A FEW MONTHS BEFORE , I’d received the call on a damp morning in Preston, WA. The hummingbirds zipped around outside my breakfast nook as I sipped my first coffee from a “Live Laugh Love” mug. It was Nick on the other line, spouting off about a master plan that involved a little skiing, a lot of trains, and more than a pinch of luck. The goal was to link a Swiss ski trip via public transportation, an accepted form of transport in much of the Alps, but a departure from North America’s carpool headaches and paid parking passes. Remco, a rising Swiss pro skier and style dynamo, had grown up without a family car and contacted Nick about a ski journey that traced his roots through the mountains he called home. Nick had agreed to shoot video, bringing in Anttu, Finland’s “Skien’ Demon,” as a second skier on the trip. The only element missing, Nick said, was still photography. Never having been to Europe and still sitting in the soggy Pacific Northwest, my response was quick. “Say less,” I answered. “I’m in.” Landing in Geneva, I made my way to the resort town of Leysin, a town tightly packed into a mountainside on the eastern side of massive Lake Geneva. Following the blue dot on my phone, I ended up at what the map said was our accommodations, but could best be described as a Swiss bodega. It was both dark and closed. After some investigating, I landed at what seemed like the place, knocking a few times before being greeted by an unclothed man peering from behind the door. A quick, mildly uncomfortable convo revealed I was at the right spot—it was just Remco’s friend getting ready for a night out. I was in the deep end now. Soon, Nick, Anttu and Remco came rustling in from skiing, and our “train gang” convened over porcini risotto and a fresh green salad. Remco’s bright personality balanced out Anttu’s re-servedness, but the Finn’s quick wit had the whole table laughing like we were old friends. Nick was the glue that held it all together, having spent time with both the skiers in Europe and hailing from my haunts in the Pacific Northwest. The next morning we rolled out of Leysin to my first real glimpse of the Swiss Alps. On the descent, perfect snow-covered peaks came into frame, kissed by the reds and oranges of early morning rays. In the valley below town, we tapped into the mainframe. Snaking the valley floor, trains in Switzerland’s Vaud Alps can take you close to pretty much any ski hill. A trip like this back home isn’t possible without a personal vehicle—there is no efficient public transport connecting Baker to Stevens to Crystal, for instance—but in Switzerland, we could get off a train or bus and walk to a lift serving world-class terrain. Even with all of that access, our schedule was tight, so tight that for much of the trip we would finish skiing for the day, pack up quickly and run to the train or bus still in our ski gear. Anttu and I do not speak French, which left Nick and Remco to steer the ship through any travel chaos. Being the anointed local, Remco took on finding last-minute places to stay in sleepy (and often shuttered) alpine towns. Anttu arriving at the train station in Leysin. The rumors are true: every small town in Switzerland is super cute. IT WAS NICK ON THE OTHER LINE, SPOUTING OFF A MASTER PLAN THAT INVOLVED A LITTLE SKIING, A LOT OF TRAINS AND MORE THAN A PINCH OF LUCK. 052 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 16, Issue 4: Page 52
