Maé Biedermann preparing for goûter, or “snack time,” while filming at his home resort at his home resort of Ovronnaz. After this trip, I now eye Cheetos, Twinkies and other American snacks with haughty disdain. Within hours of boarding our first train from Leysin, we arrived in Crans-Montana. The popular stop on the FIS World Cup circuit is one of the country’s most iconic resorts, but for our purposes it was also home to the Colorado Riders Chalet, a family-owned bed and breakfast cut straight from my European ski dreams. A large ski-club-style house with plenty of wood beams holding up its vaulted ceiling, this would end up being one of the few places we stayed for more than a day—a luxury I didn’t fully understand until the trip was well underway. The Alps were in the midst of a seemingly endless high-pressure system, and while we didn’t know it at the time, the only pow of our entire two-week excursion would be found that second day in Crans-Montana. With the skies breaking blue, Anttu threw a 360 off a cliff on the first run and exploded, losing a ski so deep that it nearly ended his day. A coordinated group search returned ski to sender and Anttu spent the rest of the day exacting revenge, landing drop after banger drop. By afternoon we found a knoll and the boys cut out a lip, hitting it until the light started to fade. We had little time to bask in our success. Rushing down-valley to pack up, I went over the bars in heavy afternoon snow. Laden with camera equipment and falling awkwardly, one of my skis didn’t release, hyperextending my knee. In obvious pain, I knew, knee or not, I was too committed to back out. Plus, we had a train to catch. Or rather a train, then a bus, then skiing for a couple days, then back on the rails. After striking out at a couple of smaller mountains we landed at Les Marécottes, a steep-skiing haven in the Trient Valley and home to big mountain charger Jérémie Heitz. This cozy collection of hand-built chalets and stone churches is a little more than 40 miles from Crans-Montana via public transport, and sits at the cradle of over 3,000 vertical feet of side-hit paradise. Hobbled though I might be, it was a real exercise in creativity for both Anttu and Remco, who thrived in the area’s mix of steeps and wind lip boosters. However, not even halfway into our trip, we quickly realized the biggest oversight of our mission: no rest days. Big slams, heavy packs and minimal breaks had caught up with our crew in a bad way. Nick’s back was giving out, my ACL was nearly shredded, Remco had compromised ribs and Anttu was trying to stave off joining the injury brigade. Worried our trip was unraveling, we took a day to slow down and soak up the experience—literally. Relaxing in a pool room cut into the side of a mountain and resembling a mix of Wes Anderson chic and a World War II bunker, we licked our wounds and counted our blessings. Our group had made it this far and the tracks all led downhill from here—to Ovronnaz, Laax and beyond. Switzerland 057
The Ski Journal Volume 16, Issue 4: Page 57
