountaintop forts, homes cobbled directly into hillsides and, in some cases, even into massive boulders.

Monterosa’s ski towns are tiny, spaced-out hamlets with only a handful of buildings. During our stay in the valley-head village of La Trinité, four generations made their way through the barrage of snow running errands while the men spent much of their time shoveling snow from overburdened roofs of centuries-old buildings. Tired and tipsy on grappa, most gathered each evening in the Hotel Dufour. Surrounded by drunken Swedes strumming out-of-tune guitars, they shrugged in that Italian plea-to-God way that asked When will it stop? not indicating whether they meant the snow or the music.

In Champoluc, heavy snow continued as we rode its lower gondola—now the only lift open in all of Monterosa Ski due to avalanche danger. The terrain looked like nothing we’d ever seen in Europe. Well-spaced trees and Rocky Mountain-like bluffs covered in giant scoops of fluffy,white ice cream. It was like being teleported into the center of an epic British Columbia winter—but with better food and coffee.

There are many reasons to love the Italian people—their contagious zest for life, gracious hospitality and laid-back attitude among them. But what we learned to love most on that trip was that they don’t like to ski when it’s snowing. It seemed the only reason lifts even ran on snowy days was in case the occasional Canadian, American or Swede showed up. Whether we’d spent the day skiing two feet of untracked blower under the lift, or banging off pillow lines next to a groomed piste, our toast at dinner each night was to the Italians—Grazie, prego!

Hospitality is another of the region’s specialties. During my Telemark Championships visit—nominally an infiltration of the dirtiest of dirtbags from a dozen alpine countries—the town didn’t hesitate to roll out the red carpet. To begin, we were all invited to march in a parade. It wound along cobblestoned Via Roma, led by concertinas, cymbals and drums that echoed from stucco and brick facades as they had for the eight centuries of the town’s existence. Crowding balconies, villagers waved to the flag-carrying newcomers as if we were liberators.

At an ancient church, the column dispersed into a plaza with views to the wrinkled feet of Monte Bianco, a kingly massif whose alabaster cape draped a corner of the sky. From a small stage, dignitaries welcomed the crowd to cheers and applause. Camaraderie flowed like warm syrup, and when the luminaries filed off, this manifested as frenzied bacchanalia. The townsfolk had laid out a feast—long tables set with mounds of regional meats and cheeses, fruits and vegetables, olives and breads. There was also wine, beer and, of course, grappa. Many of us had never seen such a volume of quality food—and all for free. With the mien of starving wolves, we fell upon what seemed our last sustenance.

It wasn’t, of course. And most food consumed during the event was drawn from a similar citizen-mediated horn-of-plenty. The town clearly didn’t take its largesse lightly—whether feeding dirtbags or royalty.

Royalty were indeed common callers in ages past, stretching from the Romans to the jet-setting 1960s. These days, Courmayeur hosts a different sort: on weekends, Via Roma becomes a see-and-be-seen catwalk for Milano and Torino celebrities and fashionistas, many of them non-skiers. The upside of this phenomenon is that demand for top dining, fabulous coffee and extraordinary wine has elevated Courmayeur’s local delicacies—long produced using artisanal methods in a challenging environment—to those of a gourmet destination, still willingly shared during free-smorgasbord Happy Hours with villagers, humble mountain guides and wide-eyed skiers.

The rarified experience here extends to the skiing. What other mountain advertises 22 miles of piste plus 40 miles of off-piste, actually inviting you to explore some of the world’s most outrageous skiing? It doesn’t much matter what you choose: both lift-served sectors—south-facing Plan Chécrouit and the north-facing forests of Val Veny—offer breathtaking views to Monte Bianco, whose blue-toothed glaciers feel within reach of your fingertips. And there’s more to consider—like the obstreperous neighbors.

Few things differentiate France and Italy as starkly as comparing the working-man’s extreme-ski destination of Chamonix to ritzy, food-focused Courmayeur on the other side of the same massif. The towns not only embody two cultural solitudes, but geographic and skiing divides as well. While Chamonix floods annually with mountaineers and powder-hungry experts from around the world, there’s never a fight for untracked snow above laid-back Courmayeur. And yet, like the better-known Aguille du Midi, Cormayeur’s Punta Helbronner is a similarly classic steep-ski venue. The two rotating trams of the recently opened Monte Bianco Skyway—a de facto engineering eighth wonder of the world—deliver you to the 3,462-meter summit in just 15 minutes, with access to the Toula Glacier, Couloir Marbrées and other off-piste gems.

While confused expressions like “posh soul” are still invoked to describe it, Courmayeur has always been a place of colliding sensibilities. Famed mountaineer Auguste Argentier thought as much back in 1864: “A sweet, expressive, mighty, capricious, savage, fascinating natural environment which seems to say: stay here!”

Which is to say that while Chamonix continues to get all the alpine press, the complex obverse of the Mont Blanc coin is well worth a look.

Giacomo Calosi was smiling. He was always smiling. And he was always smiling because his clients were always smiling. Of course, he—and possibly the garlic flatbread he’d deposited with a welcoming flourish before menus or a server had even appeared—were the reason. This closed a tidy little loop, one of many such human circles loudly crowding tables in his steamy, kitsch-addled establishment. Amid curtains of clothing hung from crisscrossing lines, skiers made toasts, sang and kissed coiled fingertips in approval of the latest arrivals to their table: wood-oven pizza with fresh tomatoes, basil and prosciutto; homemade pastas; blueberry cake and fruit flambé. Poking a naïve head in from outside, the scene might resemble a New Year’s celebration. But it was just another lunch at the charismatic Calosi’s infamous Maison Vieille.

Though it didn’t feel quite right to settle in here after just two insipid runs in a whiteout storm, it remained axiomatic that if “When in Rome, do as the Romans Do” held any heuristic truth, then when in Aosta you followed suit. And what everyone was doing here was drying off in a place where the food—and fun—was guaranteed.

Few ski resorts boast more on-mountain restaurants than lifts, but Courmayeur did. And Maison Vieille was one of the best. It was hard to imagine how the tiny kitchen of the ancient stone-walled hut kept up, but it did, and with consummate brio. While skiers celebrated discoveries both on-piste and off, Calosi remained in the thick of it—ordering, delivering, bussing, and flinging wine and liquor at everyone. As things quieted down after lunch he had a chance to sit with us and the real fun—or trouble—began. Out came the stories, along with his homemade limoncella. Whatever ski plans we might have had for the afternoon, a new challenge was thrown down, and there was no way to refuse.

Fortunately for our livers the weather cleared somewhat the next day. In addition to enjoying some of the best tree-skiing in the alps, we headed up Punta Helbronner for a run down the Toula Glacier. From there we returned aloft to have lunch, then descended the Vallée Blanche on the French side, circling back to Italy through the Mont Blanc tunnel by dinnertime. Many of Courmayeur’s on-mountain restaurants are open for dinner, and the well-worn lifts from the village run until midnight, so we found a table at the mountain’s latest hot spot, La Chaumière. Congenial host Alessandra Demoz arrived fast enough to literally pull our seats out for us.

Originally from the Champoluc area, Demoz was a Milano banker for years. But then she had an epiphany: It was killing her. Nine years ago, she started La Chaumière as a ski-in bistro; more recently, she renovated the lower building into an upscale eatery that operates for both lunch and dinner. She also found time in her new life to become a certified sommelier—which means working from 7 a.m. to closing. It’s a longer but more pleasurable day than her banking past, and, like Calosi, she’s always upbeat and smiling.

I ordered the same classic dish I was introduced to only a few feet away back in 1992—polenta with Fontina cheese and beef sausage in tomato sauce. It was both nostalgic and delicious. Later, we chatted over an espresso, which Demoz rendered perfectly, claiming yet another recently acquired skill. She capped our meeting the way many proprietors in the Alps seem to—by reaching beneath the counter for a bottle of homemade genipi. With a bottoms-up grin, Demoz claimed the digestif comprised of high-alpine herbs is good for everything—skiing included.

We’d found our way to La Thuile via a series of rising switchbacks that ended in a hanging valley lined with avalanche tunnels that protected the road from the ferocious slides unleashed by huge, looming faces on either side. Who would have settled in such a thundering aerie?

Well, herders for one. And, of course, miners. Before World War II, coal mining was the area’s jam, and old mining structures can still be seen. But like other former mine-based towns, La Thuile now depends on tourism—skiing in winter, hiking and mountain biking in the summer. The village, meanwhile, has plenty to recommend itself, with the “standard” Roman ruins and an historic, almost museum-like cobblestoned upper hamlet, plus a more recent area built around a lower river; accommodation options abound in both, as well as at the base of the purpose-built ski area. But La Thuile’s most saleable feature is as antidote to the over-the-top sensibilities of neighbouring Courmayeur, as seen in the kind of groups it draws.

While Courmayeur garners sloppy gatherings of tourism operators, clothing designers and a summer rock event where 1,500 amateur musicians play simultaneously for a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records, La Thuile hosts egg-headed conferences on nuclear and particle physics. That might make it more cerebral, but it’s no less inclined to gastronomic bacchanalia, and there are plenty of delicious options to rival the best in the valley.

The first such place we encountered was Hotel Chalet Eden, where we’d met the aforementioned Stefano, whose family has run this charming boutique hotel since 1943. Its restaurant was fully organic, serving traditional local dishes using only authentic products from locally controlled farms. The food was delicious and the sustainability mission noble, though one often found themselves more immersed in a bottle of Demaria Bartolomeo Barbera D’Alba 2012, whose rich taste has nothing to do with sustainability and everything to do with Valle d’Aosta being one of Italy’s best wine regions.

Like anywhere in the Aosta Valley, service at Hotel Eden was impeccable, with a staff that couldn’t seem to do enough for you—on or off the mountain. That’s because in addition to being hoteliers, there was a second family business: Stefano, his brother, father, uncles and cousins were all ski instructors and mountain guides. They’d teach your kid to ski, guide you off-piste, and take you heli-skiing—an all-in-one package. And if you didn’t need help or company, the Les Suches cable car was a 10-minute walk away. Good thing, because with it snowing hard again on day two, there was no shortage of lines in the trees—this time with guide Alberto.

Alberto knows La Thuile inside out and lead us on traverses we would never have dared follow to lines we would never have found. But perhaps his biggest gift was organizing dinner at Pizzeria Dahu, between the base and Hotel Chalet Eden, where we devoured classic wood-fired pizza at a heavy wooden table under vaulted arches made of river stones, as if we were Centurions and it was still the fourth century. We staggered out from yet another meal to remember into a starry night—the first clear skies of the trip.

The Ski Journal - Volume 13, Issue 3

AS THE AOSTANS DO: Colliding Sensibilities on the Italian Side of Mont Blanc

The snow falls in a dense curtain, the kind that obliterates any view. Outside the cable car, mute tree forms alternately loom then pass like moon shadows, their details lost to dense snowfall and fogged plexiglass.

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