Whilst it is our belief that no other form of exercise offers greater opportunities for the development of individual skill, it is certain that in no other are the surroundings more beautiful or more novel. The landscape is, as it were, transfigured, for the commonest objects become ennobled when swathed in the flowing garb of the snow-drift, with its sparkle of iridescent hues. There is a stillness and a clearness and a blueness of the atmosphere, and a play of golden sunlight through the branches of the pine trees, standing so erect and silent, sleeping till the return of spring. And above the trees fresh wonders lie in store. Vast slopes of snow, broken here and there by some dark rock, and behind them the soaring watch-towers of the Alps, with their time-worn battlements and shattered walls. Below, in the gulf of the valley, lies the village, diminutive like a German toy at the bottom of a staircase; and on the other side rise whitened slopes, with clusters of tiny châlets, snow-covered and silent; and far away in the enchanted distance, clear-cut, yet mystical, stretches a fairyland of filmy peak and glacier, blending its opalescence with the blue of heaven. A week is surely a short apprenticeship to serve for the enjoyment of these wonders, and we honestly believe that, if you are reasonably strong and diligent, you can see them at the end of that time.
Like most things, ski-running is best learnt young. A certain suppleness of limb characterises the style of those who have begun in childhood, and this, like the true accent of a foreign language, is most difficult to acquire in after years. Nevertheless, it is astonishing what can be achieved long after the muscles have set. In proof of which we may instance that two really good runners with whom we are acquainted did not begin, in the one case till after thirty and in the other till after fifty. We do not, therefore, consider it likely that you are too old to learn, though we are willing to believe that you may be too lazy!
An encouraging feature of the sport is the constant improvement one makes. In many other pursuits a point seems soon to be reached beyond which further progress is very difficult. But with ski-running every season brings its due measure of advance. A well-known skater is credited with the observation that anybody could learn to skate, but that to be a first-class ski-runner one must not only be born on ski, but live on them constantly for eighty years—an hyperbole which contains a strong element of truth. Of course, as in other things, an early beginning is of great value, but a natural aptitude can very well be developed late in life. It is the object of a book of this kind to provide instruction in those methods which experience has shown to be useful, and we believe that if the beginner will himself help us by using his intelligence, he will be very materially assisted by the perusal of these pages. At the same time, it must not be forgotten that the best we can hope to do is to place before him a sort of grammar of the sport. The spoken language, the unconscious and instantaneous adaptation of the various positions advocated to the circumstances of the case, can only be acquired by practice directed by common sense.
PART I.
THE GROUND AND THE SNOW.
Wherever there is snow, there one can ski; whether one safely may is another question, whereof more anon. Absence of snow, or snow transformed into blue ice, are therefore the well-defined limits to the possibilities of the sport.
There is no kind of surface capable of harbouring snow which has not been tried on ski, from the plain, with its unbroken sheet of white, to the rugged mountain side, where narrow channels have to be navigated amid toothed reefs and giddy precipices.
Every pedestrian knows the infinite variety there is in landscape; how an ever-changing aspect of the surface is created by the geological nature of the soil (sand, moor, rock)—the vegetation (grass, heather, forest)—the inclination of the slopes and other topographical features (downs, hills, mountains, valleys, lakes); not to forget the work of man (his houses, fences, roads, and ditches). For the ski-runner this great variety of ground is increased a hundredfold by the different states of the snow, which he learns to distinguish in the course of his outings. The changes snow is capable of are wonderful to behold, and the observant tourist never ceases to discover some kind or condition which is new to him. There is soft, flaky, fresh-fallen snow; there is downy, fluffy, powdery, floury, crystalline, brittle, salt-like, slithery, gelatinous, watery snow; there is snow as hard and white as marble, and snow with a thick crust which breaks into big slabs; there can be a layer of soft or powdery stuff on a hard sheet, or a thin, glassy film over loose snow. We have seen it in thin scales, the size of half-crowns, rustling under the ski like the leaves of an autumn forest, or, again, in the form of long, streaky crystals, like asbestos. Often it lies pat and smooth over the rounded hills; at other times it will be a frozen turmoil of waves, ridges, and grooves!
Variable Ground is Desirable.
In stating that it is possible to ski on every kind of snow and on every form of snow-covered ground, it is at the same time to be observed that some kinds of snow and some kinds of ground are more suitable for the sport than others. And as regards the ground, most people prefer it to be as varied as possible. We do not like it to be all precipitous mountain-side or all dead level, or, for that matter, all undulating glade. Nor do we desire our slopes to be always smooth and easy, any more than we wish them always broken and difficult. A happy combination of all these things is best. We adore the straight, smooth descent of a long incline, with its wind-song in the ears and its snow spray in the face, but we have also an affection for turning hither and thither amongst trees and rocks. And even level running, which the beginner is apt to despise, is much more interesting and much more difficult than many people are inclined to believe.