Alternatives to downhill winter sports #3
February 3, 2012 @ 11:57 am — Tags: Aravis, history, landscape, signs, ski resorts, skiing, snowboarding, sport, St Jean de Sixt
Following on from alternatives #1 and #2 (cross-country skiing and snowshoeing), today I look at the ski ‘resort’ of St Jean de Sixt. “How is that an alternative to downhill winter sports?”, you may ask. It’s a fine line, but I’m willing to prove that it could be considered an alternative.
But before I get to that, look at this lovely sign! It’s one of a few dotted around the place and reveals the odd history of the resort. This jerky old drag lift is one of two lifts in the area. The other is a rope tow for beginners, while this one started life closer to the main road to La Clusaz back in 1962. The entire lift was moved to its current position in 1971, and I’m guessing the signs were not updated. This particular sign says that it’s forbidden to ski outside the tracks.
On the day that I went to the resort with a friend, there was only one other customer. He was using the beginner slope, but left soon after, and we had to wait for the man in charge of this longer lift to get back from his lunch break before he cranked it up for the afternoon rush. In fact, we were the afternoon rush. In two hours, nobody else arrived and the lift was due to close soon after!
The pistes from the top include a green, a blue and even a red. They’re all very short but lots of fun. My friend even tried a tree run through the dense forest with some success. Who knew there was off-piste right here in St Jean de Sixt? There’s even a whole web page devoted to the resort, including a map and lots of photos.
So, why am I classing this place as an alternative to downhill winter sports? Because getting down isn’t the challenge at all: this drag lift —with a 62° slope half way up, a jumpy cable that sends you flying a few times during the ride up, and a flat section that means you have to leave the tracks despite the sign demanding you don’t — is the real sport. And so, I’m classing the ride on the drag lift as an alternative to downhill winter sports.

Pictured is a ski binding. A ski technician friend spotted a pair of skis with these bindings on them, and said that the bindings alone were worth more than the €30 price tag on the skis. Since I needed a pair of bindings for some new skis, he suggested they’d be a cheap alternative to brand new bindings since the technology hasn’t changed much in recent years. I could trash the skis at that price. While we were standing there, a man asked the seller if he would reduce the price of a neighbouring pair of skis. The seller said no and the man turned to walk away. The seller changed his mind and asked for €25. The man offered €20 and after scoffing from both parties, the seller accepted, mumbling about it under his breath.
Hearing the clanging of the bells coming down the road gave me plenty of time to grab a camera and get a close-up of a bell. This one has the Savoyarde flag with studs representing the white cross (le croix de Savoie). Below the flag is Bambi! Okay, maybe the craftsman had a particular type of deer in mind — no doubt the ones that I sometimes see at night around these parts — but when I see them, I say “Oh there’s Bambi”. This also works with any large-winged bird for me (“Look, an eagle.”), even if it’s an owl.
This week, I braved yoga in French. No worries: a fellow Aussie with better French language skills was joining me so there was safety in numbers. With a camping mat under my arm, we headed to the class in the centre of St Jean de Sixt. I should have chickened out when the teacher spied my mat and said it was too thick for yoga. Instant yoga fail! Thankfully, she supplied mats, but as the last two to set up, we were at the front of the class. This scuppered my plan be at the back, where nobody would spy me misunderstanding the instructions or toppling over attempting to do the tree stance (pictured). I tried yoga one other time and after five minutes of failing to do the tree, I left, embarrassed, and much to the relief of all the zen people in the room.



St Jean de Sixt is holding “air”, which means trampolines and wind-powered mini-boats and lots of jingling and clanking from wind-powered instruments. I checked it out and found the birds just sitting on their respective hay stacks, looking a bit scared by the commotion around them, although the owl looked a bit high.
Yesterday looked like a great day for a walk, so we packed some lunch, water and sunscreen and headed for le Lachat de Thônes, at 2,023 metres above sea level (more than 1,000 metres higher than St Jean de Sixt, where we walked from). My first clue to not leave the house should have been the struggle I knew I’d face in keeping up with two muscly, long-legged blokes. At different times, they patiently waited for me under the shade of trees while I caught up, puffing and hot with the clear blue sky allowing the sun to heat up everything. By the time we reached this bizarre sign that the wood has grown around, I was still positive and looking forward to the nice views at the top. We stopped while I took a photo of the tree trunk, again cooling down in the shade of the trees, before climbing the mostly steep track once more. I should have recognised the weird tree thing as a sign to turn for home. We kept walking.
On a less positive note, there’s the roads. Clinging to her seat, my mum was terrified as I drove around bendy, narrow mountainous roads at a speed that she didn’t think possible. I’m not a fast driver, nor have I ever had an accident. Gripping her seat, she had to look away from the drop on one side of the road which had no barrier to prevent any cars from just dropping off the side. She’s lucky there was no fog, like on the road pictured, or random obstacles such as herds of sheep or tractors. Down in Annecy, we left a three-lane, well-made motorway/freeway and took the off-ramp directly onto a pot-holed mess of a road that had no road markings until beyond the first small intersection. “It’s like we’re in the sticks,” my mum said, while the car bounced between pot-holes, “except this is still the centre of town, right?” We certainly weren’t far away. However, back at home in St Jean de Sixt, it’s clear that we are. “I don’t hear any car horns,” she said to me, suspiciously. She’s right: outside of peak season, the only time the car horns go are for weddings on Saturdays, when the procession of wedding guests behind the happy couple toot their klaxons the whole way to the reception. She’s got that to look forward to at the end of this week — along with the clanging Sunday church bells which start at 8am.