Winter Sports in Switzerland

by E. F. Benson

(i)	The skating rink,
(ii)	The curling rink,
(iii)	The ski-ing slopes, or
(iv)	The toboggan runs.

Weather bad for his particular branch of sport may temporarily drive him to another and slightly despised diversion, but when possible, where his heart is, there will his legs be also. He will be adopting one particular method of sliding (I count curling a method of sliding, because your object is to make your curling-stones slide in a definite manner) to the exclusion of others, and sliding in some form or other, whether on skates or toboggan or skis, lies at the base of all winter sports. That is why we all go to Switzerland in the winter, because there we find frozen water (or hope to) in abundance. We then, having fixed on the particular and hazardous manner in which we wish to slide over frozen water, with steel blades or long wooden shoes, proceed to do so. In all cases the desire to slide instead of walk regulates the choice of our holiday. Exclusive tobogganers we must regard as a comparative rarity, for there are few who practise tobogganing whenever possible and nothing else at all. As a rule, tobogganers do not toboggan for the whole of every day. It entails too much hill-climbing.

But of these three classes, I think the confirmed and inoculated skier is most absolutely wedded to his sport. You will find him a rarer visitor to either form of rink than is the inoculated skater or curler to the ski-ing slopes. It will often happen, also, that the inoculated curler visits the skating-rinks, or the inoculated skater the house and the hog. But the man who comes out to Switzerland in order to ski very seldom visits either. For various and intricate as are the manœuvres which the expert can perform on skates, and various as are the movements which the expert can cause his curling-stones to perform, there is at the command of the skier a greater expanse of conquerable territory. Not only has he his figures, so to speak, to cut on the snow-fields, his Telemark and Christiania swings, and his stemming turns, which correspond roughly to the threes and rockers and change of edge in the skater’s art, and the outwicks and inwicks of the curler, but he has his travel over the snows for travel’s sake: he is an artist in climbing, and the whole horizon (omitting such mountain peaks as the Matterhorn or the Aiguilles) are part of his rink, which reaches, broadly speaking, wherever there is snow. And some part of his rink, however bad the weather, is pretty certain to be in order. The skater’s rink may be (as has been known within the memory of man to happen) an inglorious series of pools, or have vanished entirely under a covering of snow, and similarly, the curler’s rink is occasionally found to resemble a sort of cold wet toffee. But the skier’s rink is hardly ever altogether impracticable, and he can both travel and in his travelling cut his figures. Hardly ever, though he may have to go far to get it, will he fail, except when a severe fall of snow is actually going on, to find slopes on which he can at any rate “play about.” Consider also the infinite variety of his tumbles. His falls are more complicated, have more pleasing uncertainty about them, than those which any skater can indulge in. Also they hurt far less. There are few skaters who can manage to fall more than about half a dozen times a day, unless they are exceptionally young, or, as the inquests say, very “well nourished,” and yet continue their practice with undiminished vigour. But there are few skiers, old or young, lean or otherwise, who will be the least discouraged by twice that number of tumbles.

Here, too, is another reason for the fidelity of the skier to his sport. It yields him, if he is a novice, a quicker dividend of pleasure than skating yields to the beginner, or curling to the curler. After a week’s practice, starting from the beginning, the skater will scarcely yet have felt himself firmly travelling on an outside edge, which, when he has accomplished it, is after all only the beginning of further trouble, while the curler, after the same lapse of time, will not have begun to deliver his stones with the most distant approach to what could possibly be called accuracy. But the skier will already be cognisant of the rapture of sliding swiftly downhill on the hissing snow, and though the “frequent fall” awaits him, he will have experienced a genuine taste of the authentic joy. He will, too, have climbed high and heavenwards, have seen new horizons spread themselves, have seen further peaks in the magic of the Alpine air and sunshine rear their austere heads. Stumblingly, perhaps, he will have penetrated into new valleys among the “holy hills,” and felt the surprise and sting of exploration. He will also, if he has devoted himself to the tricks—the skating-figures of his art—be appreciably nearer the achievement of stemming turns than the skater will be to the accomplishment of a simple three, or the curler to the hope of coming into the house round a guard. Thus, if anyone who can get three weeks in Switzerland, without solid hope of getting more in subsequent years, were to ask how, being active of body, he could get the maximum of enjoyment out of those three weeks, I should unhesitatingly advise him to practise ski-ing, though, should he have a reasonable prospect of coming out in future years, I should just as unhesitatingly recommend him to persevere for a little while, anyhow, with his skates, or stick to the curling-rink if he desires a less hazardous sport. But if he has a short holiday, without reasonable prospects of coming out again, I think if he is young and active he will get more fun in a short time if he betakes himself to the skis. Moreover, whatever resort he honours with his presence, he is certain to find there fair ski-ing slopes, especially in unfavourable weather, and in the vast majority of cases, excellent ones. Indeed, if he only anticipates one visit to Switzerland, he will find everywhere slopes that will be for him excellent.

Also there is a greater simplicity about his needs. Nature provides his rink, and it stretches further in every direction (except downwards towards the valleys) than he is able to go. He wants no marking out of house and hog-line, he wants no surface nightly renewed and rendered flawless. He only wants his equipment, as the skater his skates, and the curler his stones and his broom. And if, like the curler, he is, so to speak, “never up” for a day or two, he is never down for long, and cannot hurt his side, and probably will not hurt himself. Also, the minimum of experimentalism will enable him to enjoy himself, and I doubt whether the skater really enjoys himself with so little expenditure of time and trouble, unless his only object is to progress in a straight line. To progress in a straight line, in fact, is no fun for the skater, but it is great fun for the skier.

Without going into any excessive details with regard to his equipment, certain facts about it must be broadly stated. The ski itself, as anyone seeking those altitudes in winter is probably aware, is a long narrow slip of wood turned up at the bows and fastened to his foot. It is smooth on the under-surface, thicker under the place where his foot comes than elsewhere, and should have a shallow groove running up the middle of it. In length it should be a few inches shorter than its owner if he stands with his arms outstretched above his head. In other words, a man 6 feet high will want a ski about 7 feet long. This is only a rough-and-ready rule, and if the skier arrives at his Alpine resort with the intention merely of hiring skis, he should not choose them shorter than this. It is easier to travel on skis that are too long than on those which are too short. But, however long the skis are, they cannot be too narrow. Mr. Caulfield (an adept and authority) lays down that at the narrowest part (i.e. where the foot rests) they should never be more than 2¾ inches in breadth. Instantly the novice will exclaim that his boot at the ball of the foot is broader than that, and that his boot will project beyond the skis. He is perfectly right: it will. But Mr. Caulfield is right too. He should also see that the grain of the ski lies longitudinally, and that the ski itself is slightly arched, the top of the arch lying underneath the wearer’s foot. If the ski is quite flat, it will bend downwards in soft snow under the weight and impede the going. These directions, which sound slightly advanced for him who has never seen a ski at all, are really most elementary. No beginner should attempt to ski on contraptions that do not fulfil all these requirements. He might as well begin learning to walk in boots that are not adapted for ordinary wear.

Next comes the awful, the intricate, the debated question of “bindings,” by which is denoted the system by which the boot of the skier is fastened to the ski. Into the merits of the different schools concerned with this I do not propose to enter, nor (under the breath be it spoken) does the fervour of the disputants seem quite to be warranted by the importance of the subject. Provided that the bindings are easily adjustable, and when adjusted are not easily displaced, and provided they are not so rigid as to render likely, in case of the “frequent fall,” a serious strain on the foot, resulting in a sprain or a broken bone, they must be considered satisfactory enough. Such bindings are:

(i)	The Huitfeldt binding;
(ii)	The Ellefsen binding.

Many experts will be found to disapprove of each of these: on the other hand, each of them is supported by expert opinions. But the beginner, in choosing his skis, is solemnly warned against selecting unknown and patent bindings unless advised of their excellence by an expert who is familiar with them. He is safe, however (if anything connected with the skis can by any stretch of imagination be considered safe), if he selects either of the two above-mentioned bindings. They differ enormously in principle but are both excellent. A third binding, the Lilienfelt, has also many devotees: its opponents, however, assert that it is dangerously rigid. But it is possible to fall down, quite often, when using any of these bindings, with the most satisfactory results.

Of the actual equipment (i.e. of tools necessary for ski-ing at all) the next matter is sticks. Of these the skier should always carry two, by the help of which he makes a supplementary punting movement when going along the level or up gentle slopes; while on a steeper upward slope he leans on them to distribute his weight, and thus prevent back-slipping of his skis. They should therefore be strong and light, and made of cane. They terminate at their lower end in sharp steel points, and some few inches above those points they should be fitted with a light circular disc of wicker-work which prevents them sinking into the snow. Otherwise the holder, leaning on them, would merely be plunged up to his shoulders in soft drifts, which would not serve his purpose. They also help to steady him, in the manner of an ice-axe, when climbing very steep slopes or when zigzagging, and should be at least shoulder high. Coming downhill the beginner, when the pace grows too fast for his liking, is accustomed to lean heavily on them, grasping them together in both hands and making of them a brake to his headlong career. This manœuvre is called “stick-riding,” and is unanimously discouraged by all experts, however divergent may be their views on the subject of bindings. Later, when the beginner is joining himself to these austere folk, he will cease to stick-ride, and make stemming-curves and Telemarks and Christiania-swings instead. But as long as the world goes round, and the force of gravity continues to exercise its accelerating force, so long, whatever the experts may teach, shall we see the beginner descending a slope, bending low, with eyes starting out of his head in pleasing terror, and leaning heavily on his conjoined sticks. It is safe also to assert that the austere experts did exactly the same when, in the dark ages, they were starting on their glorious careers. Therefore, by all means, let the beginner select strong sticks. Any anchor, however illegitimate, is better than an anchor that snaps in half. For the counsels of perfection are only appreciated when the possibility, not of perfection, but of moderate skill, begins to dawn on the rosy heights. Till then, O fellow-tyro and novice, gaily descend slopes that terrify and unnerve you, conscious that, when the terror becomes unbearable, you can lean heavily on your sticks and check your mad career. This is profoundly immoral advice, but the knowledge that you have strong sticks in your hands will enable you to contemplate and thus imperfectly negotiate these places in a straight direct line. You will know what it feels like to face straight down these abominable precipices, and will have gained a sensation. But without the knowledge that you held in your hands a powerful instrument of retardation you would, very likely, have never gained the sensation at all. This is a counsel of imperfection, and if you design to be a first-rate skier you will not follow it. But if you have, as in our hypothetical case, only a few weeks in these uplands, without prospect of more, launch yourself with your strong sticks on a blood-curdling incline, see what it feels like, and, when your nerves cannot bear it, lean heavily on both sticks.