Le Franco Phoney

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.

Pictured below is the map of where some crazy unranked skiers and snowboarders will be doing cool tricks and daring descents right here in La Clusaz tomorrow in the lead-up to the Radikal Mountain competition. Those who qualify will get to do it all again at the weekend further over on the l’Etale peak with some of the world’s upcoming freeride champions. After the Candide Invitational stopped a few years ago (although Candide Thovex still lives here and is still awe-inspiring to watch as he flings himself with ease over kickers at La Balme on random days), La Clusaz has struggled to come up with a worthy replacement. Evening jib sessions proved the most popular and accessible for locals and tourists alike, but last year’s Radikal Mountain was a major let-down — mostly due to the lack of snow. Although it was probably more challenging for the riders and perhaps more likely to show who can really ski in any conditions, its position on a peak near l’Etale made viewing a bit difficult. As the map below shows, this year’s qualifying competition will take place up at La Balme, in the Torchere valley, allowing a better view of the action. It’s a pity the final competition isn’t taking place there too.

With more than two metres of snow at the altitude of the competition (and even more up higher!), the whole area has turned into a winter sports haven for all of us. No new snow is predicted for the weekend which is unfortunate, but with so much snow already there, the competition is already likely to be ten times more interesting than last year. You’ll find me camped out nearby with a sandwich and some awe.

Cross-country skiing. What a dumb thing to do when there are chairlifts that take you to the top of a hill so you can enjoy the slide down. And that’s why it’s taken me until this year to try it — a week before the lift system opened in La Clusaz. Had the lifts been open, I would have been on them, and a friend and I were so desperate to go skiing, we thought we’d try this ski de fond thing out. To give the sport a fair review, let’s pretend that downhill skiing doesn’t exist.

Pictured is the reason why downhill skiers get laughed at when trying to cross-country ski. First of all, riding ‘switch’ (backwards) isn’t really possible thanks to the scales on the bottoms of the skis: my friend pictured is actually standing still, with his best switch pose (along with another pose later for ‘off-piste’ which really doesn’t work with skis as thin as slices of bread). Without trying, we both managed to slip backwards on the up slopes so we’ve blown that ‘impossible’ theory out of the water. Also pictured are typical items of downhill skiwear: waterproof, baggy skipants and thick snowboarding mittens. Cross-country skiers sport lycra leggings, thin gloves and bum bags. We did well to leave our jackets at home at least, and to wear sunglasses instead of goggles. Alas, our loud skipants ensured that we didn’t fit in and I could almost hear the aged French men who lapped us cackling to themselves about our appearance and lack of ability.

We chose the easy piste at the top of Les Confins (La Clusaz) to start with, which involved uphill and downhill segments, and although the uphill parts challenged my respiration, the downhill slopes were the hardest. On normal skis, I would have thought them almost flat. On these french fries, the slopes were like massive cliffs. I survived them thanks to a technique as wrong as my outfit: I used my poles to slow me down by poking them in the snow in front of me. My arms ached for three days after all that jolting, but the views and the decent exercise made up for it. Meanwhile, the old French guys lapped us for a second time.

After our first lap (and as the old French guys went past us for a third time), we agreed to stop, in case it got dark before we did another lap. We had all afternoon, but we pretended it was later than it was. We had the photos to prove we’d tried it so we left. The single lap was enjoyable from an exercise perspective, and I’d consider trying it again.

Now, let’s return to the world where downhill skiing does exist. Give me downhill or telemark skis over these weird uncooked spaghetti skis any day! They have no edges and the bindings are fiddly. Even the pros look like they might wobble and fall over at any point. I’ll leave it to them to look unstable while I take my fat skis off-piste at the top of the chairlift.

One of the most noticeable and amusing things about living in the French Alps is how quickly conversation turns to snow when winter approaches. Months before the resort is due to open, people start predicting what sort of season it will be based on everything from long-term weather forecasts to how abundant the berries are on the trees in the mountains. I’m as guilty as the next person.

This year got off to a slow start with a very warm and dry autumn, causing the annual ski test at Le Grand Bornand, held before the official opening of the resort, to be cancelled. Nobody could talk about much else apart from when the snow was due to fall.

Finally, about ten days ago, the snow fell. Conversation went from ‘when’ to ‘how much’ and ‘how low’, with rain washing away the first dump of fresh snow on the lower pistes. Resorts all over the Alps opened on the weekend with eager skiers lining up. I was one of them, queuing at the La Balme area of La Clusaz, and at first tempted to stay on the piste to avoid the rocks hiding under what we all suspected to be the usual early-season flimsy layer of powder off-piste. All that changed yesterday when I hit some rock gardens on the piste. Even at an altitude of 2,600 metres, the rocks were poking through. Nicely hidden behind the steepness of the slope and on a narrow part of the piste, I heard my new skis crunch over the rocks like a train chugging along a track. I ventured off-piste instead. Result! Just one rock obscured my fresh tracks.

What a dire start the season eh? No, not really. The resort isn’t even due to open until 17th December! I’m happy that the snow is back (and indeed it’s dumping down right now, although rain is expected later in the week), but I wonder if the early opening was perhaps more for marketing or pressure to open prematurely. The pistes are patchy, and worryingly, the barrier at the top of La Balme that prevents people from sliding over the edge to their death has not been fully raised yet, leaving just the lower orange netting to waist height only. Falling over it would not be difficult. Pictured is how it normally looks. Those big zig-zag ropes attaching to the higher horizontal black rope to keep everything taut are not yet there and the orange netting is kind of hangy.

Anyway, enough about health and safety: I need to get back to talking about snow with my friends.

Yesterday was a really beautiful day for Le Bélier marathon here in La Clusaz. Participants who climbed the five peaks of the resort either walking from 7.30am or running from 9am were grateful for the cooler morning temperatures after a few weeks of hot weather, but the sun drilled down, making the finish line a warm place to be before midday.  I noted last year that skis are always somehow in the picture no matter what time of year it is, and this year was no exception. Although there was no cow bell attached this time, this girl was holding a pair of alpine skis, presumably waiting for her mates to finish the race. Having seen one French girl  complete the walking race looking like she’d just walked out of a fashion magazine, I wondered if she too had walked the race with the skis over her shoulder. After the other local offerings this month, including the stuffed hog on wheels, donkey ‘rides’ and a cow van, nothing would surprise me.

It’s been a few years since I mentioned the Fete du Reblochon, but watching the parade the other day made me realise it’s time to bring it up again. Where else in the world would you be ‘chased’ by a stuffed wild boar on wheels, led by a man dressed as a country bumkpin?

The boar was projectiled towards the crowd that had gathered for the parade and the man directing it seemed pretty happy with his job. Other highlights of the parade were the kids throwing hay and some sort of seeds that stung as they hit bare skin, and the men carrying an enormous amount of hay on their heads (like massive grass affros), the deafening bell ringers and best of all, the free samples of Reblochon cheese. The Fete du Reblochon is a really enjoyable day offering all sorts of rural entertainment. It swaps the Ferris wheel for a donkey race, the target shooting for wood chopping, hot dogs for local diot sausages, the man selling that amazing kitchen chopping device that peels, grates, chops, dices and more for the woman explaining how cheese is made, and the showbags of sweets for bags of cheese. It’s a great day out.

Now, back to the boar. Spain might have the running of the bulls and Rio might have Carnival, but La Clusaz is possibly the only place in the world that has the stuffed boar on wheels. And at least one person (the guy pulling the boar) thinks that’s a win.

When I was a kid, a pony ride involved getting on a pony and having some horse-loving teenager lead the pony around a paddock. I always wanted to gallop off by myself, but I was far too young to know how to. No worries in France. These are your options.

First up, we have the Northern version. These poor little ponies get attached to a piece of metal where they walk around and around on asphalt with overweight kids on their backs. They looked so bored. Worse still, the beach was just down the road, and I imagined their little pony eyes seeing the water and imagining running free on their little legs along the sandy beach.

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At the other end of the scale is La Clusaz. Even if the helmet is oversized, at least it was offered here, and it seems nicely co-ordinated colour-wise. Pictured are my visiting friends who were told to follow the path of the other ponies through a trail amongst trees with stream flowing beside it. The slight risk of getting lost was far more enjoyable for both rider and pony than the version up North.

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Meanwhile, here in St Jean de Sixt, we’ve by-passed ponies altogether and gone instead for donkeys. For one day only, the donkeys were available for hire. Rather than riding the donkeys, the kids had to direct them around a small course (such as the wooden logs pictured, which the donkeys were meant to walk over). This donkey was more interested in the tasty weeds than walking, but the kids seemed pretty amused.

La Clusaz has just ended nine days of horse competitions, named “Jump’In” which saw a whole lot of massive trucks and temporary stables take over the under-utilised Salon des Dames car park at the entrance of town. I know absolutely nothing about horses or the competitions, but I was impressed at just how high and daintily these well-groomed, heavy animals can jump. Before each competition starts, the riders are allowed onto the course to check out the jumps. As you can see from one of the photos I snapped, a black labrador also got to check out the jumps and nobody seemed to mind. The mountains behind the course provided a very scenic backdrop.

The last three days of the competition saw riders from all over the world compete, with an English-speaking commentator talking alongside the French one (a rarity in these parts). The weather was sunny and humid and I felt sorry for the riders and horses while I sat in the shade with my ice cream. I also felt sorry for the four riders who went down a narrow path littered with pedestrians — on Segways. Everyone just stared while they waited for the pedestrians to get off the pedestrian path so they could continue. Thankfully, they avoided entering the jumping arena, although that could have been quite amusing I guess…

Who knew that Segways were for mountain-loving thrill seekers? According to this brochure advertising their arrival to La Clusaz, a Segway can help you “attack the mountain”. I think I might have to agree with that: the weight of the Segway is surely going to do some damage to it at the very least, and possibly to the riders as they attempt to go “off-piste” for higher thrills. They will inevitably pop over the handlebars when they accidentally hit a rock in one of those cow fields they decided to shortcut through (if the able-bodied are lazy enough to get on a Segway, why would they go around a field?), safe in the knowledge that any poo would remain on the Segway instead of on themselves. Would it be wrong to imagine a couple of cows then coming up and attacking the toppled idiot and Segway with their horns?

Anyway, as the photo of our three cool dudes (complete with new gnarly finger-thumb coolness symbol) shows, this is for radical people who want to take their nature walks to the extremes they’ve only ever imagined! Here’s an idea: walk. Experience all those walks by actually moving your legs and feeling your muscles at the end of the day. I’m now imagining a Segway on the stupid walk I did last week, but I don’t see how it would get past the first road strewn with rocks, let alone the loose rocks at the top or the deep mud on the way back down. Let’s hope they make it to those cow fields extra fast.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, a 60-minute “walk” will cost €45, but it does guarantee an “intense pleasure”. I can think of better ways…

Monday 25th April is the last day that the lifts will be open in La Clusaz (it’s also the very important ANZAC Day in Australia and New Zealand, lest we forget). The eminent closure of the few remaining ski lifts in one of only three ski resorts still open in Haute Savoie has prompted me to present the three final signs from telecabines in La Clusaz which could be misinterpreted.

Firstly, there’s the “No mobile phones that require pens in this cabin” sign. Or is that “No miniature stick figures poking out of your mobile phone”? It’s certainly a far cry from the detailed line drawing figure I wrote about previously with their suits and business shoes. Actually, it’s a person leaning out of a cabin, although it’s not very representative of the cabin shape.

Next up is a symbol that’s far better at capturing the shape of the cabin a bit more accurately. Why did they not apply this to the one above instead of trying to reinvent the wheel? Anyway, this one looks to me like “No ballet allowed in the cabin”, although as a visiting friend remarked upon seeing the sign, “What’s wrong with stretching if there’s enough room? Is it the leaning you’re not allowed to do?” Bingo! At least one other person took a moment to realise that the sign actually means “Don’t swing the cabin”. Of course. The good news is that I can carry on doing ballet while my friend leans on me to stretch. Not swinging the cabins is actually very important. If the swinging causes the cable to wobble too much, the cable could misalign with the pylon wheels that move it forward, causing the cable to fall to the ground (along with all the cabins and people). But don’t panic: this is hardly a common occurrence as the cabins are engineered to withstand high winds and the swinging that happens when the lift stops suddenly. I recall seeing the Lakeside poma (drag lift) at Falls Creek in Australia stopped with the cable off because, allegedly, someone let go of the lift before the end of the run, and the poma bounced up and caused the cable to fall off. This was back in the 80s before the web existed, but I heard at the time that people using the lift at suffered broken legs and other injuries when the heavy cable fell on them. Now, if I really need to get off a drag lift before the end, I make sure I do so right after a pylon to limit the impact on the length of cable. Thankfully, these accidents are rare, so let’s lighten the mood .

Finally, we have this gem of a symbol which is pretty obvious: “No open fires in the cabin”. Yes, you can’t mistake this one. So if you see anyone rolling their barbeque into a telecabine at La Balme this weekend, remind them that they’ll have to wait to get to the top before they fire it up and start sizzling those sausages. I’m surprised they haven’t bothered with signs such as “No blow-up paddle pools”, “No fireworks” or “No sucking on icicles in case you stumble and they make you bleed a lot and scar the roof of your mouth” (how I wish I knew that one when I was about eight – the scar is still there), as all these things seem about as relevant as someone seriously starting a fire.