Winter Sports in Switzerland

by E. F. Benson

A second consideration is wind. It would be no use at all to spend the winter on a mountain-top: what is necessary is a high sheltered valley, like that of Davos or St. Moritz, or a high sheltered shelf on the mountain-side, like Villars or Mürren. To be able to skate at all, it is necessary that the day should be practically windless, and quite a gentle breeze spoils it altogether. Moreover, even gentle breezes are currents of moving air above or below freezing-point. If they are above freezing-point they spell ruin, for they melt both snow and ice with amazing swiftness; if they are below freezing-point they feel quite intolerably cold. Therefore, all winter places should be screened from the wind on the north and east, so that, if such airs are astir, they pass over the valley in which you are, and their icy blasts are unfelt. It does not matter so much whether the valley is screened from southerly winds, for this blowing of a southerly wind means in itself that warm currents of air are coming up from the Mediterranean, and as long as that lasts there must be more or less of a thaw, and a screen to the south almost necessarily implies a cutting off of the sun. This southerly wind, so justly abhorred by all altitudinists, is generally known as the föhn wind. Philologists may try to interest us in it by telling us that the word is derived from the Latin favonius, or south wind, but when the föhn blows you are not the least consoled by knowing its derivation: you only wish it had another destination. It brings clouds, mists, sleet, and even rain, all undesirable aliens, into our sunny valleys.

So much, then, for the two main conditions—sun (for those who like it) and absence of wind for everybody. And the next prime essential is a good rink, for out of every hundred people who come out in the winter, it is safe to say that at least eighty either skate or curl. And not only is a good skating-rink necessary, but good skaters also, for the encouragement and instruction of the learner, and, we may add, the mutual admiration of each other. But it is extraordinary how a good rink seems to breed skaters: sooner or later (usually sooner) good skaters are attracted to it, like flies to honey, though we hope they do not stick in it, and other mere beginners rapidly develop into sound performers. The Davos rink developed skaters thus, and more recently the immense rink at Villars has brought to birth a whole fresh school of English skating. The writer is tempted to be anecdotal. Not more than six or seven years ago he first went there and found that the only skating-rink was one flooded lawn-tennis court. On it the most accomplished skater in the place was instructing and demonstrating to two pupils. She was showing them the change of edge, and as, perhaps a little falteringly, she passed from one edge to the other she proclaimed: “The change from the outside edge to the inside is possible, but the change from the inside to the outside is impossible.” Indeed that would save an infinity of trouble to many of us, if we thought it was strictly true. But Villars made up its mind otherwise, and nowadays the great rink, which would hold hundreds of lawn-tennis courts, holds hundreds of skaters also who demonstrate the falsity of that sublime pronouncement.

Now ice varies enormously, not only in smoothness or roughness of surface, but in texture and in hardness, and without doubt the pleasantest and at the same time the easiest ice to skate on is that which has been frozen at temperatures not unreasonably low. Should the thermometer have stood all night at zero or below, the ice made under that benumbing influence will be both very hard and rather brittle; whereas if the rink had basked in a mellow moonlight of say 10 or 15 degrees of frost, the ice, though perfectly solid and dry, will be far kinder to the skate blade and lend itself more amenably to the edges. Indeed, after a very cold night, the ice is absolutely unskateable on until the sun has relaxed its adamantine rigidity; the edges of the skate will not bite. This appears to be due to the amazing fact, not generally known, that the skate actually moves over a thin layer of water, which its passage, its weight and friction causes to be momentarily produced. This transient, minute and local thaw (which instantaneously ceases in the wake of the skate) does not take place when the temperature is abnormally cold, and, in consequence, the skate, instead of travelling smoothly and firmly, cannot be prevented from skidding on the marble-like and uncuttable surface, and even when the sun has to some extent mitigated this hardness, the ice tends to be brittle and unkind. Thus, since in very high places there are recorded a large number of very low temperatures, the skater will probably find pleasanter ice at lower altitudes. Much, of course, depends on the making of it, and the whole question perhaps may be regarded as trifling, but in the writer’s opinion the resorts at which, as a rule, very low temperatures do not occur, yield the greatest abundance of jolly ice. On the other hand, the higher the place, the greater is the probability of immunity from thaws.

So much, then, for the more technical considerations. But however absorbed we may be in our inwicks, our Telemarks, our brackets, there are still moments when we happen to look up and regard and appreciate our surroundings. In fact, though we do not go out to Switzerland primarily for the sake of the view, the natural beauty of the places we go to make, even to the sternest and most determined athlete, a certain appeal. And though every place alike has the witchery and magic with which the radiant frost clothes peak and mountain-side, there are four places, three of which are set on high shelves on the mountain-side facing south, which, to my mind, altogether outshine the rest, and these are Mürren, Montana, Grindelwald and Villars. Of Mürren mention has already been made in the first chapter of this book, but those who have seen it only in summer have no idea of the incomparable majesty of the huge outspread panorama of the Oberland when the winter suns shine on the winter snows. Nowhere else in all Switzerland is there to be had so near and unimpeded a view of so great a stretch of big mountains. Eiger and Monch and Jungfrau and Silberhorn, and the amazing precipice of the Ebnefluh are all spread out immediately in front, with only the narrow valley of Lauterbrunnen interposed between you and them. Their size and nobility of form when thus seen close at hand is almost overwhelming: almost you join in the worship of the mountains and hills that so visibly are praising the Lord.

Utterly different, yet in its way no less sublime, is the immense panorama of big peaks as seen from Montana. Here again (though perhaps, strictly speaking, you are in the Rhone valley) there is no impression of being in a valley at all, so lofty is the shelf on which Montana stands, so swiftly the ground plunges into the Rhone valley proper below. But this is no narrow cleft as at Mürren, and the hills that climb out of it on the further or southern side are miles away. But what a row of glistening giants is piled up on those hills. The kings and captains of all the Zermatt ranges soar skywards against the incredible blue, Weisshorn, Roth-horn, Dent Blanche, Gabelhorn, Matterhorn are standing in their immemorial stations, and in the west Mont Blanc, with its guard of arrow-headed aiguilles, looks down over France and Switzerland. Nowhere else, unless you climb the inhospitable peaks themselves, shall you enjoy so immense a range of vision that contains so many giants of the mountain world.

Utterly different again is the quality of the view at Grindelwald. Unlike these other eyries Grindelwald is tucked away at the head of a valley, and immediately above it rise the appalling presences of the mountains. High and menacing above it climb the sheer walls of the Eiger, not those sunny crags that face towards Mürren, but the black and sunless precipices of the north and east. Further away are spread the snows of the Wetterhorn, and the precipice to the north of it, over which the wicked avalanches pour and thunder; while over the ridge just to the south of the hotels the Finster-Aarhorn points its single pinnacle to the sky. But there, long after the sun has set to the valley, Wetterhorn burns in rosy flame, and the Finster-Aarhorn is incandescent above the black night-beleaguered slopes. But splendid as are these overhanging walls of rock, there is something to my mind of imminence and threat about them. They are crushing.

Villars, again, in the Rhone valley, is neither of the type of Mürren nor Grindelwald: it is of the Montana class, though with less austerity. It lies among pine woods and gentle slopes, and its high southern-facing shelf has a wonderful charm and amenity. Below it the hillside tumbles swiftly away into the Rhone valley, and opposite is spread an entrancing panorama. The Dent du Midi, one of the most distinguished of mountain-forms, dominates the nearer distance; behind, much closer than at Montana, rise the prodigious aiguilles of Mont Blanc. If you walk but for ten minutes either up or down from Villars towards the east, a gap opens out, and you shall see the most part of the Chamounix range, and the vast dome of Mont Blanc itself. Magical are the wonders of cloudland spread out before you in the Rhone valley below. Sometimes an ocean of cloud, solid as if made of grey marble, and to all appearance as level as the sea, is spread from the promontories a little below where Villars stands straight across to the hills on the far side of the valley. It seems as if some cloud-boat would put out from behind a cape opposite and glide across this grey sea. Or again, the valley will be full of cloud in form of breaking waves, and tossing crests throw themselves against the hillsides and are shattered into wreaths of cloud-spray. No boat could live in so turbulent a water. Then, as the sun declines to its setting, rosy beams of fire pierce this wonderful sea, and it is shot with flame, and lit from within by a glow that baffles all language. On another day and for many days together not a speck of mist or shred of cloud hangs above the valley, and it is mapped out at your feet 2000 feet down and half a dozen miles away with the clearness of etching. And sometimes, I am sorry to say, when the weather is behaving morosely, the cloud comes up from the valley and envelops Villars itself. Then we take our skis or toboggan and flee up the hillsides through the pine-woods, all encrusted with the miracle of hoar-frost, into the unobscured sunshine that lies like a benediction on the heights of the dazzling Chamossaire.

Switzerland, as regards its winter resorts, may be broadly divided into districts, such as the Engadine, the Oberland, the Rhone valley, and the strip of country between Montreux on the Lake of Geneva, and Spiez on the Lake of Thun, and pride of place must certainly be given to the Engadine and Davos, which are the cradle of winter sports. And the following are (at present) the chief hill-stations, with the sports for which they are famous.

(i) St. Moritz.—This is the highest and probably the most populous of winter resorts. It is situated 6090 feet above sea-level, and is eminent for its rinks and toboggan-runs; namely, the Cresta or ice-run, spoken of already at length, the bob-run, and the village-run for luges. Rinks both for skating and curling are numerous, and below the town lies the St. Moritz lake, and further off towards the Maloja pass the Sils lake. The bandy-rink is one of the largest rinks in Switzerland; bandy is played here every day, and numerous skating contests are held. Owing to its height, the winter weather, as a rule, lasts here till well into March: indeed it is not till March that the big events happen on the Cresta.

Round about St. Moritz are other smaller winter resorts: Celerina, with a fine skating-rink, lies a little below the end of the Cresta run, and further down, towards Chur, is Samaden. In the other directions, towards the Maloja pass down into Italy, is Campfer, with rink and greater length of sun than even at St. Moritz, from which it is distant about a mile and a half. The ski-ing also is much better there than at that place. St. Moritz and all these other smaller centres are fortunate in the number of hours of sun that they enjoy: they are less fortunate in the wind that rather frequently blows up from the Maloja pass, a chilly and disconcerting current of air that not very infrequently starts to blow shortly after mid-day. But there is probably no place in Switzerland which enjoys a larger proportion of perfect winter days, and in none are the rinks more carefully made and preserved. It was one of the earliest places in which the pursuit of winter sport began to develop, and from the earliest days the St. Moritz school of English skating was renowned for the strictness of its requirements. Of late years the International style has greatly developed there, owing probably to the very large number of German visitors who annually go there. But there is enough ice for everybody, since many of the hotels have private skating-rinks of their own, and there is no reason why the two schools should not flourish side by side. Just round about St. Moritz itself there is not any very extraordinary display of Alpine scenery, for the larger peaks are not visible therefrom. But there are, in addition to the winter sports already mentioned, innumerable excursions to be made, and the lake-skating, when the chronology of snow-fall and frost is propitious, is a tremendous though usually a short-lived attraction. The journey from England can be luxuriously made in the Engadine express, which reaches St. Moritz in the middle of the day after which the voyager has left London.