There's a ski-run in Val Thorens called Cima Caron. When you emerge from the cable-car it's as if you're on the viewing terrace of the Empire State Building. Except there are no protective walls or barriers and you're wearing skis. You feel exposed.
Twenty-five steep metres take you to a narrow ledge, always over-populated. You feel inclined to stay, especially if you know what follows. You don't stay because there are too many jostling elbows.
The next 150 metres seem to follow a spiral route round the top (ie, narrow) end of a giant cone. It's steep and oh-so-high and the last 10 metres are a killer. Others who've preceded you, frightened by the gradient, have followed the same traversing path and all have come to a halt at the same spot. Causing a deepening trough to form.
You know that if you end up stationary in that trough it will be Hell's own job to get out. You know you must skirt the outer edge of the trough - hanging over eternity - and then make a quick awkward 180 deg turn left from a horizontal line. Such turns even when successful are laborious and ugly; also there is a brief moment when you directly face the beckoning depths.
I've done that run twice, both times on my own. Many years ago. Since I no longer ski my amour propre is not at risk. I imagine myself gliding past the trough on the last two inches of viable snow, turning smoothly towards the fearful slope and then on, through that angle, to a reassuring traverse. And keeping going with another smooth turn. Leaving others further up the face, scared, still to resolve the problem.
Good luck, guys.
From time to time we have had exchanges about reasons for walking, climbing hills and the like, which to those who are not attracted to such activity may seem pointless. The motivations for aficionados are complex and many, but here you identify one in particular. To be able to recall, in later years, difficulties overcome in the past, knowing that you were able to face danger and overcome gives one at least some smug satisfaction beyond sitting in a nursing home playing bingo or group singing If You’re Happy and you Know It or We’ll Meet Again Some Sunny Day. And it is not only the successful achievements, it is the knowledge that you used time, hopefully wisely, in away that is now paying dividends. The same will apply to people who have made contributions to literature and science in their past - it doesn’t have to be something physical, but oh how dreary to have nothing of significance to fall back on.
ReplyDeleteI found my heart was racing as I read this post. I have never skied, nor will I ever; however, it sounds glorious.
ReplyDeleteSir Hugh: Discussions about "Why?" are often heated yet nearly always pointless. The only difference between a preference for ski-ing vs. a preference for asparagus is risk. Or perhaps what may be called "inherent risk". Yet we regularly risk our lives, our assets, our reputations and our wellbeing by driving too quickly on winding country lanes, darting across roads in the face of oncoming traffic, lying to insurance companies (usually by omission), exaggerating our abilities and drinking to excess.
ReplyDeleteI was a much better skier than I was a climber. What's more, during the final decade, I knew I was continuing to improve my technique. It was only in the penultimate year, when I fell and experienced mild concussion, that the skills began to leak away. By the next year I found I had abruptly reverted to beginner status. I knew what needed to be done but couldn't do it. A harsh moment.
That descent from the Cima Caron occurred much earlier, when I was "making do" with technique. The key to staying safe depended on the clarity with which I saw upcoming problems. Skirting the trough on the very edge of a severe drop took me out of my comfort zone but I knew what needed to be done and had regularly performed such a manoeuvre albeit in less menacing conditions.
Interestingly, now it is all in the past, I faced another technique test. Had I the ability to convey the experience in a way that might be shared - vividly - with others, especially those who haven't ski-ed? In that respect I couldn't hope for a better response than Colette's. And this is what I do these days. I write as a means of achieving rapport. Occasionally there are rewards, frequently I overdo things. It's all a matter of risk.
Colette: A perfect comment, thank you. There may be something in my re-comment to Sir Hugh (my brother) that takes you behind the scenes. Always assuming you want to go there.
Good heavens! Fortunately, you survived what must have bee a very close call, and are with us still.
ReplyDeleteYou write terrifying scenes with great skill and effect.
The Crow: I feast on past terrors, turn them into a sort of hors d'oeuvres. Perhaps you'd like the main course a little later (I'm just off to bed.). The ski-ing event where I was tortured for 90 minutes but maintained my cool throughout, spoke French continuously. Nah, it's a bit too heroic. A sonnet?
ReplyDeleteWhatever you choose to write, I will read.
ReplyDeleteThe Crow: Your comment allowed me to flirt with the idea of serving up sweetness and light. But would I still be me? Isn't my role to ride the bucking bronco of detestability - causing gasps of admiration from the crowd - until I'm thrown off and find myself lying in the dust and recognisably detestable? A Limey bastard, in fact. In the tradition of Limey bastards.
ReplyDelete