Recession or not? I had the distinct feeling that this was a stupid question, standing in bumper to bumper traffic between Lake Zurich and Sargans on my way to a birthday party / ski weekend in Laax. Everybody and their dog seemed to be on the road bound for the mountains; tempers flared, red-faced elderly heart-attack-prone Mercedes-driving German pensioners became more prone to heart attacks, and John slowly regressed from happy, steering-wheel-drumming shouting along to Don’t Look Back in Anger to flat-out steering-wheel-banging angry.
Thus was preemptively scotched the ambitious plan to already hit the slopes on Saturday afternoon, while the pack of alcoholic Spaniards I intended to meet up with that evening were still sorting out beer logistics. That, and bellyaching about how to sneak yet another overnight guest into their hotel room (final tally was 5 people, scattered around the beds, floor and miscellaneous couches) when all that was needed were a bit of confidence and a smile for the receptionist. I admit to being surprised when she handed over the room key without a question. Social engineering! Or just nice people.
In the past, I’d always experienced Flims as a packed maelstrom of toked-up kids from the nearby Riders’ Palace; the steep lift ticket prices did nothing to dispel my misgivings. After all, I was mainly here for my friend’s birthday party, and the chance to get in a few hours in the snow before heading out to the U.S. in a week’s time. The sordid details of a beery Saturday night birthday dinner and the ensuing hangover aside, Sunday was one of the most amazing ski days I have ever had the privilege to experience. Flims-Laax, by no means a small resort, was near-empty. Thanks to weeks of freezing temperatures and copious snowfall during the previous days, the pistes were in pristine shape, and the snow cannons stood idle.
As we snowboarders initially, tentatively ventured off piste, full of trepidation from reading AVALANCHE WARNING! YOU WILL DIE! AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO! at every gondola, skilift, urinal, whatnot, we were confronted with kilometers of open space, filled with beautiful, virgin powder, unmarked by trails, trash or stoned teenagers. Fortified against the cold by a few drinks and a determination to milk the last shred of awesomeness from our monopoly of the lonely, sunny mountain, we threw ourselves down the hill over and over, stopped only by a series of spectacular faceplants and the later-afternoon closing of the lifts.
It was a surreal feeling, coming to a halt after crossing a hillock in deep snow, looking around and neither seeing nor hearing…anything. Aside from my near-overwhelming amazement at not seeing a living soul around me for most of the day, particularly in such a popular spot, I felt at peace and happy at having just carved out the first trail of the day in this abandoned white vastness. That is, with the chairlift just over the next ridge. Explore on, mighty mountaineer.
