After I survived the physical workout of cross-country skiing, and with a Christmas guest who didn’t want to ski, I went snowshoeing on a sunny, warm day in late December. Not just any old snow-shoeing. No. I went on a guided snowshoe walk. That sounds a bit posh, eh? I mean, how hard can it be to follow some tracks with tennis racquet-like things with sharp bits attached to your feet?
Our party of five included two people who had never used snow shoes before (including me). I imagined beautiful scenery, stopping regularly to look at natural elements like animal tracks, trees and views. My non-skiing visitor said her past experience with guides was basically that, and usually on flat terrain. Bonus for us, since we were still full on festive treats. Of course, we were wrong.
Snowshoes have three settings, so our guide checked we were all using the right one. She forgot to check our other vital equipment (ski poles), but I’ll get to that later. Off we trampled up a hill, zig-zagging and stopping to look at animal tracks, berries on a tree and a typical Savoyarde house. So far, so good. This continued for more than an hour, with the other beginner stopping often to catch her breath while the guide impatiently waited. We reached a plateau (pictured) just below the Tete du Danay lookout point (the mount in the background, just to the right of our group). The guide explained it would take another ten minutes to reach it or we could go back down. Now, check the size of the trees on that mound compared with the people in the foreground. There was no way it was just a ten minute walk. Also check how low the sun is in the sky. After a muted agreement to continue, I said I was worried we wouldn’t get back off the mountain in time before the sun set, and that it would take more than ten minutes, but the guide said that was ‘pas grave’ (not a problem). It was for me, but she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she made it clear that if one of us doesn’t want to go, none of us get to go. She guilted me into it.
The walk to the top took a further 30 minutes, with the slow girl stopping to complain every now and again, including to point out it had already been 15 minutes (to which the guide insisted she’d never said it would only be ten minutes). The guide steamed on ahead and was at the top before the slow girl, and the two of us behind her, had rounded the last few corners with steep edges. I should mention that I get vertigo. Vertigo is different to being afraid of heights. I have no problems getting on a chairlift! Vertigo involves dizziness at random times, and most definitely when there’s a steep decline nearby. If I look down on a chairlift, it happens. If I look at the horizon, I’m fine. Climbing these last few zig-zag corners before reaching the Tete du Danay was causing much dizziness. Since the guide had already made it clear that we all go or none of us go, and since she was out of sight entirely, I trudged up, heart beating through panic rather than exercise, trying to look away from the drop to one side. I even bullied the slow girl into not stopping until we reached the top, saying I’d mow her down in my escape from the dizzy area.
At the top, I explained to the guide that the last bit was not enjoyable for someone with vertigo. She told me I should have told her at the start, and of course she was right, but as the guide leading us, I’d expect her to ask the relevant questions at the start since I was expecting a relatively flat walk of maybe one or two hours. I’d also expect her to resist ploughing ahead so that she can’t see or hear more than half of her party! In her favour, she gave us all the most delicious tea, which made everything better.
The descent was hard work for the older lady whose ski poles had no baskets at the bottom. They were just big pointy poles that slid through the snow until they hit the ground deep underneath. She fell, and my immediate thought was that if she’d injured herself, it would soon be dark (although that was apparently ‘pas grave‘). The guide, who was hopefully aware that she should have checked everyone was properly equipped before setting off, gave the lady her poles and led the way with the pointy sticks. The few times she stopped to check that we were all there in the fading light, she stopped in areas with drops to one side which was certainly grave for someone with vertigo.
Not since the stupid walk last summer have I been so happy to see civilisation. More than three hours after we started, the air was cold, the light had faded, we had no torches, and all of us had had enough — including the guide, who I’m pretty sure will be happy if she never sees Vertigo Girl or Slow Girl again.
Don’t get me wrong: the walk itself was beautiful and the guide told us some interesting facts about the flora and fauna, but next time, I’ll go without the guide to avoid being guilted into going further, then having to speed-snowshoe home because of the fading light. And like cross-country skiing, I’ll only bother when the ski lifts have stopped running.
France and Switzerland seem like unlikely neighbours to me. The French love slow time while the Swiss love to keep time. Some of my French friends park illegally and don’t care while a Swiss person can book their neighbour for parking in a car-free neighbour’s allotted spot. France is still learning what the internet is all about while the Swiss tourism people have already embraced social networking to make personalised advertisements starring you.
Fancy some trumpets of death? Look no further than the supermarket shelves. Here, next to the Morille mushrooms, you’ll find the ‘Trompettes de la mort‘, or Trumpets of Death. Also known as ‘black trumpets’ in English, these mushrooms are apparently quite difficult to find, and if bought dried, taste a little like truffles.
