Skiing

It's a red, but it skis like a blue

This week my Sloth and I are skiing in the French Alps. It’s the first time back here for three years. A hiatus forced upon our family; first by the covid pandemic and then extended by a family tragedy. It’s great to be back. Though it’s tinged with sadness.

We were last here in January 2019. In the same place. The exact same place. The same village. The same chalet. With one change. A key member of the group is missing. The leader of the group isn’t with us.

Paul, my wife’s dad brought us here last time. He planned and paid for the trip for all of us. Paul, his three daughters, their husbands, and kids. It was an act of generosity that was typical of him. We spent a week in the most heavenly snow conditions, in the largest skiing area on the planet. It was fantastic. A perfect week of deep fresh snow and glorious sunshine.

That year, we skied the first few days all together as a group. Minus the children who spent the mornings in ski school. The group was mixed in terms of ability and confidence. Paul, the leader, was by far the best. He was an excellent skier. A true speed demon.  He skied his whole life and had accumulated more hours on the slopes than the ten other members of the group combined.

Paul planned our daily itineraries and led us across the pistes patiently. Encouragingly. We explored the wide gentle runs that led from our village down to the gondola stations and ski lifts further down the mountain. We tried out the surrounding slopes. All the while sticking to the easy blue graded runs. Paul always going ahead and patiently waiting for us to catch up. Everything was going great.

Paul’s drive to explore as much of the area as possible during the week soon hit a snag though. To reach some of the best skiing areas, the group would have to traverse some of the more difficult red graded ski runs. Red runs that Paul was sure were easy to navigate. He assured the group that the runs were probably just steep in small sections that could easily be negotiated slowly.  They were graded as reds, but they would definitely ski like blues.

This was a hard line for some members of the group. The encouraging started to grate. Mild tension developed. Followed by increased tension. Followed by rebellion and finally rupture. The dividing line in the battle was drawn, and it was red. The only resolution was to abandon skiing as a group and allow Paul the freedom to explore the valleys. Red runs and all. I couldn’t let Paul go alone though, could I? The holiday was his brainchild. His gift. I owed it to him to explore the mountains with him. So, I did. And it was incredible.

We were serious and methodical in our preparations. We (Paul), planned routes to the best runs in the valleys. He noted which runs led us to the most efficient ski lifts to get to the furthest reaches of the three linked ski valleys.  We ate our porridge, packed extra snacks and off we went.

Those hours of skiing with Paul were the best I can remember. We travelled as far as time would allow and skied as many runs as we could. Me always trailing behind and trying my best to keep Paul in sight so we didn’t get separated. The highlight was Mount Vallon.

The cable car at Mount Vallon terminates at an altitude of 2952m, the highest we had been on the holiday. The mountain has two long red-graded descents that both have fantastic views. I stayed in Paul’s tracks for the 1000m drop down into Meribel, carving wide arcs into the slopes in an effort to keep my speed in check. This was necessary to avoid losing control and falling over, which would slow Paul down. Paul graciously stopped at a few viewpoints on the way down to let me catch up and get my breath back. The views were breath taking. When we got to the bottom we went straight back to the top and repeated this several times.

When returning back to the top of Mount Vallon, in the ski lift, we were both full of excitement and couldn’t wait to repeat the runs. Paul repeating each time, that the others should be here with us. That they could easily handle the red runs. That they would love it.

I loved that holiday. I loved being with the family and being in the mountains. But my best memories are those hours I spent exploring with Paul. Now, three years later. We will honour his memory by enjoying the mountains that he loved, again together. I’ll make a special effort to go to Mount Vallon again while we are here. Even if it means crossing the red line again.