Winter Sports in Switzerland

by E. F. Benson

But the moment we progress a little further than the hypothetical case of the man who for one winter has three weeks of Switzerland in front of him, and then, as far as seems probable, no more Switzerland at all, the joys of the skier increase in a quickly ascending scale. Just as the skater in the English style finds that the threes and the rockers and the counters that he has so painfully learned are not only delightful in themselves, but help him towards qualifying as a good skater in the combined figures, and just as the Continental skater finds that those same figures assist him to produce a first-rate programme in free-skating, so also does the skier who on easy slopes has made himself acquainted with the various turns, find that his education there vastly increases his enjoyment in and proficiency at the glorious excursions which are all to be made on his immense rink. Slopes and descents that would be impracticable for him to descend if he had not learned the tricks, the figures of his sport, are easy and pleasurable if he can make his Telemark, his Christiania, his stemming turns, and not only do they become practicable, but his negotiation of these slopes becomes an artistic performance instead of being a terrified and stick-riding descent, just as to make a vol-plané from the skies is a beautiful feat, whereas to slide down a rope merely hurts the hands. In the same way, the ascents, which were a mere succession of stumblings and misdirected efforts, and sweatings unspeakable, lose their arduousness when he has learned how to climb steep slopes with the minimum of exertion. All his practice with other elementary enthusiasts in the field behind the hotel (or in front of it)—there is everywhere some such field at a suitably steep angle—works into what must always be in ski-ing, the main object of the sport, which is to be able to traverse the snows and make mid-winter expeditions over the high enchanted country, which is otherwise inaccessible. For on skis you can with ease climb slopes which are absolutely impossible to the pedestrian, since the skier goes unsinking over soft snow and drifts that would engulf the man in boots as in a frozen quicksand; while in descents over such places the difference is only emphasised. A ski-runner will in a few minutes descend, thrilled with the joy of a movement that really resembles flying, places which at the least take the pedestrian hours of plunging labour. He is indifferent as to the depths of snow, since he is only concerned with an inch or two of it, and rapturously descends a thousand feet, while a walker is cursing at the first hundred of them. But the ski-runner’s enjoyment and speed, both in the climb and in the descent, are vastly increased if he has learned the elements of his art. Thereby he saves effort, saves time, saves tumbles, and saves temper; at the end of a run his mental bank is rich with pleasure, whereas a man who has not taken the trouble to learn these tricks of the trade comes in with a debit balance, so to speak, mis-spent labour, unnecessary falls, and loss of time and temper. He must learn the elements of climbing, of turning, and of braking, not by heavily leaning on his strong poles, but by the far simpler and less tiring methods of using his skis to do the braking for him.

The first difficulties that beset the beginner must be considered as concerned with climbing, since he has to get to the top of his hill before he can experience the pleasing terror of proceeding to slide down it. As he flounders and falls and back-slips, he will be astonished to see some more practised performer strolling along up the slight slope which he finds so baffling, without the slightest effort or exertion. Looking more closely he will perhaps notice that this expert is stamping his feet a little as he walks, merely as if to warm them on this cold morning. Then for a moment perhaps he seems to slip, and the beginner anticipates the delight of seeing somebody else flounder in the snow without being able to get up. But he sees nothing of the sort. Hardly has the slip begun before the expert has put down one ski behind the heel of and at right angles to the other. The slip is stopped, and the next moment he moves easily on again.

Higher up the slope becomes steeper, and, still watching, the tyro observes that the skier has changed his direction, and instead of mounting in a straight line is crossing the slopes in a direction, zigzagging across them. He has moved perhaps a hundred yards to the right, but is then confronted by a wall of rock obviously unscaleable. But without effort he lifts one foot rather high and turns it, putting it down again in the direction opposite to that in which he has been zigzagging. The other foot comes round too, and immediately the climber begins progressing again in the reversed direction, having executed that easy and necessary manœuvre called the kick-turn. Then a belt of trees closes his new zigzag, and here, by way of variety, he bends down and jumps, revolving in the air as he jumps and lands facing round the other way. This, of course, the beginner imagines to be a merely acrobatic and impossible performance; he resents it as we resent a conjuring trick.

Then it seems that the climber has got tired of his zigzags, and facing the hill directly again he proceeds, this time with some slight appearance of effort to walk straight up it with his feet and skis turned outwards in something of the attitude of the frog-footman in Alice in Wonderland. Each ski just avoids treading on the heel of the other, and clears it by an inch or two, so that the track left resembles the outline of a piece of herring-bone brickwork. There is the same resemblance in the name of this manœuvre, since it is called herring-boning. Then once more the climber varies his style of progress, for here the slope is exceedingly steep, and he has come to a narrow gully, where his zig-zags would have to be very short, and instead of interspersing every few steps with a kick-turn he stands sideways to the slope and puts down one foot horizontally across it and brings the other close up to and parallel with it. Then he steps sideways again with the first foot, and repeats the manœuvre. Twenty or thirty paces of this sort bring him to the top of his gully, and he stops a moment looking over the view which his climb has opened out to him. (That also is a frequently-practised ski-ing manœuvre and quite easy. The view-trick is indulged in after a steep bit of climbing, and is dictated by a love of scenery combined with the need of getting your breath again.)

Now all these devices, the stamping of the skis, the stopping of the slip, the kick-turn, the jump even, the herring-boning and the side-stepping are all quite easily learned, and, if we except the jump round, which is never necessary, since the kick-turn produces the same result (i.e. change of direction), the beginner will in a few days have so far mastered the elements of them that he will be able, without undue fatigue, to climb slopes on which at first he helplessly floundered. But he is advised to make practical acquaintance with all of these conjuring tricks, for they each have their special uses. On certain slopes there may not be sufficient room to zigzag without continually turning, while again the surface of the snow may be so hard and icy that herring-boning, which is quite easy if there is soft snow on the top, may be practically impossible, in which case the side-stepping must be employed. But any slope negotiable at all on skis is negotiable by one of these methods, which are none of them at all hard to acquire.

Now, it is no part of any of these treatises to do more than state how various manœuvres on ice or snow or with the curling-stones are done, and in ski-ing (even as much as in skating) written instructions would be of very small use. What is far more to the point is to sally out (in print) on to a fairly easy slope and attempt to make these phenomena appear, so that the beginner will understand them when he sees them, and try to imitate with a knowledge of what he has to imitate. Best of all is it to get somebody actually on skis to show you what the thing looks like. Then—for we are all descended from the monkeys—it is part of our human birthright to attempt to ape what is shown, and a practical illustration, followed by actual practice, will do more for the beginner than a host of learned treatises. Still, when dusk has fallen, and he can no longer even see to fall down, he is strongly recommended to study some practical manual of ski-ing. Of these I will mention three, all of which are illustrated by a series of admirable photographs, which make a visual guide more valuable than any written instruction. These are:

(i)	How to Ski, by Vivian Caulfield. (Nisbet.)
(ii)	The Ski-runner, by E. C. Richardson. (Richardson & Wroughton.)
(iii)	Ski-ing, by W. R. Rickmers. (Fisher Unwin.)

Here he will find careful analyses of ski-ing manœuvres, clearly and at length explaining them, and elucidating the explanation by photographs. The curious student will no doubt find certain differences of opinion expressed by these Masters, but, if he is wise, he will leave academic disputation alone, and try to put into practice the precepts and instructions given by any one of them. He may rest assured that, however disputatious the pundits become over any theories advanced by these authors, there is a great deal to be said for them. Indeed, their very disputatiousness shows how much there is to be said!

To return to our forlorn beginner on the slope, who has seen vanish from his ken the figure of the expert climber, we will suppose that he occupies himself with his flounderings while others with equal ease and absence of effort pass him in their ascension. Some of them, it appears, are not going out for any expedition, for they pause when they have got to a sufficient height and begin descending again. And here the tyro should surely find encouragement, for he will observe that they often stagger, fall, and are smothered in snow. That does not in the slightest degree deter them, and probably he will begin to realise that falling, even in the case of experts, is part of the day’s work, and, as a rule, does not hurt at all. Indeed the skier who does not fall is either so cautious a performer that he cannot be called a skier in any sense of the word, or so supreme a master that he is evidently not human but some form of Alpine ghost. On the skating-rink he will see the same thing, for even the “plus-players,” so to speak, if they are really practising, execute the most amazing tumbles, while on the curling-rink, the gods and demigods make shots of the most putrescent nature.

But as he watches he will notice that these ladies and gentlemen who are ski-ing are busy not with merely descending the slope they have climbed, but descending it in a particular manner, and interspersing their descent with certain definite manœuvres. Sometimes, perhaps, one who has climbed into the gully out of which the first expert has disappeared, will stand for a moment facing downhill, and then launch himself on a perfectly straight course. He will be standing upright, but leaning forward, which is not a contradiction in terms, if this phrase is considered. In other words, his whole head, body, and legs will be inclined a little forward, but he will also be upright because there is no bend in his knees or hips or neck. In other words, he will be standing at right angles to the slope, though leaning forward. His skis will be quite close together, so that they make but one track in the snow, and his right foot probably will be a few inches in front of his left. His arms will be a little raised, so that his sticks, which swing pendulum-like from his hands, do not touch the snow, and his descent is that of a stooping hawk. A spray of fine snow rises round the toes of his skis, like the feather of water round the bows of some lightning-speeded boat. A moment ago he was but a speck high up on the mountain-side, the next he is but a speck at the end of the slope below. If not so fortunate, he is somewhere in the middle of that sudden-spouting billow of snow that mars the smooth whiteness of the hill. But in any case, the beginner has seen a specimen of ordinary straight-running, the figure upright and inclined forward, the skis close together, with sinecure for the sticks. And if our beginner’s courage is high, he will instantly attempt, from the more gradual slope on which he stands, to do the same. Probably, if he remembers to ape this flying Mercury in the points mentioned, he will progress quite a considerable number of yards at his sedater speed without falling. Then a wild panic will seize him at the thought that his pace is steadily increasing, and that he has not the slightest idea how to check it. That thought alone will most likely be sufficient so to unsteady him that he will instantly fall down and find that he has grasped one method, anyhow, of stopping. He may then employ the few moments’ pause that invariably succeed a tumble to observing whether, from the tracks his skis have left, he has kept his feet together. If he has, he may feel justifiably pleased with himself, but must not be discouraged if the tracks resemble the old broad gauge of the Great Western Railway.