Skiing

Ollie’s parents came out to visit this week and with them we escaped Berlin to drive south, to the ski resort of Oberwiesenthal, on the Czech border southwest of Dresden. Our accommodation was in fact in a village a 20 minute drive from the main resort, down a snow covered track through a pine forest, in the middle of nowhere. It was odd on the drive down in bright sunshine and 10 degree temperatures to imagine we would be skiing the following day. However, as we headed higher, the temperature dropped and patches of snow did start to appear, growing thicker and deeper until we reached the winter of the low mountains. 

View from a walk near our hotel

The resort itself, when we arrived on Friday morning, was packed. We hadn’t quite realised that it was the local schools’ half term holiday as well as in the UK. The bar area at the bottom was lorded over by a DJ wearing a ridiculous hat, playing terrible and very loud party songs and yelling every few minutes about the Gluhwein available to buy. We hired our equipment first and the boys headed straight off to the big cable car, whilst I stayed on the nursery slope with Ollie’s mum. I have only skied once before, so wanted to check I could still stay upright and remember, most importantly, how to stop. Unfortunately, there was no drag lift here, despite the fact that we were clearly not the only ones using this part of the slope to practise on. Thus, it was rather an exhausting experience, trudging up the hill with our skis repeatedly (the ride down took far less than a minute). Still, it built my confidence and after lunch the others persuaded me to take the lift halfway up the slope and try from there. It was a blue run and considerably steeper than it had appeared from the bottom, so I soon realised my overambitious mistake! It was rather terrifying, and there were about 3 points at which the slope got too steep, I couldn’t slow down, stop or turn, so made the executive decision instead to throw myself to the ground and slide on my side down the hill until friction took over and I ground to a halt. Not the most stylish method of getting down, but the snow was thankfully soft and I escaped relatively unbruised! Somehow I got to the bottom in one piece, relieved when we reached the foothills I’d been practising on earlier, and resolved not to do that again in a hurry. Thus I happily pootled around on the small hill again for the rest of the afternoon, and finished the experience off with a mug of Gluhwein, caving to the DJ’s relentless shouting.

From the top of the slope - yikes!

From confident cruiser...

    

... to out of control maniac

The following day, the others decided they fancied trying a bit of cross country skiing, something that, despite being regular skiers, they’d never done before. Feeling a little achy after my experiences from the previous day, I was up for sitting it out but went along to check out the beginning of the course. Seeing that it immediately began with a steep-ish downhill on a bend, I knew I wanted to sit it out. I was less than confident after my experience on the slope that I would be able to control myself, let alone ski along the flat later. Plus, I couldn’t see what lie ahead beyond the beginning, so couldn’t size up my enemy. Instead, I imagined a peaceful day pottering around the local village and reading my book over a heiße Schokolade. No such luck. I was peer pressured into taking part, and so we trudged back down to base camp to hire skis. 

Cross country skis are longer and thinner than downhill skis and the very tips are pointed rather than round. The boots are much softer, lighter and more comfortable than normal ski boots and clip onto the ski at the toe end only, so your heel can move up and down. They also (at least, the basic version we hired) have no braking system. No sharp edges at all to dig into the ground. It is the equivalent of strapping two long thin plastic tea trays to your feet and throwing yourself down a hill. In other words, it’s completely insane.

To help steer you, there are tracks on the route, made by a machine initially but it looks simply like you’re following the exact way that everyone else has gone, as they consist simply of 2 grooves carved into the snow. Thus, the initial downhill round a bend wasn’t as bad as I feared, as within the tracks you can’t go wrong. Granted, you can’t stop yourself, but have to just go with it and slow down naturally as the slope evens out at the bottom. It was beyond that I had an issue. I found it ridiculously hard. I actually found myself longing for that blue run again. On the flat or up, one has to kind of half walk, half slide, using your long poles to help propel yourself along/stop yourself sliding backwards. It was exhausting, punishing on the muscles and roasting hot work. I could think of no more stupid way imaginable to get from A to B. I could have easily walked on the path beside the track at twice the speed and less than half the exertion. It was very frustrating and utterly painful. Thus, when we reached the end of the first stretch, marked by a road, car park and café, I refused to go any further. The others set off on a circular route whilst I had a coffee, wandered about the local bit of woodland and sat in the sun. Far more sensible, I felt.

On their return, they claimed to have enjoyed themselves and also said the path the whole way was easily accessible to people on foot, so after lunch at the café, I left my equipment there and walked alongside them skiing. Ah! Feet are such well designed appendages! Walking is such a sensible way of getting about! I could easily keep pace with them (until they went careering down a hill, in which case I caught up at the bottom) and enjoyed the walk through the snowy woodland. At one point we had to climb a long, steep hill, which I walked up easily alongside the others doing sort of strange penguin impressions. I found my niche in helping pick people up who fell over, passing the bottled water between those who needed it and offering to carry the items of clothing that were peeled off en route. We were passed by dog walkers, holidaymakers indulging in a horse and carriage ride through the snow and more advanced cross country skiers. I could barely watch as Ollie and Graham skied back down the long hill we’d climbed: there was a bit of a drop into the trees on one side and with no way of steering or stopping, it seemed pure chance they didn’t fly off the edge.

Cross country skiing

And one of many other far more sensible modes of transport.

By the time we’d got back to the first leg which I’d skied along that morning, Graham and Beverley also had to remove their skis and walk: the track had disappeared for most of the way and been replaced by treacherous ice. The 3 of us ached in places we didn’t know it was possible to ache. Ollie drove us back to Berlin that night and I resolved never to put a pair of those ridiculous things on my feet again. I think I’m designed for more solid ground.