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Published: March 25th 2007
I have never been considered the most observant person in the world. In fact, I am often surprised to learn that the "new" shop I have just discovered on the high street has been there for 5 years and I have been walking past it twice a day all that time, blithely unaware of its existence. So it came as little shock to me yesterday morning when I arrived at Chambery airport that for the first time I noticed that this tiny gateway to the French Alps was surrounded by large mountains, each dusted with snow, and providing what could be the best welcoming backdrop to any group of excited skiers. However, rather than blaming my general lack of awareness of anything outside my own ego, this time I can happily say that I was distracted - if not blinded - by something more stark than several ranges of snow capped peaks.
Hair.
As our band of skiers and/or ski holiday enthusiasts slowly made our way to the coach that was to take us up to the resort, we were welcomed by what can only be described as an ode to Vidal Sassoon and all the other stylists
that have forged their way through tonnes of poorly sculpted hair in pursuit of styling greatness. (Very much as an aside, did you know that Vidal Sassoon had to rename his brand in Russia because loosely translated in Russian it reads "have you seen the man who sucks"?) Standing by the coach (clipboard in hand like all persons assuming a position of authority - I think my one connection with the UN taught me that trick) was Mark. Little did I know that Mark was to be our one major contact for the week, visiting us at the chalet, offering up gems of wisdom about the resort of Courchevel and all it has to offer and generally providing bucket loads of amusement for our group. Mark has the hair of a god. The first thing you noticed about Mark when meeting him was his long, flowing blonde locks that were styled to within an inch of being unfashionable but still maintaining that "I'm so cool, my hair is always this 'unkept'" look. With his fringe hanging dangerously to the point of blocking vision in one eye, as we piled on the bus, each exchanging smirky comments about the hair and
its owner, I quietly hoped that he wasn't the one driving the bus up the steep and narrow roads that lead to Courchevel 1650.
Of course you can’t condemn a man just for his hair alone and in the intervening hour long bus ride Mark did his best to endear himself to our group. Aside from talking to us on the bus microphone while resolutely keeping his back to us the whole time, in the short ride to our chalet Mark managed to invent a tax that we were all required to pay (a never before mentioned part of the trip) and then bemoaned the fact that he wouldn’t get his bonus when we politely told him that we were undecided about which lift passes we needed and so didn’t want to buy them from him. After sulking at the front of the bus for a good half an hour (and a few furtive phone calls to his manager) Mark proudly came to us and explained that he was willing to offer us a discount on the price of our lift tickets if we bought them from him. We all thought we had mis-heard him when he offered his
1% saving on the price. However, by the time he explained that the discount would amount to a whole €20 for the group of 18 we knew he wasn't joking. For the rest of the trip I sat there trying to establish all the things in the world I would notice a one percent increase or decrease in. Aside from macroeconomic issues involving trade balances and reserve bank rates I decided that yes, the "discount" was about as fair to middling as one could hope for. Needless to say for the rest of the trip Mark became known to all as 1% (or Marky Mark, Pretty Mark, The Guy With the Hair, Lion Mane, Bloody Mark and plain, old That Guy).
Mark's ability to quite lower prices that strangely increased as you went to pay for the activity became the stuff of legend. To Marky Mark's credit he did completely redeem himself when he led some of the most death defying off piste boarding that the group had ever experienced and also, later in the week, fiddled the results of the trivia quiz so that we cam second. See, a tough love approach always works with these puppies. His
greatest redemption came however when he managed to land a 7 metre jump while taking some of the crew off piste. In the course of his landing he managed to knee himself in the face and caused his nose to bleed all through the snow. Redemption was revoked later that evening when we gave him one shot of vodka and he ran straight out of the bar to vomit. Honestly, I thought these boarders were supposed to be tough!?
How much character assassination should one blog contain? Let’s get to the skiing.
Arriving on the Saturday some of the cynics amongst the groups suggested they would be opting for hiking boots rather than skis for the week as the snow seemed thin (if not non-existent) on the ground at the village of 1650. By the next morning, as we were skiing in t-shirts in ten degree weather and beautiful sunshine, we were all appreciating the benefits of spring skiing in the French Alps. The Three Valley resorts (comprising of Courchevel, Meribel, Les Menuires and Val Thorens - yes I know you are thinking what I am - that's four valleys!) provide the world's largest ski area and is
jam packed full of runs and off piste areas that can entertain an intermediate skier like me or the gun skiers/boarders that made up the rest of our group for weeks on end. The veteran members of this annual Ski Courchevel week had never skied the full three valleys before so when the sun came out blazing on day one of our ski odyssey they were keen to lead the rest of us from Courchevel all the way to Val Thorens and back again. The epic 8 hour ski adventure took us across some excellent skiing terrain and our efforts were rewarded with the most beautiful alpine views I have seen yet. By the end of the day I was exhausted but pleased that some vague memory of how to ski had returned to me since the last time I skied, over 6 years ago.
The skiing network is quite remarkable, especially for someone whose only prior experience has been on the slopes of the southern hemisphere. Day after day we skied new terrain that we had not had the opportunity to visit yet. Skiing at up to 2800 metres can be an exhilarating experience. Yet perhaps the most
exhilarating of all was the risk that when you skied one of the slopes you risked being attacked by wild bison or shot at by Indians sporting bow and arrows.
As you are probably aware most ski runs are named for ease of reference and vanity purposes. Nothing says "I have skiing balls of steel" like swanning in at lunch, hair speckled with snow and quietly mentioning that you just finished a quick ski on the Steriliser run. Courchevel has opted for relatively tranquil names for its slopes, such as Ariondaz and Rochers. However, I was not prepared when skiing down the slope "Indiens" to encounter four massive Tee Pee, a bison and a man with a questionable wig, wearing Navaho dress and answering to the name Loup Gris (Grey Wolf). The Indiens Run, for some unknown reason (unknown solely because I speak no French), is dedicated to the (unknown to me) long and deep association between the French people and the Native Americans (??). On my first run down the slope, lightly delirious from being a bit snow blinded and tired after a long day skiing, I turned the corner that hides the tee pee and bison herd
and had a tough time convincing myself that I had not skied through some weird portal that had taken me from Savoie to Colorado via the Marquis ski lift. Unfortunately I don’t have any photos as I remembered some old story about Indians believing that their soul would be captured by the camera - and I really did not want to leave poor Jean-Pierre, sorry, Loup Gris, soulless as well as hairless.
Over the next week we skied a lot. On the Monday morning the snow started coming down by the bucket load. As the powder kept stacking up on the slopes the division between the two groups of skiers became more apparent. On one side of the mountain (usually near the red slopes) was Team Civil - a civilised bunch of skiers intent on making the most of the brilliant skiing conditions by choosing runs at the appropriate level, politely waiting for each other to complete the runs and ensuring that a lazy 9.30 AM start was in order each day. On the other side of the mountain (usually facing a 300 metre ravine with low visibility and peppered with massive pipes that blast gas into the mountain
as protective measures against avalanches) were the LASI's (the Loosely Affiliated Skiing Individuals) - a motley crew who's main aim, aside from ensuring that they woke up earlier than everyone else in the chalet, was to cause mayhem on and off the slopes. Often found trailing behind Goldilocks Marky Mark they were heard to remark on numerous occasions "No friends on powder days" as they skied off leaving the weak or infirmed members of their "team" behind.
Needless to say I was in Team Civil and enjoyed the relentless but proper pace that team leader and skier extraordinaire Lorinda set throughout the week. By Friday, after much teasing and cajoling being dished out on the mountain, both teams joined forces to tackle Courchevel together again. We skied, jumped and raced our way to our final run of the week up from the top of Signal, through Grande Bosses and Indiens and back to the Chalet. Throughout the day we did some great skiing but perhaps the pinnacle was Joey skiing from lunch back to the chair lift with a plate of chips over his head.
Of course no French ski holiday is complete without some great French food
and we were not disappointed on that front. Throughout the week our chalet hosts, Hannah, Suzy and Kerry, looked after us with some wonderful meals and certainly made us feel right at home in the 21 berth Sabot de Venus. In fact Hannah soon took on hero status after revealing that Marky Mark had in fact been a hair model before getting into the more cut throat but far less glamorous profession of being a ski rep. (Some would say that Hannah took on hero status for other members of the group for entirely different reasons, but I should probably stay silent on that shouldn't I Chris?) Aside from the food prepared by our hosts we also were treated to different types of cheeses each evening usually selected by some of the more discerning members of the chalet. In fact after about two days into the trip we started providing daily updates on each others weird, cheese induced dreams from the night before. After not even coming close to conquering the half a wheel of raclet that John and I ordered on our group evening out I have been sworn of cheese for quite a while. That night I dreamt
I was a member of LASI and was leading the group down some impossible terrain while being followed by Marky Mark offering a further 1% discount on my wheel of raclet. After waking in a hot sweat (and inadvertently breaking the bed into four pieces) I knew that I was off dairy for months. Screw the osteoporosis.
As if cheese induced nightmares weren't enough I was given good reason the next day why I should never aspire to join the LASI's. At my lesson with my Italian instructor Luca, Michael began questioning Luca about his brush with an avalanche last season. Brush is probably not a good word for it. Instead, Luca was caught in an avalanche and buried in hundreds of kilograms of snow. He couldn't move at all and his mouth and nose were filled with snow so that he could not breathe either. Luckily he had activated his avalanche transmitter fifteen minutes earlier and he was located within seven minutes of being buried. His companions dug him out but he had turned blue and his mouth was frozen so badly that they had to forcibly squeeze his cheeks together to create an aperture so that mouth
to mouth could be administered. It is unnerving as a ski student to sit in a gondola on the way to the start of your lesson and have your instructor explain to you how after he realised he could no longer breath and he wondered what the process of suffocating entailed he took his last breath and "that was it". And then, with a big toothy smile, he says "OK lets go ski" and the doors open to show you the mountains that certainly only harbour certain death! AAAARGHH. But as we were practicing our basic turns on the blue slopes I don’t think I was in too much danger of being buried alive.
As a group, however, we did court danger. We tackled the 2 kilometre toboggan track that descends 300 metres over the course. In fact it was there that I think that most of us gained most of our injuries. Hurtling down what can only be described as a rally car track and seeing 100 metre drops to your side and having to maneuver hair pin turn after chicane after hair pin turn on a €3 piece of plastic is enough to make anyone wonder whether
all these snow sports are just for the seriously deranged.
After a week of fun, sun, snow, ski and (unfortunately) a bit of illness it was time to go home. Early on Saturday morning we piled into the bus and bade our hosts and the Sabot de Venus farewell. Sitting down on the bus I realised that everything in my body ached. After a week of skiing, drinking and wholesome fun my body was crying out for some rest. I slept soundly on the way to the airport and as I boarded the plane back to London all I could think was screw the pain - I wanna go and do it all again!
A special thanks must go to Joey and Lorinda who organised the amazing trip. If only you were here in 2008 so we could do it all again (with your expert assistance). Shout out to all the crew who made it such a blast of a holiday - thanks to John, Chris, Chris (the vet), Carl, Eddy, Marcella, Paul, Leah, (little) Joe, Daniel. Matt, Sonya, Laila, Lee, Michael and Mark.
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John
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Peter Doherty
So was it pure chance that Peter Doherty was in Courcheval was at same time as you? Great Synopsis of the week Pgiddy.