SNOW-COVERED MOUNTAIN: AUSTRIA
CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRIA: THE SKIING EXPEDITION
It was minus 13 Centrigrade as we drove past Saltzburg, and Hohensteinburg (I made that up…can’t remember the name), a stone castle high on the hill, into the Austrian alps. The snow sparkled in the rare sunshine as Helga and Willi Hiebl, parents of my former housemate, Petra, took me on our long-planned ski outing. I reminded myself that I had once sworn never to go skiing if the temperature was below 20 degrees Fahrenheit. I remembered being so cold on the chair lift that I thought my fingers would fall off despite thermal ski gloves. Minus 13 C is 8.6 F, and I wondered what madness gets into humans that they feel they have to go out in such weather. Can’t we take a lesson from bears and just stay in? Despite eating my way across Europe, indulging in numerous tarte citrons in France and piling on the butter and cheese in Austria, I still do not have enough body fat to keep warm.
But dressed in several layers of underwear, none of it glamorous, wool tights, slacks, ski pants, a wool turtleneck, a fleece pullover AND a ski jacket, I felt and looked like an overstuffed bear. Unlike the downhill racers in their svelte outfits, sleekness and grace were not the defining adjectives for my current garb. I frankly had a difficult night sleeping, fearing that I would be so cold that skiing would be traumatic, picturing myself frozen in a an awkward stiff-legged pose, a la the Abominable Snowman, high in the mountains. I certainly didn’t want to have to stop after every run and hover in the ski hut trying to warm up, meanwhile becoming known as the Visiting Wimp from Pennsylvania. Petra’s dad Willi is the hale and hearty type, an excellent skier, and a born tease. He would not let me live it down if I didn’t measure up.
I had not skied for at least five years, so it was with some trepidation that I joined this family who were put on skis in kindergarten. During the drive, I prayed to the ghosts of skiers past, wanting desperately to channel the grace and speed of one who had hovered in the netherworld waiting for an opportunity to whip down the slopes once again.
We skied in the Altenstadt area, where Helga’s school sometimes comes for a ski trip. At 1571 meters high, that’s a bit more than 5000 feet, child’s play in the Alps. In Austria the slopes are rated blue, red and black, while in the U.S., the beginning slopes are green, blue are intermediate, and black are difficult. I think the so-called beginners’ slopes here are intermediate at home, but at least they weren’t so steep as to be terrifying. I concentrated on body position: knees bent, shoulders up, face the slope, instead of leaning back. To me, this is counter-intuitive. You’re hurtling downhill, but to gain control you’re supposed to lean forward when every cell of your body is screeching, “Lean back, you fool!” I hoped the balance I had learned in tango would lend me poise as I swooped from side to side. Alas, no. Tango and skiing are not the same. And, despite my prayers and meditation, my channeling abilities proved to be as limited as my skiing. I was not miraculously inhabited by a champion. Just when I thought I was improving, my skis crossed, I suddenly flipped onto my back and slid headfirst about twenty feet down the hill. Fortunately my bear-like padding protected me.
Later, Helga, who has the charitable soul of an elementary teacher crossed with a saint, said “We don’t call that falling, we call it resting. You were just taking a rest.” Some rest! In my tangled up position, I probably looked like a snow-covered pretzel. I hoped Petra’s dad didn’t see my ignominious landing. He was far down the hill at the time. But at some point during the day, he started calling me Batman; apparently referring to the flailing motions I made with my arms prior to take-off.
VIEW FROM ABOVE
When my legs quivered, I stopped for a scenery break. Artistically, the day was a success. The sun deceived us into thinking it was actually warmer. Cobalt skies were brighter than the postcards. The evergreen branches wore clouds of snow. Nearby were mountains which had bred Olympic champions. Unfortunately I showed up a little late in life for downhill racing, or even high competency.
Miraculously, I remained vertical for the rest of the day and truly enjoyed myself. I even regained some rhythm and balance on the last few runs, feeling like I was finally in charge of my legs and the skis. Petra’s mom said that if I had a few more days I would become a good skier. Well, I was dubious, (she probably tells all the kids that.) but it did raise my spirits.
A highlight of the day came when we joined the Hiebls’ friends, the Dufts, in the lodge at the bottom of the slopes. Rock music blared, and everyone shed jackets and gloves in the steamy bar. Finally we looked like people again instead of multicolored puffballs. I was ecstatic. I had neither frozen to death nor broken any bones. In the lodge Willi treated us to vodka feigges, small glasses with vodka and fig juice, in which floated a fig on a toothpick. It must have been invented by the gods as a reward for survival. What a way to end the day!
DETAILS:
No luck on finding an actual recipe for Vodka Feigges, but here’s what I was told:
Pour a hearty shot of vodka into a glass. Add a splash of juice from canned figs.
Spear a fig with toothpick and add to the vodka. Serve.
Sounds too simple to be fabulous, but it was. And you don’t have to be half frozen to enjoy it!
I didn't have my camera on this adventure, but thanks to www.FreeFoto.Com I found some great photos on the net.
Photo Credits:
Photographer: Ian Britton
Snow Covered Mountain, Carinthia, Austria
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