Winter Sports in Switzerland

by E. F. Benson

Then comes another descender. He is going quite straight also, but he appears merely to be strolling down the same slope that the other fellow flew down. Yet he does not use his sticks to lean on, but stands upright also, but with toes pointed inwards, legs apart, and heels pointing outwards. Instead of travelling on level skis, it is clear that he leans on their inside edges; and since they are not pointing straight down the slope it is obvious that they are side-slipping all the time instead of sliding straight. That is the case: he is “stemming,” descending straight, but using the sideways position of his skis to check his speed. Our beginner, warming to his work, tries this also. He instantly gets the toe of one ski across the toe of the other, and has discovered another method of abruptly stopping. This time he will very likely fall forward in the manner of a breaking wave on to a snowy shore.

This time the question of the technique of getting up obtrudes itself. Probably his skis are still lovingly entwined together, and, leaving them in a fond embrace, he will attempt to rise. Nothing happens: at least he is only conscious of violent and enraged effort, which is productive of no appreciable alteration in his position. Then it occurs to him that he had better have his feet free of each other, and this he strugglingly accomplishes, pointing them both symmetrically downhill. Again he attempts to rise, digging his sticks in the snow, upon which his feet slide sweetly and smoothly away from under him, and he is prone on his back again. But if, after disentangling his feet, he plants them sideways across the slope he will find they cannot slip away, because they are edged into the snow and are as firm as everlasting mountains. But this is instruction.

A third runner comes down the slope, this time running slantways. But after a little he assumes the stemming position, and then his right ski crosses in front of the other, and he comes round in a curve to the left. Then his left foot takes the lead and he swerves again to the right ... da capo, da capo ... he describes a slow serpentine line, running with feet together on his zigzags, and widening the distance as he approaches the turn. First one foot and then the other goes in front at their appropriate corners, and down this precipitous slope he comes, but at moderate speed, weaving his dance. Each turn is made in the stemming-position—for these be stemming-turns.

Thereafter comes a more inexplicable runner. He progresses straight for a little way, and then advancing his right foot, he proceeds apparently to kneel down on his left knee, bending the right leg also, but keeping the knee up. Then it is clear that his weight is almost entirely on the advanced right leg, the other but trails behind. Then with a visible effort he leans on the inside of his right ski and turns it round in front of the other towards his left. As by a conjuring trick he slews round altogether towards his left, and comes to a dead stop facing nearly in the direction from which he has run. And if anybody is standing near our beginner the latter will probably hear for the first time the mystic word Telemark.

Here, then, is a more comfortable manner of stopping dead than that of falling down. The latter is nature, the former is art. On the steepest slope, provided only there is a decent covering of softish snow, the expert will make this short sharp turn and come to a standstill facing nearly or quite uphill. Or, if so he please, he will make a half-Telemark, bring himself sideways to the slope, and then continue his downward descent, starting from rest again. Should he wish to turn towards the right he will kneel on his right knee, or nearly kneel, with heel raised, and, advancing his left ski, put all his weight on to that, trailing the right one behind, which acts, as Mr. Caulfield points out, like the rudder of a boat. Probably our beginner will attempt this also. His first difficulty will be to kneel down at all without upsetting. If he safely accomplishes this, he will have a crisis of nerves in finding himself in so abnormal a position, and dig his stick into the snow. Anything whatever may happen then.

A fifth and final runner on this morning of revelation begins his descent, travelling not quite straight down the slope but on a steepish zigzag. He does not proceed to pray in the Telemark attitude, but, standing straight, advances his right foot, leaning his weight on it, and trailing his left behind. Then he makes a twist of his shoulders and body towards the right, exactly as if he was cutting a three-turn on skates, and, lo, he has turned round in exactly the same manner as in the Telemark. He does not, it is true, continue the back-edge downhill, but halts on the cusp, as it were, facing uphill, as at the end of the Telemark swing. But what he has done is to make a Christiania swing, with the foot towards the direction of his turn advanced instead of the opposite foot, as in the Telemark. But the effect is the same: he has stopped in the middle of a swift downward descent without falling down or braking. Probably, to touch for a moment on minutiæ, he has made his Christiania on a hard and ice-crusted place, whereas the Telemarker has selected a spot of soft snow for his performance. So, if the beginner is tempted to try this last manœuvre, he is advised to look out for an icy patch where the sun has thawed the surface of the snow, which has subsequently frozen again. On arriving at such a patch, he will probably conclude (as our American cousins say) to reserve the Christiania for another day.

Now this gifted series of practisers on the slope have, in imagination, presented to the would-be skier all that is demanded of him in the practice of ski-running. When he has learned the more effortless ways of ascending slopes, as exhibited by the expert whom he first observed, and when he can make in his descents,

THE TELEMARK TURN

From the Drawing by Fleming Williams