PISSED AGAIN/ON THE PISTE
or More Heroic Adventures in the French Alps
by Anna Blackburn
Jon, Ian and I had just spent two days toiling through clean,
white, pristine, deep, soft, exhausting powder snow on the slopes above the Argentiere
glacier, making our laborious way to the ice climbs on the left bank, just below the
seracs. We were worn out. Steve had been so worn out after day one that we had sent a
skidoo from the telepherique station to collect him in time for the last 'pherique
down! Wisely, the 'flu having taken hold, he had not accompanied us on day two. As we
looked down from the top of the ice falls on to the glacier I noted the ski gear parked
below the right bank ice falls. The owners of this equipment had nearly lost it under an
avalanche resulting from a dramatic serac collapse the previous day but, nothing daunted,
they had returned for more climbing and their route to the right bank,
although much longer than ours, had undoubtedly been covered in a fraction of the time.
Most of the patrons of the telepherique had been skiers, drawing mildly contemptuous
remarks from Jon about "ski types", "poseurs" etc. As a keen skier
myself I had suggested that there was in fact something to be said for the sport, but
admitted that most of those we saw, clad in dayglo lycra and puffa suits, were probably
not numbered among the Hard Men of the Hills.
We made our way laborious lv from the top of the ice falls up the steep slope towards the
Lognon Refuge. (This is not a spartan hut, but offers a relatively posh-looking little
restaurant as well as accommodation.) Our tracks from the morning had been almost
obliterated by the wind and I found myself breaking a whole new trail. Eventually we
hauled ourselves onto the refuge's verandah and decided to go inside and treat
ourselves to a chocolat chaud inside. At the table we pulled out the guidebook to discuss
our routes and plan some new ones. Our enthusiasm was dented somewhat by the dawning
realisation that most routes aren't served by handy telepheriques. Even where these
exist there may be a couple of kilometres or more on foot to follow, and we had just
agreed that walking only 500 metres through thick powder snow is more than enough. The
inescapable conclusion drawn by the boys was "Skiing must be the way to go!" I
was happy to encourage this train of thought. especially since I had earlier been
enviously watching the skiers whizzing across the glacier. "I'll teach
you," I offered.
Back in Chamonix there is plenty of scope for hiring skis so, a few days later, the three
of us hit the slopes in Megeve, which is in the next valley, so very handily placed. The
word "hit" applies to some more than others of course. Jon had never skied
before and Ian had had the benefit of only two half-days of my expert tuition on the
slopes of Aviemore the previous year. They proceeded to demonstrate that hitting the
slopes can be done head-first, backwards, and flat on the face. You can also hit other
things: bushes are a good example, being relatively soft. Ian almost managed to wipe out
several classes of tiny tots in one blow, when they chose to congregate at the bottom of
the nurser slope just as he slithered down it towards the tow; an impressive display of
regained control averted disaster and doubtless much cursing from the ESF instructors in
charge of the juveniles. The good thing about teaching your non-skier friends to ski is
that you get non-stop comedy entertainment!
The views of the Mont Blanc massif from the Megeve slopes are spectacular, but my pupils
were unable to appreciate them except from the bar terraces, (skiing in France is so much
more civilised than in Scotland. You may need a second mortgage to pay for coffees and
sandwiches for three, but they are edible and you can consume them outdoors in a pleasant
environment rather than a crowded and steamy caff of the worst sort). There are lots of
green (easy) pistes but none of these are flat (like those at Val d'Isere, for
example) other than in parts, and some of them were really quite difficult, having steep
and icy sections. However, this didn't bother Jon; whilst Ian was a little hit
careful about damaging his ageing body (just in case anybody doesn't know, he had a
Big Birthday coming up), Jon turned out to be a speed freak. Control appeared to come a
long way further down the list of priorities! I can only say that it was a good thing it
was a weekday and the Christmas/New Year holiday was over, so the pistes were not nearly
as crowded as they might have been, otherwise there might have been carnage. I like to
think of myself as a competent skier, but it was clear that within in a very short space
of time Jon was going to be either, (a) much better than I or, (b) in hospital.
Happily, no injuries resulted - just as well, as the nose
injury, which had proved to be de rigeurduring ice climbing,
had been collected as a battle scar by both of these macho types, and one injury apiece
per trip is probably enough.
Ian is now contemplating investing in ski mountaineering equipment and, perhaps more
worryingly, Jon has become a devotee of Ski Sunday. You have been warned.